by Maureen Lee
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have come,” Pauline murmured.
The two women stayed watching for a while, silent and horrorstricken.
“I wish we hadn’t. Come on, let’s go back.”
They cast a last look at the red sky over Liverpool before returning to their lathes.
Whether you got home or not if there was a raid on depended on the whim of the driver of your particular bus.
Some drivers parked on the fringes of the city and refused to budge until the All Clear sounded; sitting safely in their cabs, they were immune to the insults hurled in their direction by their passengers who called them lilylivered cowards or worse. Other drivers forged blithely ahead as if nothing of significance was happening outside the bus.
On the Friday before Christmas, when the whole factory had been on tenterhooks all night, and people had been in and out to see if things were calming down and coming back to report in shocked voices that things seemed to be getting worse, everyone emerged at ten o’clock ready to kill the driver of their bus if he refused to take them home.
One lucky vehicle turned left as it left the factory on its way to Maghull and Ormskirk, away from the raid. The rest turned towards Bootle and Seaforth, Everton and Spellow Lane, and the centre of the city.
There was no sing-song that night on the bus that went to Bootle, no carols as there had been all December.
Instead, no-one could take their eyes off the sinister red umbrella that hung over Liverpool, and they silently prayed their loved ones had come to no harm.
Perhaps their driver was as anxious to get home as they were. He stopped only to let people off, then drove on, even faster than usual.
Eileen and Pauline were sitting together on the top deck.
They’d not long passed through Walton Vale when an explosion rocked the bus.
“Oh, God!” Pauline giggled hysterically. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Don’t worry, luv,” Eileen said automatically. Her entire body was tense, rocking slightly as if willing the driver to go even faster than he already was. The closer they got to Bootle, the more it seemed as if the entire town was in flames. There were fires everywhere. Every now and then a bomb would drop and debris could be seen being blown into the air, black and terrible against the red sky, then it would quickly subside; a house, a street blown to pieces.
It wasn’t right, she thought savagely. The heavens were supposed to be a tranquil place, a peaceful blanket over the world. Instead, they’d become a threat, a source of danger, the place from which death was delivered upon people who’d done no harm to anyone.
“I’ll see you Monday, Pauline,” she said when her stop approached. She didn’t add, as she usually did, “Have a nice weekend.”
It was relatively calm when she began to walk down Marsh Lane. Funnily enough, things didn’t seem quite so bad when you were in the thick of them as they did from a distance, though the sky was crimson in every direction and she felt as if she were walking through hell, particularly as there wasn’t another soul in sight. Almost immediately, a fire engine came racing around the corner, its bell clanging furiously, closely followed by two ambulances.
She darted into a shop doorway when a bomb landed close by. There was the sound of breaking glass and falling rubble, followed by a woman screaming. A dog began to howl, and Eileen wondered briefly if Snowy was all right as she set off again.
“For Christ’s sake, woman, get under cover!” An ARP warden ran past, pushing her aside with considerable force. “What d’you think the shelters are for?”
Eileen ignored him. Another few minutes and she would be home. She began to run when she turned off Marsh Lane, down Garnet Street, where the houses stood in rows of regimented neatness, their windows glinting crimson. At least her dad’s house was safe, though that was no guarantee he was safe himself as he was firewatching.
She became aware of the pleasant smell of baking bread and noticed that the bakery on the corner of Opal Street was on fire. Several firemen wielded their hoses on the gaily crackling flames, to little apparent effect. Incredibly, there was singing coming from the public shelter opposite the King’s Arms. Someone was playing the harmonica—almost certainly Paddy O’Hara. “Bless “em all, Bless “em all,” they caroused cheerfully.
Eileen was never quite sure later whether there was an explosion or not, but suddenly a wall collapsed directly in front of her and she stumbled and fell on a heap of broken bricks.
A man’s voice shouted, “Are you all right, luv? Anyroad, you should be in the shelter.”
“I’m fine.” She struggled to her feet. She was almost home, but the wall that had just fallen belonged to the end house in Pearl Street, Number 29. Her sister lived only a few doors along.
At last! She rounded the corner, breathless. Her own house and all those on the far side stood untouched, but the windows of several opposite were shattered, and the door of Number 29 had been thrown across the street and lay smashed to pieces against the pub.
“Phew!” She gave an audible sigh of relief as she hurried into her sister’s. It was obvious that Tony and Francis were all right.
“Sheila!” she shouted.
“Is that you, sis? What’s happened? I’m too scared to come out.” Sheila’s voice was shaking.
Eileen went into the living room. The rear window had completely disappeared. She nearly stepped right on it, lying in the middle of the floor in one large shattered piece, still glued together with crisscross sticky tape. The fireplace and the hearth were heaped with soot and all the furniture had moved slightly across the floor. The burning sky outside illuminated the entire room a shade of ghastly crimson. “Everywhere’s in a hell of a state, Sheil, but the house is still standing.”
The cupboard door opened and Sheila peeped out. She was clutching Mary, who was fast asleep. “I thought we’d had it for a minute or so then.”
“Are the kids all right?”
“They’re fine, considering. There’s only Dominic and Niall awake.”
“Is there any shrapnel, Auntie Eileen?” one of the boys shouted.
“If there is, you won’t catch me looking for it,” she answered sharply. She attempted a smile in the direction of her sister. “What do you want to do, Sheil?”
“What else can I do, ‘cept stay where we are till it’s all over, then clear up the mess?’ Sheila said simply.
She was right, Eileen reckoned. Anyroad, lightning never struck twice, and the family were probably safer in a house that had already been hit, albeit slightly, than anywhere else in Bootle.
“I’ll bring you over a cup of tea as soon as the All Clear goes,” Eileen promised. “There’s no way you’ll light a fire in the grate till the soot’s been cleared. Our Dad’ll see to the winder tomorrer. I’d best be off home, or Francis and Tony’ll will be worried where I’ve got to.”
“All right, luv. Thanks for coming.”
“Tara, sis.”
When Eileen let herself in, Snowy came running down the hall and leapt into her arms, mewing piteously. “You poor little thing,” she cried as the kitten snuggled into her neck. “I expect you’re terrified in all this noise.” She frowned. It wasn’t like Tony to shelter without his precious Snowy. Eileen rushed into the living room and opened the cupboard door. The space was dark and empty and she felt her blood run cold. Where were they?
Perhaps Francis had gone out and left Tony with one of the neighbours. Who, she wondered, doing her best not to panic. She ran out into the street, still clutching the kitten, and hammered on Mr Singerman’s door. As she half expected, there was no reply. He and Ruth had gone to the Royal Court and were probably sheltering in town.
Eileen stood in the middle of the street, glancing around wildly as she wondered whose door to knock on next.
Several people used the public shelter. Perhaps that’s where Tony was.
Her legs were shaking as she ran back down the street, even more conscious now of the dull roar of th
e planes overhead, the constant scream of bombs, explosions, the smell of burning. Instead of being safely in her arms, her son was somewhere out in all this chaos.
The shelter was dimly lit and crowded and the people inside were still singing at the top of their voices, We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line . . .
“Is Tony Costello here?” Eileen yelled.
The singing faltered to a halt.” Y’what, luv?”
“Tony Costello, is he here?”
“Is that you, Eileen?” Aggie Donovan pushed herself forward.
“I’m looking for our Tony,” Eileen explained. “I just got home from work and he’s not there, nor Francis.”
“Has anyone here seen Francis Costello?” Aggie shouted.
There was a chorus of no’s and murmurs of sympathy.
“It must be awful,” a woman said loudly, “for those that have to be at work during a raid.”
Eileen’s heart sank. “Thanks, anyroad.”
“D’you want me to help search for them, like?” Aggie asked.
“No, ta. I’ll go and knock on a few doors.”
But although she knocked at every conceivable house, no-one had any idea where Francis or Tony were - no one, that is, until George Ransome came lurching down the street in his ARP uniform.
Eileen grabbed his arm. “Have you seen Francis?”
George’s eyes were red-rimmed and sore and his face was covered with black smears. “I’ve just come for a pack of ciggies,” he muttered.
dashing about George tonight. He seemed to have aged a decade since she last saw him. There was a funny, dazed expression on his face and his eyes were empty, as if he were in some sort of trance. She wondered if he was drunk.
“Have you seen Francis, luv?” she asked again, trying to keep her voice calm.
“I’ve seen everything there is to see tonight, girl,” he said dully. He’d seen things that he’d never get out of his mind for as long as he lived; dead bodies were bad enough, but bits of people, arms and legs and heads, were more than he could stand. “I’ve come home for more ciggies, that’s all. I need a smoke really bad.” And a break from all the horror, a moment alone with a fag to try and forget what was going on outside.
“Have one of mine, George.” Eileen lit a cigarette, amazed her hands were so steady. She put it in his mouth and they both ducked when a bomb exploded on the far side of the railway line and a small shower of debris descended on them. Nelson neighed hysterically in his stable next to the wall and Snowy clawed Eileen’s shoulder in fright. She’d actually forgotten she was still carrying the kitten clutched to her neck whilst she’d searched frantically for her son.
“About Francis,” she reminded George, though he looked in too far gone a state to remember anything at the moment.
He was taking long dragging puffs on the cigarette and jumped when she spoke as if he’d only just realised she was there. “Eileen!” he said in surprise. Then his heart sank.
Eileen Costello! Was it his place to tell the woman she was a widow? George Ransome pulled himself together and decided it was.
“I’m sorry, girl. Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry!” He began to weep.
“Sorry about what, George?” Eileen felt as if her voice was coming from a long way away.
“About Francis, girl. He’s dead. He was at Rodney Smith’s in Rimrose Road. The house got a direct hit.” That had been the most terrible thing of all, pulling the broken body of his old mate out of the rubble.
“But what about Tony?” Eileen screamed. “What about Tony?”
George covered his face with his hands. The hands smelt of blood and dead flesh. “Oh, Christ!” he moaned. It was even worse than he’d thought. So that’s who the dead kid was. Tony Costello.
Chapter 9
On the day after the worst raid inflicted on Liverpool so far, Sheila Reilly took her family to the cottage in Melling long before the air-raid siren wailed to warn more death and destruction was on its way. At Eileen’s insistence, Brenda Mahon and Carrie Banks and their children also went. What did it matter, six kids in the big bed and three in the little one, and the adults sleeping, or trying to sleep, on the chairs downstairs? Even if you woke up aching all over, at least you woke up, which was more than many people had done the night before.
The raid on the second night was even longer than the one before. On the third night, three days before Christmas, the bombardment persisted for twelve whole hours.
Sheila kept looking out of the front window at the red sky over Liverpool. “I hope our Eileen’s all right,” she said more than once. Eileen had refused to come with them and Sheila knew full well the reason why. Her sister was hoping to be killed, like Tony, though she hadn’t put the hope into words. Sheila didn’t blame her sister for wanting to die. She might well want to do the same if she lost her entire family. The thought of the emptiness without someone close to love, not a single person to call your own, seemed so horrendous that Sheila buried her head in the curtain and began to weep.
“What’s the matter, Sheil?” asked Brenda.
“What d’you think? I can’t get our Eileen out of me mind.”
“Oh, she’ll get over it,” Carrie said offhandedly. “People get over everything in time.”
Sheila dried her eyes on the curtain but didn’t answer.
She detested Carrie Banks with her couldn’t-careless attitude to everything. The woman was a bad influence on Brenda, for one thing. The two of them were standing in front of the mirror, giggling together, as Carrie showed Brenda how to apply eyeshadow and mascara. They were going to a dance on New Year’s Eve. The pair were smoking and flicking ash all over the polished floor.
Despite the fact Brenda had given up dressmaking, she’d managed to make them a frock each for the dance, though she looked ridiculous in the creation she’d run up for herself, a bright green crepe de Chine affair which was too tight, too short and too low in the neck. Brenda was dead plain and she’d never look anything else, no matter what finery she got decked up in.
“Would you like a drink, Sheila?” Carrie asked, waving a bottle of gin in her direction.
“No, ta, though I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
Neither woman made any attempt to go into the back kitchen, so Sheila went herself to put the kettle on. As far as she could make out, no-one would have eaten for three days if it had been up to Brenda and Carrie. Sheila had done all the cooking, and the cleaning, too.
Sheila sighed as she waited for the kettle to boil. She’d drink the tea out here, just to get a bit of peace away from the giggling which got on her nerves. She crept upstairs to make sure her children were safe and sound. They were still there, tucked together like sardines in the double bed.
There’d been a terrible row each night whilst they arranged their legs around each other and adjusted their arms. Now they looked like little angels, all six of them.
Six children, she thought breathlessly, all hers!
She went down, made the tea and drank it leaning against the sink. Outside, the wind was howling through the tall trees that bordered the large garden. Sheila opened the door to watch and listen. The sound was strange and rather eerie to someone who came from a town where there were few trees about, and those mainly in the park. She wondered how on earth her sister could have visualised living in such an isolated place, miles away from her family.
The bare trees were waving madly, like devils against the pink sky. Sheila quickly shut the door. It was frightening.
On the other hand, she thought sadly, if Francis hadn’t come home and Eileen had been living here, Tony would still be alive.
On Christmas Eve the women went back to Bootle. The previous night Liverpool had been let off relatively lightly and it had been the turn of Manchester to endure the main brunt of the heavy raid.
Sheila would have returned, raids or no raids, because Francis and Tony Costello were being buried that day.
What a terrible day for a funeral, S
heila thought; Christmas Eve and the sky overcast and grey and the wind whipping like razor blades through the wide open space of Ford Cemetery. She stood holding the arm of her white faced sister, her dad on the other side, with Sean behind like a guardian angel, looking grown up and important in his blue-grey uniform. He’d only been in the RAF a fortnight and had been allowed twenty-four hours’ compassionate leave.
The neighbours were all there, every single one, except Jacob Singerman who was too ill. George Ransome stood on the far side of the open grave, as stooped and grey-faced as an old man. He was weeping openly, as were Aggie Donovan and Ellis Evans and many of the other women.
Paddy O’Hara’s eyes wavered sightlessly over the crowd.
Even Rover seemed aware there was something unusual happening. He lay with his nose on his paws, whimpering softly every now and then.
Tony’s little coffin looked so pathetic when it was laid on top of the bigger one of his dad. Sheila took a long shuddering breath, determined not to cry because Eileen wasn’t crying. Her sister’s face was frozen, completely expressionless, as if she were beyond grief, and when it was time for her to throw a handful of soil into the grave, she put her hand in her pocket and threw something else in at the same time, Tony’s wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Someone found them,” Eileen said in a strange husky voice. “You never know, Tony might need his glasses wherever he might be.”
People couldn’t possibly have been more kind and sympathetic, but it was her son who’d been killed, not theirs. You couldn’t expect them to grieve as she was doing, not over Christmas, and she couldn’t stand the sight of women coming happily home laden with last-minute shopping, particularly the toys, nor the sound of carols and hoots of laughter coming from the King’s Arms. It would be even worse on Christmas morning when the kids played out in the street with their presents, particularly with Sheila living with her whilst her own house was being repaired.
On Christmas Eve, after the funeral had taken place, Eileen knew she had to get away, and there was only one place to escape to, and that was the cottage. She yearned for its peace and quiet.
