by Maureen Lee
“I reckon that means we’ve lost the war for certain,” Cal smiled. “Is there a cup of tea going, luv?”
“In a minute. I think this jam’s just about ready.”
“Is that what it is? I thought you were boiling some of me old socks.”
“Don’t eat it, Cal,” Eileen warned. “It tastes worse than it smells.”
Cal carried the heavy pan into the back kitchen and Sheila went with him to fetch the water for the tea.
“Don’t forget me cornflakes,” Sean shouted.
Eileen regarded him worriedly. “Are you scared about joining up, luv?”
Sean said flippantly, “I’m not scared a bit.”
Eileen felt convinced there was a undercurrent of fear in his voice. “Have you heard from Donnie Kennedy?” She’d been meaning to ask him about Donnie for ages.
“No,” Sean said lightly. Insensitive he might be, but even Sean Doyle knew this was not the right time to inform his sister that only the other day he’d heard his old classmate had been killed.
It looked as if it was going to be a raid-free night, Brenda Mahon thought thankfully as she began to sew the hem of Eileen Costello’s dress by hand with neat, symmetrical stitches. It was a nice style, classically plain, and would suit Eileen’s tall, shapely figure to perfection.
This was her favourite time of all, when Muriel and Monica were in bed, and she was free to sew all night if she wished. She frequently stayed up well into the early hours if she had a load of work to get through. Brenda smoothed her hand over the soft material. She loved the feel, though velvet was the nicest, with silk coming a good second.
Taffeta she liked least, so harsh and stiff.
The lavender thread came to an end, so she backstitched, snipped the remainder off, and threaded another length. Most women used far too much cotton when they sewed by hand—sheer laziness, because they couldn’t be bothered threading the needle frequently, though more time was wasted in the end, because the cotton only became knotted if it was too long. Brenda never used more than about fifteen inches.
She began to sew again, humming Whispering Grass underneath her breath. Xavier sometimes sang it at parties and weddings when he did his Hutch impersonation.
Brenda began to plan the letter she would write him tomorrow. She always wrote to Xavier on Sundays, reporting in detail on the week’s events, though she wouldn’t tell him how bad Thursday night’s raid had been, else he might worry. He’d never get the news from the wireless or the newspapers. They still seemed intent on pretending there’d never been an enemy plane anywhere near Liverpool, let alone that the city had been bombed.
Brenda had bought a postal order for two pounds ten shillings to include with the letter. There was no way her Xavier could possibly live on the shilling a day allowed him by the Army. Even when he was home, she’d always subsidised her husband - not that she minded. Xavier was a man in a million, and pandering to his expensive tastes made her feel necessary and needed, as if he wouldn’t shine so much if it weren’t for her. She was secretly proud he preferred whisky to beer and always bought good cigarettes. His collection of hats was way beyond the means of any normal LMS employee—he had a penchant for headgear of all different styles and colours. She smiled fondly, recalling the time he took deciding on which hat to wear whenever he went out.
As soon as Eileen’s hem was finished, she’d make herself a cup of cocoa, then start on that navy-blue costume for the woman from Hunts Cross. Brenda felt a little anticipatory thrill at the idea of cutting out the serge material.
That was the best part, the beginning; a length of smooth, virginal cloth and knowing that it would shortly turn into a beautifully finished garment, something she had created.
The sharp rap of the knocker on the front door made Brenda jump. Glancing down, she saw she’d pricked her finger and drawn blood, which fortunately hadn’t touched the frock.
She looked at the clock. Half past eleven! It could only be someone like Sheila Reilly at such an unearthly hour.
Perhaps one of the kids had been taken ill and she needed a hand.
On the other hand, it could be Xavier, home without warning in order to surprise her!
With this exhilarating thought predominant, Brenda hurried down the hall and opened the door.
A young woman stood outside, a grubby child of about eighteen months in one arm, and a cheap cardboard suitcase in the other. The child, a boy, was crying pitifully and his nose ran, to such an extent that the sight made Brenda feel slightly sick. She resisted the urge to reach out and wipe the mess away with her hand-embroidered hanky.
“Yes?” she said politely, convinced the woman had come to the wrong house.
She felt even more convinced this was the case, because the woman was frowning, as if she’d expected someone else to have answered the door. “Is Mrs Mahon in?” she asked.
If she’s come for dressmaking, I’ll kill her, thought Brenda, I could have been in bed by now. On the other hand, the woman didn’t look as if she had two ha’pennies to rub together, let along the money for new clothes. Her coat was too tight across her noticeably buxom breasts, and her thin flowered frock hung several inches below.
She wore a black felt hat that looked as if it had been used as a football, it was so full of dust. The baby was even more shabbily dressed. He’d stopped crying and was watching Brenda warily, eyes like saucers, whilst he sucked on a dummy. He was a handsome little chap, all the same, and reminded Brenda of someone. She couldn’t quite put her finger on who.
“Well, is she in or not?” the woman said impatiently.
Brenda was never sure afterwards why it should happen, but warning bells began to ring inside her head. “Is who in?” she asked, playing for time. Why should the woman automatically assume Brenda wasn’t Mrs Mahon?
“Mrs Mahon, of course.” She was quite pretty in a tartish sort of way, with blonde curly hair protruding from underneath the battered hat, and big brown eyes. She must have only recently renewed her lipstick, which was a greasy and startlingly vivid crimson. Despite the fact she looked worn out, she had a spunky, tenacious look, as if life had been tough, but so far she was still on the winning side.
“Oh, I know,” she cried as she hoisted the baby upwards with her arm, “I expect you’re the lodger, Brenda, ain’t you?”
“The lodger?” Brenda said weakly. The woman was a cockney. Why should a strange cockney woman come searching for her in the middle of the night, and what on earth was she on about—the lodger?
“Put that light out!” a voice thundered from out of the darkness.
Brenda realised she’d left the parlour door wide open and the light was clearly visible outside. “You’d better come in,” she muttered.
She showed the woman into the living room, where she threw the suitcase on the floor and plopped down on a chair with a sigh of relief.
“Christ! It’s good to get the weight off me plates o’meat.”
“Y’what?” asked Brenda, mystified.
The plates o’meat—me feet.”
“Wanna drink, Ma,” the little boy whined.
“In a minute,! Sonny.” She looked up at Brenda, who was standing in the middle of the room feeling dazed - the lodger! “Well, if you wouldn’t mind telling Mrs Mahon I’m here. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I set off from Stepney at ten o’clock this morning and we’ve been travelling all day.
Poor Sonny ain’t had a bite to eat, poor little shrimp.”
“Who shall I say it is?” hedged Brenda.
There was a horrible smell in the room; perspiration and dirty underclothes and that cheap perfume you could buy by the pint in Woolworths for three pence ha’penny, and something else. Brenda sniffed. Sonny had dirtied his pants.
The woman smirked. “It’ll probably come as a bit of a shock, but say it’s Mrs Carrie Mahon, her daughter-in law.”
The warning bells in Brenda’s head stopped merely ringing and began a thunderous clang. “I think there must have
been a mistake . . . ”
But there was no mistake. Before Brenda could say another word, the woman pointed across the room at the photo of Xavier on the wireless, crying, “There he is, the darlin’! Look, Sonny, it’s your daddy!”
Sheila Reilly was savouring the first raid-free night in weeks, though she’d got so much into the routine of spending hours wide awake under the stairs that, despite the fact she was dead tired, she just couldn’t get to sleep.
Fortunately, the children had dropped off straight away.
Mary was breathing easily in her cot in the corner. It seemed strange, not having a baby to breastfeed during the night. For the first time in nearly eight years she hadn’t a child under twelve months to nurse.
Cal had gone back to sea that morning and she felt lonely in the bed without him; one night they’d had together, just one night, and that had been rudely interrupted by a raid. She laid her hand on the pillow where his head had rested, when the front door opened and someone came running up the stairs. Sheila sat up, heart racing. The last time this had happened, it had been her dad and her sister coming to tell her Cal’s ship had sunk. He’d survived on that occasion, but to be sunk a second time was tempting fate . . .
A figure rushed into the room and began to shake her furiously.
“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Sheila whispered hoarsely.
“Sheila! Oh, Sheil! The most terrible thing has happened.”
It was Brenda Mahon, her best mate. They’d been friends since they started school together more than twenty years ago, had been bridesmaids at each other’s weddings, and each given birth to their first child the same week, though Brenda had stopped at two, whilst Sheila had gone on to have another four.
“Is it Xavier?” Sheila cried.
“You bet your bloody life it’s Xavier, the bastard!”
Sheila gasped. She’d never heard Brenda swear. Not only that, Brenda had never come bursting into her house like this before, not even during the day, let alone the middle of the night. It must be midnight, at least.
“What’s he done?” Sheila had never taken to Xavier. He preened himself too much, took all Brenda’s money from the dressmaking, and let her wait on him hand and foot, unlike Cal, who would never take a penny off a woman and always gave a hand when he was home.
“He’s only gone and married someone else!” “He’s what?”
“He’s married someone else, the bastard. She’s in our house now; Carrie. She’s got a horrible smelly little boy called Sonny.”
Mary stirred fretfully in the comer.
“We’d best go downstairs.” Sheila got out of bed and took Cal’s old overcoat which she used as a dressing gown from behind the door.
“I’m sorry, Sheil,” Brenda said when they were in the living room. “But I just had to talk to someone. I couldn’t possibly have waited till tomorrow.”
“That’s all right, luv.” Sheila patted her metal curlers. “I must look a sight. It’s just that me hair’s a mess and I didn’t put me curlers in last night with Cal home.”
Brenda couldn’t have cared less if her friend had shaved her head. “If I could get me hands on Xavier now, I’d throttle him.”
“But what’s happened, luv?”
“Well,” Brenda explained as calmly as she could, “this woman, Carrie, turned up asking for Mrs Mahon, her mother-in-law. Xavier told her she lived in Bootle and wouldn’t take kindly to him getting wed, so he’d kept the news a secret—they got married two years back, by the way. But, and this is the worst part, Sheil,” Brenda’s eyes glittered with rage, “he also told her his mam had a lodger living downstairs, a dressmaker called Brenda who had two little girls. That’s who Carrie thinks I am, the lodger!”
“Have you told her the truth yet?” Sheila asked, wide eyed.
“Not yet. I’ve let her do most of the talking so far.” Brenda struck a fist into the palm of her hand. “Jaysus, Sheil! I wish Xavier was here so I could scratch his eyes out.”
“You’d better tell the poor woman, luv,” Sheila advised.
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“What made her turn up now, right out of the blue?”
“Because she wasn’t getting any money off the Army that’s because it’s me who’s been getting it, being Xavier’s real wife. She last saw him six months ago just before he was called up, and she hasn’t heard a word since.” Brenda twiddled her thumbs in her lap. “The thing is, Sheil, I quite like her in a way, poor lamb, though she’s as common as muck and a real flamer. She don’t half look poor. She’s only nineteen, and Sonny’s not all that horrible, but the spitting image of Xavier, if the truth be known—I knew he reminded me of someone the minute I clapped eyes on him.”
“Oh, Bren!” Sheila squeezed her friend’s hand.
“Isn’t it awful, Sheil? He didn’t even tell her where his mam lived, only Bootle. If she hadn’t found his union card or something, she wouldn’t have known where to come.”
“You must be dead upset, luv.”
“Upset?” Brenda shook her head. “I’m not upset, but I’m so bloody angry, I could spit. I used to wonder why he spent so much time in London. The other guards came home, even if it meant using the milk train, but Xavier said he needed his sleep. There was a cheap hotel by Euston Station, or so he said. To think, Sheil, he was keeping another woman on my money!. He’ll never get another penny off me, I’ll tell you that much, the slimy, two timing son of a bitch, I could kill him!”
“I’m sure you could,” Sheila said sympathetically. “I’d feel the same if it was Cal,” she added, though the possibility of her darling Cal doing such a thing was beyond the bounds of her imagination.
Brenda said nothing. There were no words to express the rage she felt. Her body, every single little bit of it, was pounding so violently, she felt as if she might explode.
“What’s this Carrie doing at the moment?”
“ Searching the house from top to bottom looking for her mother-in-law by now, I reckon.” Brenda laughed sarcastically. “I made them a cup of tea and bite to eat, they were both starving. Then I told her I was going to borrow a cup of sugar, which she must have thought funny at this time of night.” She sighed. “I suppose I’d better put her up for the night, she’ll have to leave first thing tomorrer morning.”
“You’d better get home and see to her, Bren.”
“I suppose so. You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Sheila? I couldn’t stand everyone knowing.”
“I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” There was a wistful note in Sheila’s voice.
“Oh, all right,” Brenda said grudgingly. “You can tell your Eileen, but that’s all.”
“I hate having secrets from our Eileen.”
“I know you do.” Brenda suddenly wished she had a sister of her own to confide in. Her only brother was far away in Plymouth and they rarely corresponded. “I’d better be off then.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’ll manage on me own.”
The smell in Brenda’s living room was even worse by the time she got back. Carrie and Sonny had finished eating and the little boy was fast asleep on the floor.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Brenda announced.
“I reckon you have,” Carrie said spiritedly, “and that’s the whereabouts of Mrs Mahon, my ma-in-law. I’ve been upstairs and she ain’t there. I hope you haven’t murdered her or something.”
“I’m Mrs Mahon.”
“But you ain’t old enough!”
At that moment, Brenda felt old enough to be Xavier’s grandmother, let alone his mother. “Xavier’s mam died twenty years ago. I’m his wife. I married him in nineteen thirty-two.”
Carrie laughed contemptuously. “You bleedin” liar!
You’re making it up. Xavier always said you fancied him.”
Brenda felt her blood boil. “I’ll show you me wedding lines, if you like.”
“You do that!”
“And
while we’re at it, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at yours.”
As Brenda searched in the sideboard drawer for the envelope containing her most important papers, Carrie rooted through her cheap red handbag.
“Here they are!” Both women spoke together as they each brandished a piece of white paper.
Both paused before taking the paper from the other.
“I believe you,” Brenda said eventually.
“Same here.” Carrie sank back in the chair. “Strike a bleedin’ light!” She beat the arm of the chair with her fist.
“I’d like to cut the bugger up into little pieces and fry them!”
She got up and walked up and down the room several times, snapping her fingers angrily, then sat down again.
“With my luck, I might have known someone like Xavier was too good to be true.”
“I’m sorry.”
Carrie’s big brown eyes widened. “Why should you be sorry? It ain’t your fault, no more than it’s mine. He’s double-crossed the both of us, the bleedin’ swine.” Her voice, which was low and slightly hoarse, cracked with venom.
Brenda had been expecting hysterics, tears at least. She quite admired the way Carrie had taken the news with anger and resentment, much the same way as she’d taken it herself.
“Though it’s worse for you in a way, me turning up like this,” Carrie was saying. She looked at Brenda curiously. “I feel as though I should hate you, but I don’t.”
“I don’t hate you, either,” Brenda said quietly. “But I hate Xavier.”
The two women were silent for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. What on earth had Xavier seen in the girl, Brenda wondered? He was so fastidious, and although Carrie was pretty in a coarse sort of way, she wasn’t exactly clean—or hygienic. She’d made no attempt to clean up Sonny, and the room was beginning to smell like a lavatory. You never know, she thought dryly, Carrie might be thinking much the same, wondering what Xavier had seen in such a plain little woman. Brenda had no illusions regarding her appearance.
“I expect you’ll want to go home tomorrer,” she said. “I can let you have the fare.”
