by Maureen Lee
“Wanna dance, queen?” The band started up again and a young man stood before her, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“I can’t dance very well.” She felt bound to explain this to all her partners as she tottered after them onto the dance floor. The high-heeled shoes which Carrie had loaned her were too big and she’d had to stuff the toes with tissue paper.
“Don’t matter. Fred Astaire himself would have a job in this crowd.” The Orrell Park ballroom was packed to capacity on New Year’s Eve. Carrie had bought the tickets well in advance. “What d’you do, queen?” the young man asked as they joined the throng.
“I’m a dressmaker,” Brenda answered. “And you, I mean what do you do?” She’d become a little bored with the routine, the same old questions and answers with everyone she danced with. So far, no-one had asked her to dance a second time.
“I’m a fitter on the docks. Only escaped death by the skin of me teeth during last week’s raids.”
Brenda did her best to look impressed. “Lucky you,” she murmured.
He slid his arm further around her waist and said in her ear, “Can I take you home?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going home with me friend,” Brenda answered, feeling panicky.
“Is your friend the one with the fair wavy hair, wearing a red dress?”
Brenda nodded.
“I thought as much. In that case, she’s already promised to go home with me mate, Dave, which means we can make a foursome.”
So he was only asking because his mate had attached himself to Carrie! Brenda desperately wished the last six weeks would melt away and everything be the way it used to be. If Carrie hadn’t turned up, she’d be at home sitting in front of her sewing machine, the girls in bed, and waiting for it to be quarter to twelve so she could pop along to Sheila Reilly’s and let the New Year in.
The name’s Dougie, by the way, Dougie Fox.” He pressed his cheek against hers and slid his other arm around her waist so she was left with nothing else to do with her right arm other than put it on his shoulder. He was a rather unpleasant looking young man, she thought, with a narrow mean face, and his breath smelt like a sewer.
She cursed Xavier for putting her in such a position, but knew if he came through the door at that moment she would have taken him back like a shot, no matter what he’d done. She didn’t want to be single. This was what it must be like all the time if you wanted to meet men, having to go to dances and put up with unpleasant individuals breathing all over you and assuming they only had to ask and you would let them take you home.
When the dance finished, the young man led her back to a corner where Carrie and his mate were snuggled together in a passionate clinch, much to Brenda’s disgust.
Carrie came up for air and winked. “Dougie found you, then?”
“Seems like it,” Brenda said shortly. “Excuse me a mo.”
She couldn’t stand it another minute, she decided as she pushed her way through the crowd, praying Carrie wouldn’t follow, and collected her coat from the cloakroom in the foyer. She wasn’t cut out to be a single woman. Outside, she waited at the first bus stop she came to, but when no bus arrived after about ten minutes, she began to run, somewhat clumsily in the too-big shoes, towards the next stop. She was halfway towards Bootle and halfway between stops and feeling tearful, when a bus finally turned up and the driver kindly stopped the already packed vehicle when she waved at him frantically.
“Come on, Tilly Mint,” the conductor shouted. He put his hand under her elbow and helped her on board.
“Ta.” Brenda stumbled on the platform when a heel twisted sideways, and she nearly fell. The conductor picked her up and placed her inside the bus where she squeezed herself onto the long seat by the door. She wondered why such a strong young man hadn’t been called up, but noticed he wore spectacles, really thick, so his eyes looked like pebbles behind the glass.
“Had one over the eight, have you?”
“No, I haven’t had a drink all night.” She closed her coat where it had flapped open at the bottom so he wouldn’t see her horrible, too short frock, and stuffed the matching dolly bag in her pocket. Carrie said you needed an evening bag to take dancing, just big enough to hold your ticket, a hanky, some money, and your identity card. She’d never wear the dress again. Perhaps she could’ turn it into something for one of the girls, presuming she ever felt in the mood.
“You’re never going to get us home before midnight, are you?” the woman beside Brenda said accusingly to the conductor.
“Don’t look like it, missus. Fact, it don’t even look like you’ll be home this year.” He winked at Brenda. “But it’s ould Adolf you should blame, not the bus. There’s so many roads closed, we’ve been wandering all over the houses and the timetable’s been knocked for six.” He took a large watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “Another five minutes and it’ll be nineteen forty-one.”
The passengers chatted amiably together, wondering what the New Year would bring, and after a while the conductor began to shout a countdown, “Five, four, three, two, one - Happy New Year, everyone!”
“Happy New Year,” the entire bus shouted back, and they all began to sing Auld Lang Syne. Brenda shook hands with the conductor and the people sitting on the seats nearby.
“Happy New Year, Tilly Mint.” The conductor winked again. “May all your troubles be little ones.”
Brenda laughed. She would sooner have been on the bus any day than in the Orrell Park ballroom with Dougie whatever-his-name-was. “It’s too late for that,” she said, “I’ve already got troubles, and believe me, they’re big!”
The house was very old with beamed ceilings - a bit like the cottage except that it was about twenty times as big. It was also very cold and draughty and the wind whistled in from the North Sea, through the gaps around the windows and up through the floorboards and around the doors. It was situated only about five hundred yards from the sea, and in between the house and the icy grey water there were flat muddy marshes that glistened wetly, particularly in the mornings when the sun rose and turned them into blank mirrors that stretched either way for as far as the eye could see.
Now, at nearly midnight, with no moon visible, the marshes merely glinted dully here and there, as if there were an odd dusty jewel in a muddy setting.
Eileen Costello was sitting alone on the trunk of a fallen tree looking out to sea. Although well wrapped up in a borrowed coat, borrowed woolly socks and someone else’s Wellington boots, she was still freezing cold. There was an untidy cloakroom by the front door of the house full of coats and gloves and scarves and boots which didn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular. You were supposed to help yourself when you went out.
“No-one comes prepared for the weather,” Miss Thomas - Kate - told her. She had to call Miss Thomas “Kate” from now on. “So Laura and Conor provide for all emergencies.”
Laura and Conor Kinnear were their hosts, the owners of the draughty old house, though Eileen had been there several days before she’d managed to establish this for herself. When she arrived, she’d been introduced to dozens of people, young and old, and five minutes later had no idea who they were. The Kinnears had five children who seemed to range from their mid-teens to early twenties, and all had friends to stay. Then there were other guests like Eileen and Miss Thomas - Kate.
The strange thing was, the Kinnears made no attempt to look after the people staying with them. Laura was a windswept woman with short untidy hair cut like a man’s, who wore clothes that Eileen wouldn’t have been seen dead in—jumpers with the elbows out and tweed skirts full of threads and holes. Conor was little better and seemed to live in the same tatty pullover and a pair of baggy trousers that were about two sizes too big. No-one dressed for dinner, something she’d always assumed the upper classes did, but perhaps she’d seen too many films. In fact Eileen was probably one of the best-dressed women at the table -she’d brought with her the lavender wool dress which Brenda Mahon had made for the dinner
dance on Christmas Eve, probably one of the last things Brenda had done before she’d gone off dressmaking
As Kate said, you looked after yourself, and Eileen usually helped herself to breakfast and took it back to eat in her cold bedroom, rather than in the company of a score of young people who had either been to university, were currently there, or planned on going in a year or so’s time.
One of the boys wore an Army officer’s uniform. They made her feel tongue-tied and ignorant as they talked of things about which she knew nothing, or in an intellectual and knowledgeable way about the war.
No-one bothered to sit down to lunch, which was another help-yourself affair, and the evening meals were uneatable: usually mashed swedes and potatoes, and meat you could have soled your shoes with. Why, Eileen wondered initially, did people come? After a while, she realised they came for the conversation. They came to talk. Wherever you went, whichever room you entered, there were people in little earnest groups just talking.
“What does Conor do?” Eileen asked Kate. If he hadn’t talked so posh she’d have taken him for a binman.
“He’s a Professor of English Literature at Cambridge University,” Kate said. “And a playwright, very famous.
Have you never heard of Conor Kinnear?”
“I don’t go to the theatre much,” Eileen muttered. She’d only been to pantomimes at the Metropole in Bootle, and once to see George Formby in town. If it hadn’t been for the scenery she might have wished she hadn’t come, because she felt uncomfortable amidst so many formidably clever and talkative people, but she’d felt drawn to the flat desolate beauty of the landscape straight away. She walked for miles and miles alone, inland down long bare paths lined with black brittle hedges, and along the narrow road that ran parallel with the marshes, and on some days she never saw another single soul. From time to time, the peace was shattered when planes took off or returned to an airbase some distance inland, leaving the resultant silence only more palpable, and Eileen feeling as if she was the only person left in the world.
Once, she’d come to a village with just one shop and the smallest pub she’d ever seen, surrounded by a few tiny cottages. It seemed incredible to think that people actually lived there, so completely cut off from the rest of humanity. She’d considered the cottage in Melling to be isolated, yet it was a mere bus ride from the thriving metropolis of Liverpool. She bought a postcard in the shop to send to her dad, a view of Norwich Castle, though when she got back she had trouble knowing what to write.
She couldn’t very well say, “Having a lovely time,” which people usually wrote when they were on holiday, because she wasn’t having a particularly nice time at all; it was merely interesting, and so far she had scarcely spoken a word to anyone except Kate. In the end she merely wrote on the card, “Happy New Year to one and all,” and signed it, “Eileen”.
She slept well at night, but woke up every morning with the memory of a strange dream which always had the same theme: she was wandering alone through unfamiliar countryside, a strange city, or a house where she’d never been before. It was never quite light and never quite dark, and a disembodied voice kept calling urgently, “Eileen, Eileen Costello.” She always woke before discovering whose voice it was or what it wanted, with the unpleasant, niggly sensation that she’d left something very important undone.
Now it was New Year’s Eve, and the Kinnears had clearly attempted to make an effort for the occasion. Laura wore a grey georgette frock that looked as if it had been used as a duster, and a double row of jet beads. She’d combed her hair and applied a touch of lipstick and Conor wore an evening suit and looked relatively smart. He was very thin and gaunt with deepset eyes and a large nose which Kate had said was “Roman”. He seemed to have trouble remembering which children belonged to him, which was hardly surprising seeing as there were so many there. The children had all disappeared earlier in the evening.
“They’ve gone dancing,” Kate explained. “There’s an RAF camp a few miles away. You’ve probably heard the planes.”
The adults sat down to dinner in a long room lined with shelves which were crammed with books and all sorts of other strange paraphernalia, such as a collection of shells, a stuffed bird in a glass case, some ravelled knitting, and several pairs of shoes. Everything was full of dust, marvelled Eileen, which was another strange thing she’d noticed about the upper classes. They didn’t give a damn what people thought! If it had been her or anyone else in Pearl Street expecting visitors, the house would have been scrubbed from top to bottom beforehand and every surface polished till it shone.
She turned away, embarrassed and slightly ashamed for noticing. It was exactly what Aggie Donovan would have done. The food, as usual, was unpalatable, a sort of mutton stew served in two big dishes which were passed around so people could help themselves, though everyone else seemed to be eating heartily. Perhaps they were too busy talking to notice what was on their plates.
The man beside her said, “So, do you think the Americans will come in with us?”
At last, a subject which she knew a little about, because her dad had been pinning her ear back for weeks, calling the Americans every name under the sun for not joining in the war on the side of the British.
“Well, Roosevelt got reelected in November, didn’t he?” she said, trying to sound knowledgeable “And he did it by promising the USA wouldn’t enter the war.”
“In that case, you don’t think they’ll come in with us?”
“I think they might find it difficult not to when it comes right down to it, particularly if japan joins in on the side of Germany.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask why this was significant. If only she’d listened more closely to her dad! It was something to do with Indo-China and oil . . .
“True, very true.” The man nodded. To her relief, the woman on his other side demanded his attention and Eileen was left free to chew her piece of mutton until it was tender enough to swallow.
After dinner, they played charades, but Eileen, her eye on the clock, went out to the cloakroom at half past eleven, wrapped herself up in borrowed clothes, and left the house to sit outside on the log where she’d sat many times before.
Every now and then the moon peeped out from behind a cloud and the wet marshes glistened briefly.
What was to become of her, she wondered despairingly, now that she was no longer a mother, no longer a wife?
She could be Nick’s wife if she wanted, but she had no idea if she wanted to or not. The deep yearning ache she felt for the loss of her son returned in full force and she almost cried out with the pain.
“Tony,” she whispered. “Dear God, Tony!”
“Who’s that?” a man’s voice called, and a figure she didn’t recognise loomed up out of the darkness.
“Eileen Costello,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She resented the figure, whoever it might be, intruding on her grief. Why hadn’t he stayed indoors and played charades and sung Auld Lang Syne with everyone else?
The man came over and sat down beside her on the log.
It was Conor Kinnear, all muffled up in scarves, a woolly hat and an ankle-length overcoat, which disguised his almost skeletal frame. Eileen felt slightly apprehensive.
They hadn’t exchanged a word since Kate had introduced them and she wondered if he’d remember who she was.
She prayed he wouldn’t think her another academic and start talking about things she didn’t understand.
“I had to get out,” he explained. “I can’t stand the false emotion when everyone falls weeping into each others’ arms at the stroke of midnight. It’s so bloody hypocritical.”
“I always liked it meself,” Eileen said.
“Really? I suppose it depends whose arms you fall into. I’m not the least bit fond of that lot in there and have no intention of pretending I am.” He took a cigarette case out of his pocket, offered it to her, and lit both cigarettes with a lighter, rather clumsily with his hands in thick gloves.
“Wh
y have them to stay,” Eileen asked curiously, “if you don’t like them?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like them, I said I wasn’t fond of them, which is an entirely different thing.”
Eileen shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Kate told us about your child,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t sound particularly sorry. His voice was more conversational than sympathetic.
“Ta,” Eileen said briefly.
“I suppose you think you’ll never get over it?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me I will.” She didn’t care if it sounded rude. On the other hand, she reckoned he wouldn’t care, either. She’d no intention of taking advice from a man who couldn’t remember the names of his own children.
“I wasn’t, actually. You never will get over it. When you’re an old woman on your death bed, you’ll still be mourning your lost child. On the other hand, you’ll learn to live with it. One of these days, it might take weeks or months or even years, but one day the tragedy will take second place to other things which will seem more important.”
“You’re sure of that, are you?” Eileen said sarcastically.
The moon came out for a second and she saw him smile.
“Relatively sure. There are a few people, a tiny few, who buckle under and wilt away, but most of us have sufficient will to survive. You’re one of the survivors. You wouldn’t be here if you intended to allow your child’s death to dominate the rest of your life.” He threw the remainder of his cigarette away and it sizzled on the wet sand. “Coming here means you’ve already taken the first step back onto the road to normality, and the day will come, I promise, when you’ll be able to laugh and enjoy life again.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience, or have you just read all this in books?” She felt convinced he was talking through his intellectual hat, and was even more sure this was the case when he didn’t answer her question, but merely stood up and slapped his sides.
