Put Out the Fires

by Maureen Lee

  “But you can’t go there!” said Sheila, horrified, when Eileen told her of her intention. “It’s so lonely.”

  “That’s why I want to go,” Eileen said simply. Her dad and Sheila had been towers of strength, as had Sean for the short time he’d been home, but that was only another reason to leave her family behind. Like everyone, they’d had a tough time lately and she didn’t want to spoil their holiday merely by being there. They’d have to tread round on tiptoe, terrified of saying the wrong thing and hurting her feelings.

  Ruth Singerman was the only person who seemed to understand, though even she wasn’t quite sure if it was the right thing to do. “I know it must get you down, the constant distractions when all you want is to be alone with your grief, but perhaps it’s not such a bad thing to have people around.”

  Eileen shook her head stubbornly. “I can always come back if I need company, can’t I?”

  “As long as you do,” warned Ruth. “Is your dad any better?”

  Ruth shook her head worriedly. “He would have been upset anyway, because he loved Tony, but he regards himself as entirely responsible. If we hadn’t gone to the theatre, none of this would have happened.”

  “That’s stupid!” He was such a dear silly old man, Jacob Singerman.

  “It may be stupid, but it’s true,” Ruth said flatly. “To tell you the truth, I feel terrible myself. It was my idea to buy the tickets, not his.” She searched Eileen’s drawn face for absolution. The sensible part of her head told her it was indeed stupid to feel guilty over such an innocent act, but another part insisted she was far more responsible than her father. She felt even more guilty about laying all this on Eileen at such a moment, wanting her forgiveness when the poor woman was already totally distraught.

  Forgiveness was instantly forthcoming. “I don’t blame anyone except the Germans,” Eileen said firmly, “not even Francis.” It would have been easy to blame Francis for taking Tony with him, too easy, but he’d only been doing his duty as a father. In fact, she blamed herself for not realising how badly he’d caught the gambling bug, for having gone to work at Dunnings in the first place. She sighed. “If you don’t mind, Ruth, I’d like to get away soon.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Positive.”

  Positive! Positive she’d be all right! How strange that you could talk so coherently and sensibly when you were tearing apart inside. She couldn’t imagine that she’d ever be all right again. Part of her had died along with Tony, and each night since she’d lain on the bed, and although she wished no harm to fall on the neighbours, she’d prayed one of the bombs screeching downwards would come through the ceiling and blow her to pieces as another bomb had done her little son. But the weapons had chosen other victims, other mothers, other sons.

  There was a couple with two children on the Melling bus, taking presents to their grandma.

  “Will she have mince pies?” the little girl asked.

  “Aye, and crackers,” said the father.

  “The sort you pull?”

  “That’s right, luv, the sort you pull.”

  “Merry Christmas!” the children called as Eileen got off at the Post Office. The driver and conductor shouted the same thing.

  “And the same to you,” she said.

  She walked down the silent, unlit lane which led to the cottage. The sky was black for a change; no moon, no searchlights, no red clouds. In fact, it was so dark she missed the gate, and walked right past before she realised she’d gone too far.

  Sheila had told her the house had been left in a state. “I’m sorry, luv, but Brenda and that Carrie didn’t lift a finger. I did me best to clear it up before we left, but as fast as I did it got messed up again.”

  Eileen swept the floor, made the beds and washed the dishes. It seemed important to have the place looking as she’d left it weeks ago. She lit the fire with rolled-up newspaper and one of the firelighters she’d bought when she thought she was moving in, gradually adding a few of the logs which were neatly stacked in the garden shed, until there was a roaring blaze. Then she made a cup of tea and switched on the wireless.

  She sat there, warm and comfortable in the soft chair, with music swelling throughout the black-beamed, low-ceilinged room. The fire crackled and popped in a friendly fashion.

  It looks pretty, she thought idly, so pretty. It would have been a nice place to live, particularly with Dunnings just along the road. Miss Thomas had said it would be all right to disappear about half past eight in the morning and make sure Tony was up, give him his breakfast and take him to school. He’d been really looking forward to playing football in the garden. Eileen stared deeply into the fire and tried to cry, because she hadn’t cried once since she learnt he was dead. Someone had said you felt better once you’d cried. But no matter how hard she concentrated, the tears wouldn’t come. Anyroad, there was no way she’d ever feel better. Her life was over, no longer worth living without her son. All that was left was an empty, aching shell of the person who’d once been Eileen Costello.

  At a quarter to twelve, she put her coat on and went to Midnight Mass in St Kentigern’s, the little church in the High Street. By the time Mass began the church was crowded and the aisles were packed with worshippers forced to stand. The priest reminded them in his sermon that hundreds of people had died in Liverpool over the last few days and offered up prayers for them and their relatives.

  Eileen told herself that she was not the only bereaved parent in the country, that there were others who’d also lost sons and daughters, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The gnawing ache persisted and grew like an enormous lump of grief inside her.

  She returned home and lay on the settee, watching the fire as one by one the logs collapsed, showering sparks, into a heap of glowing ash which slowly turned grey and then there was nothing. She began to shiver, not just because she was cold, although she was freezing, but because she suddenly had no control over her body. The shivering became violent and she could hear a woman screaming and realised it was herself.

  “I want to die! Please let me die!” she pleaded.

  At some time during the night, she fell into a fitful wretched sleep, but was woken by a car driving down the lane, its engine roaring. Dawn was just breaking and a slit of grey light showed through the curtains. It was Christmas Day and Tony would have found his presents by now; the jigsaw of a Spitfire, the Enid Blyton book, the box of soldiers. The nagging ache inside her hurt so fiercely she felt as if she might burst. She jumped up quickly and went out into the garden where she plunged into the ankle-high wet grass and began to run, waving her arms like a madwoman.

  “Please let me die!” she screamed.

  “Eileen!” a voice called loudly and urgently, but she ignored it because it could only be part of her nightmare, but the voice called again, even more loudly, “Eileen!”

  She stopped running and looked back at the house. Nick was standing in the kitchen doorway looking at her in astonishment. “Have you gone mad?”

  Eileen walked towards him. Nick! What on earth was he doing here? She was conscious of the fact that she felt nothing, absolutely nothing, yet this was Nick, the man she’d thought she’d love forever.

  “You’ve got no shoes on!” he said irritably when she came near. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  Eileen looked down at her stockinged feet. They were soaking. “I didn’t realise,” she said vaguely.

  “There’s no fire lit inside, it’s freezing.” He frowned.

  “What the hell’s going on? Where’s Tony?”

  Eileen pushed past him into the kitchen. “Tony’s dead,” she said.

  Nick’s frown disappeared. His face seemed to collapse in front of her eyes. “Jesus Christ!” he groaned. “Oh, no!”

  He turned away as if he were about to cry, then turned back just as quickly. “My dearest girl, no wonder you wanted to die,” he cried hoarsely. “Come here.”

  He picked her u
p bodily in his arms and carried her into the front room and laid her on the settee, where he removed her wet stockings and fetched an eiderdown from upstairs and tucked it around her.

  “There!” he said gently. “There!”

  He cleared the grate, relit the fire and made a cup of tea.

  Whilst she drank it, he knelt on the floor and stroked her hair. “When did it happen?” he whispered.

  “Friday night during the raid.”

  His brown eyes glistened with emotion. “I loved Tony as a son,” he said softly.

  “I know you did.”

  “What on earth are you doing here all by yourself?” he demanded. His face twisted in alarm. “Please God, don’t tell me your family have come to any harm?”

  “I just wanted to be alone, that’s all,” she assured him. The family are fine.”

  “Including Francis?”

  She shook her head. There were times when she completely forgot about Francis. He was dead, unmourned by his wife, but not by the neighbours, who thought the world had lost a great man.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry,” Nick muttered.

  “He didn’t turn out too bad in the end,” she said, feeling Francis should get the credit he deserved. “He was quite a good husband over the last few months. He never did either me or Tony any harm.”

  Nick made a face but didn’t answer.

  “What made you come?” she asked curiously. “You said you’d never return to the cottage.”

  He stretched his arms and she noticed how tired he looked. He’d probably been driving all night. In fact, she supposed it was the sound of his car that had woken her.

  “I intended staying with friends in London for a few days,” he explained. “I lost my way in the blackout and found myself going towards the Great North Road. Then, the most peculiar thing happened. I felt as if I was being drawn towards Liverpool, towards you. I felt convinced you needed me.” He looked sideways at her. “Do you?”

  She couldn’t be bothered being tactful. “I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “To be frank, Nick, I’ve scarcely thought about you over the last few days.”

  He nodded understandingly. “That’s not surprising. But are you glad I’m here?”

  Although she remembered clearly how hurt he’d been when she hadn’t turned up in September, even so, she wasn’t prepared to lie and say things she didn’t mean no matter how much he might want her to. “I’m glad someone’s here,” she said. “On reflection, it was a daft idea to come to the cottage by meself. I think I might have ended up in the loony bin by the end of the day if you hadn’t come.”

  “So, you do need me!” he said eagerly.

  She lay back and closed her eyes and tried to decide if she needed Nick, but the inside of her head was too woolly to decide anything and she fell asleep with Nick sitting on the floor beside her holding her hand. She dreamt that Tony was calling her. He sounded frightened, wanting his mam.

  “Tony!” She sat upright and glanced wildly around the room. “Where’s Tony?”

  Nick had fallen asleep with his head on her knee. He woke, instantly alert. “It’s all right, darling, I’m here.”

  “But I want Tony!” Her body heaved as she began to cry, and Nick wrapped his arms around her.

  “That’s good,” he whispered. “Let it all go. Cry all day if you want.”

  Her body felt as limp as a rag by the time she’d finished weeping in Nick’s arms. “I’m sorry,” she moaned. “What a way to spend Christmas Day when you could have been with friends.”

  He shook her gently. “As if I’d want to be anywhere else!” he chided. “Shall I make more tea? Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head. “There’s not much food out there, anyroad.”

  “I bet you’ve hardly eaten over the last few days. Why don’t you wash your face and comb your hair and we’ll go to the pub for a meal? Your stockings are dry, I hung them from the mantelpiece.”

  She shook her head again, because the idea seemed grotesque, but after a great deal of persuading, Nick managed to convince her it would do her good.

  The pub was packed and they had difficulty finding two empty seats at a table. Eileen felt entirely divorced from the other customers, who seemed to be having a wonderful time. Her body was numb and empty and she couldn’t visualise ever being part of the real world again.

  “I can’t stand it here,” she whispered the minute Nick had finished eating. She’d hardly touched her own meal.

  “Then we’ll go home, but before we do, I’d like you to have a good stiff drink.” He went over to the bar and returned with a double whisky and she recalled Donnie Kennedy had brought her the same thing in the pub on the Dock Road all those months ago. Now poor Donnie was dead, like Tony.

  “Did the drink do you good?” Nick asked as they were walking home.

  “That’s what Donnie asked,” she said. She felt slightly dizzy, as she had done then.

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  They’d only been inside the cottage a few minutes when the telephone rang. “It must be for you,” Nick said. “No one knows I’m here.”

  “For me?” She picked up the receiver and said, “Hallo.”

  To her amazement, it was her dad. “We’re worried sick about you, girl. Are you all right? I’ll come and fetch you if you like.”

  Her heart softened as she thought about his huge frame stuck in a telephone box. He’d probably never been inside one before. “As all right as I’ll ever be, Dad,” she answered.

  “Nick arrived this morning.”

  “That’s good!” There was relief in his gruff voice. “Tara then, luv.” He rang off before she could say goodbye herself.

  When she went back into the living room, Nick said, “I think you should go to bed.”

  She nodded obediently. “All right.”

  “In fact, I’ll come with you. I’m completely exhausted. I can’t remember when I last had a good night’s sleep.”

  Eileen said quickly, “Nick, I don’t want to . . . ” He kissed her forehead. “I know you don’t, darling. I just want to hold you, that’s all.”

  She went to bed in her petticoat because it hadn’t crossed her mind to bring a nightdress, and was fast asleep by the time Nick got under the clothes. When she woke up it was pitch dark outside and his arm was heavy on her hip and his breathing steady and even. She lay there, thinking for the first time in days about someone other than Tony. She was glad Nick had come. There was no-one else in the world she’d sooner have with her at the moment. It was just so hard to deal with anything outside her immediate grief. She turned over carefully so as not to dislodge his arm, until they were facing each other. It had been light when they came to bed and the curtains were still open. She could just make out his face in the dark. He was beautiful, she thought, beautiful in the way men sometimes were, with glossy olive skin and long dark eyelashes she’d always envied. His hair was black and curly and remained curly, no matter how short it was cut. It was his eyes she loved most, a lovely liquid brown that turned her stomach inside out when they looked at her in a particular way. His nose—well, his nose could have been a better shape, a bit smaller and slightly less crooked.

  Impulsively she leaned across and kissed him. His eyes opened. “Darling!” he whispered.

  “Make love to me,” she said urgently.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure at all. I just thought I might lose myself in you for a minute.”

  “Let’s see!” He began to touch her and, incredibly, she no longer felt empty, but full of desire. It was every bit as good, perhaps better, than it had ever been before. There was an added desperation inside Eileen, as if the more passionate she became, the more it would lessen, temporarily at least, her aching misery.

  When it was over and they lay in each other’s arms, Nick murmured, “I don’t think a day has passed since I last saw you when I’ve not thought about us, about making love and wonderin
g if it would ever happen again.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Honest? I thought you might forget all about me once you were back with Francis.”

  “As if I could forget you, Nick! And I was never really back with Francis, not properly. I was merely put in the position where I had no choice.”

  He stroked her face. “I was horrible, wasn’t I?” he said in a small voice.

  “You were,” she confirmed.

  “Selfish, too. I couldn’t understand how you could put him before me.”

  “But I didn’t, Nick,” she began, but before she could go on, he laid his finger on her lips.

  “I know, I know. Afterwards I realised I’d done precisely the same thing when I joined up. There are certain things that make you the person you are. I had to fight, and although you thought it meant I didn’t love you, you stood by me and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I was too impatient to understand you had to stay with Francis. I let you down.”

  “I let you down, too, although I couldn’t help it.”

  “You know,” he mused, “on the last day we were here together, that terrible day, I kept praying you would try to seduce me. If only you had, I would have been lost.”

  “I thought about it, but I was too frightened. Say you had rejected me?”

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “I nearly wrote to you loads of times since, but I was worried it might land you in trouble.”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” The wretchedness was gradually returning. Everything that had happened with Nick seemed trite and unimportant compared with her recent loss.

  Normally acutely sensitive to her feelings, to the slightest nuance of expression in her voice, for once he didn’t seem aware that she had changed. “No, it doesn’t matter, not now,” he said. “In a few months” time, after a decent interval has passed, we can get married, can’t we?

  “Can’t we?” he repeated urgently when she didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know, Nick,” she said tiredly.

  “Christ!” He threw back the clothes and got out of bed.