by Maureen Lee
“You just strike the match, see! Then take a deep puffin, and lo and behold, you’ve got a lit fag. Here you are, gal.”
“Ta.” The cigarette was smeared with lipstick, but Brenda didn’t care. She coughed and spluttered a little over the first few puffs, but smoked the rest without too much difficulty.
Carrie refilled her own glass.
“You’re drinking too much,” Brenda warned. “Not so much the gin, but the orange. You’re turning yellow.”
“I would have turned yellow a long time ago if it were the gin and orange. No, it’s these shells I’m working with.
Everybody in the factory’s yellow. It’s something in the gunpowder.”
Carrie had got a job in a chemicals factory in Chorleywood, a long way to go, but the wages were unbelievably high. Six quid a week and meals thrown in, which was compensation of a sort for turning yellow.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Brenda asked worriedly.
“Safe? Of course it’s safe,” said Carrie dismissively.
“Mind you, I wouldn’t stay if you turned green or purple or something. Yellow looks quite attractive, like a suntan.”
“I suppose it does in a way.” Brenda brooded briefly.
“Were you expecting Sonny when he married you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind a bit. Yes, I was, as a matter of fact. Were you expecting Monica?”
“Jaysus, no! We didn’t do anything until after we were married.”
“Did he do it twice a night with you?”
“Not bloody likely! Did he with you?”
“Well, yes, but then he only saw me a couple of times a week. I mean, it was more with you on average,” Carrie said. Both women were anxious not to score points off each other. “D’you know, I’m starving? I don’t half fancy some chips.”
“I’ll make some if you like,” Brenda offered.
“Nah! It’s shop-bought chips I fancy, not home made.
Shall I go and buy some?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
Carrie departed, but not before nearly falling headlong over a beautifully embroidered cushion which had been left on the floor.
It was terrible, Brenda reflected, the way everything was being neglected; the house, the children, and even worse, her work. Women kept calling wanting to know why their frocks weren’t ready as promised, and Brenda had to keep fobbing them off with a lie.
“I don’t feel at all well,” she would explain.
“You don’t look it,” the customers would reply when they noticed the dishevelled figure standing in the doorway. Brenda didn’t ask them in because everywhere was in such a state.
Things had all gone entirely the opposite way to what she’d planned when Carrie first turned up. Instead of Sonny becoming clean, Monica and Muriel were growing dirtier and dirtier by the day. It seemed too much trouble to do the washing and tidy the house and all the other household tasks which Brenda had automatically done in the past.
It was all Xavier’s fault. The lodger! The dressmaker who lived downstairs and fancied him!
The morning after Carrie came, Brenda had gone into the parlour, and instead of the excited little thrill she always felt when she surveyed the work in progress, the cloth just waiting to be cut out and made into beautiful things, she felt sick. The lodger! The dressmaker who lived downstairs . . .
The bastard!
Carrie had gone marching off in search of work and didn’t return till late that night, armed with a bottle of gin, twenty fags, and a fruit cake.
“I got this marvellous job,” she sang joyfully. “They were so desperate, they asked me to start straight away, right after the interview. They even gave me a sub when I explained I was skint. Three quid! There was a queue on the way home, so I joined it and bought this cake.
Fortunately, I had me ration books.”
She seemed oblivious to the fact that the house was a tip and there was no meal waiting. “Let’s have some fish and chips,” she said airily when Brenda began to-make excuses.
Now Carrie was turning yellow, the house was even more of a tip, and Brenda spent the days listening to the wireless, reading books and looking after Sonny. Not that the poor little lad needed much looking after. He was used to being ignored, and seemed quite happy to play on the floor with the girls’ toys and be fed with jam butties and sweets when Brenda remembered he was there. She’d attempted to wash him once, but he’d screamed blue murder, so she didn’t try again.
Yet the funny thing was she felt quite happy in a peculiar way. The money from the Army was enough to pay the rent and buy the groceries, and Carrie gave her two pounds board and lodging and for taking care of Sonny, so there was no need for Brenda to work now she no longer had to support Xavier. She quite enjoyed her lazy days and couldn’t wait for Carrie to arrive home with a fresh supply of gin and full of fanny stories about things which had happened at work. They’d sit for hours swopping memories of their husband and calling him every name under the sun.
“He used to talk about you a lot,” Carrie had said the other night. “It was Brenda this, and Brenda that. I think that’s why he made you into the lodger, so he could talk about you. Sometimes, I used to feel quite jealous.”
“Huh!” Brenda snorted, not the least bit flattered.
“We could have him sent to jail, you know.” Carrie flicked her cigarette and the ash landed in her glass. “It’s a crime, marrying someone else when you’re still married. It’s called bigamy.”
Brenda chewed her lip. “Do you think we should?”
“I ain’t sure. I’d have to think about it.”
“Me too. It’d be in the Echo. I’d never be able to hold me head up again. I’d have to move away.”
“Perhaps it’d be best to leave it, then.” Carrie nodded her wavy blonde head. “Not for his sake, but for yours.”
Brenda jumped when a voice shrilled from the parlour, “Mam! Our Muriel’s gone asleep.”
She leapt to her feet, feeling guilty and slightly dizzy from too much gin. It was ages past the girl’s bedtime.
The parlour was a mess, one corner piled high with pieces of material and half-finished clothes. There was dust on the sewing machine and the children had been rolling spools of thread all over the floor. Sonny was chewing the handle of the pinking shears. Brenda quickly grabbed them out of his grubby little hands.
“Come on, off to bed the lot o’yis,” she said.
“My face is all sticky, Mam,” Monica complained.
“Go in the back kitchen and I’ll give it a wipe over.”
She helped the sleepy Muriel upstairs, cleaned Monica’s face, and persuaded Sonny it was time he also went to bed.
The girls’ old cot had been unearthed from the washhouse and installed in their room. He went uncomplainingly for once. Sonny seemed used to keeping the most unearthly hours and rarely went to bed before midnight.
Downstairs again, Brenda sank into the chair, exhausted after the slight exertion. Carrie came in carrying a large bag of chips.
“Never mind, there’s all the more for us,” she said, when Brenda explained the children were in bed. “Y’know, Bren, I’ve been thinking. Us two could go dancing over the holidays. It’d be nice to get out of the house for a change.”
“Dancing! I can’t dance.”
“Didn’t you go dancing with Xavier?” Carrie asked, astounded.
“No, why, did you?”
“Often, the Hammersmith Palais, mostly. He couldn’t half trip the light fantastic, could Xavier. What the hell did you do with yourselves all the time?”
“We went for walks and we used to go to church a lot. I didn’t even know he could dance.” It seemed so tame, going to church, Brenda thought resentfully. She had a mental picture of Xavier swooping across a dance floor with Carrie in his arms and could have strangled him all over again.
Carrie, however, looked equally hurt. “He never went to church with me,” she pouted.
Francis Costello sat on the train on his way home from work feeling as if he’d come to the end of his tether. He’d lost over five pounds at cards that -week and if he didn’t win some back he’d have to ask Eileen for money again.
Every other source of borrowing had already been exhausted.
Indeed, it had become embarrassing asking the chaps at work if they’d lend him a few bob and the excuses were growing thin. How many times could you explain, “I seem to have left me wallet at home,” without people realising it was another lie? Before you knew it, he’d have a reputation and his job might be at risk if it got back to those on high. The chaps had probably already guessed it was gambling of some sort, either the horses or the dogs or cards. Quite a few were still owed money and expected to be paid back before Christmas. Even his old mate, George Ransome, had flatly refused to lend him a penny when he realised what it was for.
“You’re mad to play for money,” he said disparagingly when Francis asked him for a loan. George had actually been quite shocked when it was suggested he too might like to come along to Rodney Smith’s one night for a couple of hands of poker. “I like a good time more than anyone, but losing me hard-earned wages isn’t my idea of fun.” He gave Francis a funny look. “Anyroad, I’m busy with the ARP, aren’t I? I’ve more important things to do with me time than play bloody cards for money. Believe me, Francis, it’s a mug’s game.”
It was odd, thought Francis, how he’d completely lost the knack since he’d left the Army. He’d rarely played cards before joining up, but there was little else to do when you were shut inside a barracks. He’d taken to poker like a duck takes to water, winning pounds a night with ease.
But nowadays he was completely out of luck, a consistent loser. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, if he took some memento from the Army with him tonight it might act as a good luck charm?
Francis scowled. There shouldn’t be any reason to feel any reluctance about asking Eileen for money. She was his wife, dammit, and her wages were every bit as much his as they were hers, in fact more so. If only things were as they used to be in the old days when she was firmly under his thumb, he would have demanded her wage packet, unopened, and doled out the housekeeping the way a husband should. He would have known what to do if she refused. He could have kicked himself for spending all that back pay on a bloody bathroom. Just think what he could have done with the cash now!
The train stopped at Kirkdale and quite a few people alighted. He’d been counting the stations automatically, otherwise you’d never know where to get off in the blackout.
Francis lit a cigarette, puffing the smoke out angrily.
The eye that was no longer there began to ache with a pounding, gnawing throb, which it had begun to do a lot lately. It always happened when he thought about his terrible predicament and the fact his wife brought home several quid a week, far more than was needed for the housekeeping. What a pity, he cursed again, that the days when she did what she was told were over.
Or were they?
He was sick to death of kowtowing and being nice to her. There were times when it was all he could to do keep his hands to himself when she looked at him with her big blue eyes, smelling of scent and talcum powder and all the sickly things women used. There were other times, mainly Saturdays after he’d had a few drinks, when he longed to get his hands on her, to drag Tony out of the bed and give her what it was a husband’s right to give.
She’d never liked the way he did it. Sometimes she’d cry afterwards, but the crying gave him a sense of perverse satisfaction, made him feel like a big strong man inside.
He wondered jealously what it had been like for her with this other man, the one she’d committed “adultery” with, according to the letter from the solicitor? Francis had searched the bedroom high and low until he’d found a bundle of letters from someone called Nick underneath a newspaper lining the tallboy drawer. He read them, often, when she was on afternoons.
“Who’s this Nick?” he asked Tony once, but the lad just blinked vaguely and said, “I dunno.”
He was lying, Francis could tell. He’d probably been told to keep quiet. Francis would have liked to shake the truth out of him, but he’d be bound to tell Eileen, and then . . .
Then what?
There was no way Jack Doyle was going to get him the promised nomination, not now. Eileen had probably told her dad all sorts of lies. It was obvious that Francis was flogging a dead horse.
So, when you looked at it clearly, there was no reason for him to go on being “clever” as he’d planned, because he was getting nowhere and never would. He was wasting his time.
When the train reached Marsh Lane, Francis threw his cigarette stub on the floor and stamped on it with such force that the woman sitting opposite nearly jumped out of her skin. He stepped onto the platform feeling like a new man. Today was Friday, Eileen’s pay day. When she came home, he’d demand her wage packet and give her what for if she refused.
He walked towards Pearl Street feeling jubilant, his confidence growing with each step. As soon as he’d had his tea, he’d take whatever was in the tin in which Eileen kept the money for the gas and electricity meters, and go round to Rodney Smith’s and win back everything he’d lost that week. It wasn’t just at home that things were going to change. He could feel a dead certainty in his bones that he was about to have a winning streak. This was going to be the first of many lucky nights. Once he’d got his fiwe pounds, he’d clean the lot of them out. He wouldn’t need Eileen’s wages, but he’d still take them as a matter of principle. He thought briefly about Tony, but knew Jacob Singerman would never leave the lad by himself when he brought him home and realised Francis wasn’t in.
There was a meal waiting for him in the oven, though the peas were hard and the gravy had virtually dried up.
Francis ate it, feeling bitter. It was no sort of meal for a man who’d put in a hard day’s work. Once his finances were sorted out and he was on the expected winning streak, he’d make Eileen give up that damn job she thought so much of and concentrate on looking after her family at home.
Francis pushed the plate away, the meal half eaten.
There was a time when he would have gone to Sheila’s for his tea, but his sister-in-law hardly spoke to him nowadays. Thinking about this only made him feel even more angry with his wife. It was her fault; she’d turned Sheila against him, just like she’d turned her dad.
Francis rubbed his hands together fiercely, as if he were rubbing out the recent past. He’d no intention of washing the plate, as he usually did. “Things are going to change around here, Eileen Costello,” he crowed out loud.
“There’ll be no cocoa waiting for you tonight, even if I’m home in time to make it.”
He was on his way upstairs to change his shirt when the air-raid siren went, but Francis didn’t pause. There’d been scarcely any raids throughout December. It might be just a false alarm. Anyroad, the card school usually ignored the bombing and played right through. Everyone was too taken up with excitement to notice what was going on outside.
The front door opened and he heard his sister-in-law shout, “Are you there, Francis?”
“I’m upstairs,” he shouted back.
“I’ve brought Tony home. There’s no room for him in our shelter. I just wanted to make sure you were in. Tara, then.”
Francis swore under his breath as he came down the stairs. His son was standing in the living room, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked awkward and stared uncomfortably at his dad. The two had spent little time alone together since Francis had returned.
“Where’s Mr Singerman?” Francis demanded.
“Shouldn’t you be with him?”
The mam told you the other day, he’s gone to town.”
Francis swore again. His son was his flesh and blood and he loved him in his own strange way. It didn’t seem right to walk out and leave him by himself, not whilst there was a raid on. On the othe
r hand, he just knew his luck was in tonight. There was no way he was prepared to miss the game. He cast around in his mind for someone he could leave Tony with. Aggie Donovan would take him, but she might have already left for the public shelter around the corner.
“We’d better get under the stairs, Dad.” Planes could already be heard overhead.
Francis made a quick decision. Perhaps this was the way fate had meant it to be. Tony would be the good luck charm. Jacob often said how good he was at cards.
He nodded brusquely at his son. “Get your coat on, lad.
We’re going out.”
Everyone at Dunnings was just finishing their dinner when the klaxon blared at twenty past six to signal a raid had started. No-one bothered with the shelter; too much time had been wasted and production lost, and nothing had been dropped as far out as Melling - at least, not yet.
As the evening wore on, word began to circulate from department to department and from worker to worker, “The raid’s a bad one. It’s the worst so far.”
“It can’t be worse than that one in November, surely?”
Doris shouted when the news reached the workshop.
“Seems like it.”
Eileen and Pauline stopped their machines and went outside to look. They’d get into trouble if they were found, but neither cared.
“Jaysus!” Eileen gasped.
The sky over Liverpool was crimson and black, as if the entire city was on fire, and searchlights raked to and fro like swords. The sheer horror of the scene was only made more awful because, although they could hear the dull thud of explosions in the distance, the sound predominant was the delightful gurgle of the stream at their feet as the water rushed over the stones. There was an air of unreality about the whole thing, as if they were watching it in the pictures.
“I wish we could go home!” Eileen said fervently.
“So do I.” Pauline put her arm around Eileen’s shoulders.
“This is the worst part, knowing there’s a raid on and being so far away.” Eileen shook herself impatiently. “I’d best pull meself together. It’s the same for everyone, isn’t it? You’ve got your mam and dad to worry about.”
