Lights Out Liverpool (25 page)

It was then that Jessica remembered. Mrs Poulson had come in last week to buy a nightdress, and Veronica, up to her usual tricks, had snatched the note out of her hand.

‘Merry Christmas to the pair of you,’ Mrs Poulson said
happily
as she left.

There was dead silence in the shop for several seconds.

‘Well?’ said Jessica ominously.

‘Well, what?’ Veronica snapped.

‘I think I’m entitled to an apology, don’t you?’

Veronica didn’t reply.

‘
Don’t you?
’

When Veronica remained mute, Jessica went storming into the back and stood in the middle of the stockroom, taking deep breaths and seething. That was it! She’d leave. She couldn’t stand Veronica and her shop another single minute. It was degrading. She glanced around at the cardboard boxes of cheap underwear that she wouldn’t be seen dead in.

‘Muck!’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Absolute muck!’

The shop bell rang, but Jessica remained where she was. Veronica could see to the customer – to all the customers from now on.

With a sense of overwhelming relief, she realised she was free! It was so easy, she wondered why she hadn’t done it before.

She put on her coat, picked up her bag and marched through the shop.

‘And where d’you think
you’re
going?’ snapped her ex-employer.

‘Home,’ cried Jessica. ‘I’m going home. Merry Christmas, Veronica.’

Jessica pulled out the flue on the fire which she’d left banked up that morning. Little blue and red flames immediately shot through the mixture of coal and coke and began to dance on the surface.

She felt darts of happiness shoot through her body and rubbed her hands together in a surge of joy. She hadn’t
felt
so exhilarated since … since she first met Arthur! Yet she’d just given up her job, relinquished a regular wage. None of the wonderful, expensive things she’d bought in the past; the jewellery, the clothes, the furniture, not even the Aga, had made her feel so delighted with herself. To think she didn’t have to subject herself to that ordeal again! It had only been eleven weeks, but it felt more like eleven years.

This called for a celebration. A drink! She’d get one in a minute, but in the meantime, she couldn’t help it, she just had to
sing!
She hadn’t sung a note since Calderstones, but now the urge couldn’t be contained another single minute.

Jessica threw back her head and began to sing
Silent Night
in her glorious soprano voice. There was no audience, no-one to applaud, but she had never sung so well or with so much feeling. ‘
All is calm, All is bright
…’ As she sang, she thought, ‘I must join another choir. I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed this …
Holy Infant, so tender and mild, Sleep in
…’

To her astonishment, she heard the sound of a piano next door. She was being accompanied! Somewhat stumblingly at first, but then, once the pianist got her rhythm, he played with as much enthusiasm as she sang.

‘
Sleep in heavenly peace
.’ She hit top C smoothly and effortlessly. ‘
Sleep in heavenly peace
.’

Jessica sang two more verses, then began
The First Noel
. In the various living rooms and back kitchens of Pearl Street, surprised people stopped what they were doing to listen to the pure angelic voice coming from Number 5. Despite the cold, a few even opened their doors a crack to hear better. Paddy O’Hara, opposite, wretched and miserable because he’d taken Spot to the vet that morning to be put down, felt strangely uplifted.

Unable to think of any more verses, Jessica sank back in the chair, exhausted. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door and she went to answer it. She knew who it would be and didn’t mind a bit, not at the moment. As expected, Mr Singerman was standing outside. He was holding a bottle of sherry.

‘I thought you’d like a drink to celebrate,’ he smiled.

Jessica smiled back. ‘Celebrate what?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s just that you sounded as if you were celebrating something.’

‘I think I was. Come in. I’d love a drink. In fact, I was about to have one …’

‘It’s only cheap sherry. I always buy a bottle in case people drop in over Christmas.’ His rather rheumy eyes grew round as he entered the living room. ‘You have this place looking nice – and a full size carpet, too!’

‘If I have a sherry, would you like something else? Whisky, rum, a liqueur? There’s all sorts in the cocktail cabinet.’

‘A cocktail cabinet! This I must see.’

She took him into the front room and his eyes grew even rounder when she opened the doors of the black lacquered cocktail cabinet and a painted glass tray slid out at the same time. The cut glass decanters gleamed, reflected in the mirrored back and sides. Assorted matching glasses were stacked neatly in holders on each side. Jessica noticed the brandy was at exactly the same level as when they had moved in. Arthur seemed satisfied with his pint at the King’s Arms nowadays.

‘That’s a fine piece of furniture!’ Mr Singerman gasped. He surveyed the row of bottles at the back. ‘I think I’d like a liqueur. Benedictine would be a treat. I haven’t had a liqueur since the day I got married.’

When they were both settled in front of the fire nursing
their
drinks, he said, ‘You know, you should do something with that voice. It’s a crying shame to let such a talent go to waste.’

‘I used to be in a choir,’ Jessica explained. ‘But I haven’t felt much like singing lately.’

‘I’m playing at a carol concert tomorrow night. Why don’t you come with me?’

‘You mean and sing?’

He nodded eagerly. ‘We make a good pair. I felt as if you were urging me to play better. My old fingers seemed to come to life.’

Jessica felt pleased at the compliment, so sincerely expressed. ‘I wouldn’t need much persuading,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll do it!’ He looked genuinely glad.

‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘All of a sudden, I feel like singing again.’

‘You know, I’m always being asked to play at concerts, particularly since this damned war began. Troops in transit like a hearty sing-song, and good pianists are hard to come by.’ He looked, for the moment, a trifle self-important. A lonely old man, pleased to feel wanted now and then. Jessica, who rarely noticed other people’s feelings, found herself blinking at this awareness.

‘Music is a great release,’ she said, somewhat grandly and not quite sure what she meant, though Mr Singerman seemed to understand.

‘It certainly is,’ he concurred. They smiled at each other. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ he went on, ‘Arthur said you’re from Calderstones and I’ve never been that side of Liverpool, but I have a strong feeling I’ve seen you before.’

‘I used to live across the road next door to the coalyard,’ Jessica replied. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Mrs Poulson had referred to her as ‘Jessie.’ ‘
I never said it
was
Jessie who took me money
,’ she’d said. Mrs Poulson must have recognised her from way back, and if she knew, all sorts of other people would know, too. She’d only make herself look ridiculous by denying her roots.

Mr Singerman’s face lit up. ‘Bert Hennessy’s daughter! You used to sing even then.’

‘And your daughter was a pianist!’ The memories flooded back. A lovely, dark-haired, serious looking child, a few years younger than herself, who never played out with the other children, but practised on the piano hour after hour. And Mr Singerman, already stooped and grey haired, a widower whose wife had died giving birth to her talented daughter. What was the girl’s name? Jessica racked her brains. ‘Ruth!’ she said aloud.

‘That’s right, my Ruth. Has Arthur told you . .?’

‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry.’ His deeply lined jaw trembled and she felt a surge of pity. Her words of comfort seemed so trite and meaningless. ‘Terribly sorry,’ she repeated. In order to cheer him up a bit, she said, ‘I’ve always intended to take up some sort of war work. I’ll go along with you to all these troop concerts, if you like. I read in the paper, they’re going to start giving concerts in factories in the lunch hour. “Workers’ Playtimes”, they’ll be called. We could do them, too.’

In the early hours of Christmas morning, the snow fell thick and fast, but had stopped when daylight came. Eileen Costello, lighting the fire in the parlour where they’d be eating dinner later on, glanced out of the window. The world seemed to have changed shape lately, become rounder, smoother, everything buried under a thick crust of white. A few men were outside with shovels, yet again clearing a space to walk on. She sniffed as the smell of a roasting chicken wafted into the
room
. She’d peel the potatoes in a minute ready to roast with the bird, then prepare the stuffing, start boiling the pudding …

Tony was making battle noises in the living room as his soldiers attacked the Maginot line. The sounds had been going on since half past four, when he’d woken up and found the presents beside the bed, including a tank off Annie. So different from previous Christmases, when Francis, for some reason she could never fathom, had forbidden Tony to get up and touch his presents until eight o’clock, then only let him play with them for certain periods of time. Thinking of Francis made her feel uneasy. He hadn’t replied to her letter, and she kept expecting him just to turn up. After all, a man had a right to expect to spend Christmas with his family. People kept asking when he’d be home.

‘I’m not quite sure,’ she told them vaguely. ‘There’s just a chance he might not make it.’ She brushed off their expressions of shocked sympathy, with, ‘We’ll just have to manage without him, won’t we?’

Her dad and Sean were coming to dinner, along with Sheila and the kids and poor Paddy O’Hara, who was in a right old state having had Spot put down. She’d asked Mr Singerman, but to her surprise, he’d refused. Apparently, he’d already accepted an invitation to the Flemings’.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Eileen. Perhaps I could come over in the afternoon?’ he’d said, anxious not to hurt her feelings.

‘You know you’re always welcome in this house, luv,’ she told him. ‘There’ll be a few folks coming in to listen to the King’s speech.’

As Eileen opened up the leaves at each end of the table, she decided it would be best to have two sittings; kids
first
, grown-ups second. She’d never get that lot around the table in one go. She spread the thick felt undercloth and covered it with the best white damask. After studying the table thoughtfully for a while, she removed the white cloth and replaced it with the pale blue second best. The kids could make all the mess they liked on that, she’d use the white one for the second sitting.

She was getting the best cutlery out of its box – a wedding present from her dad – when Annie came dancing in.

Annie turned sideways and posed. ‘What d’think of me uplift?’

‘You don’t look any different,’ Eileen said after a while.

‘Christ Almighty, girl. I pay two and ninepence for a new brassiere and I don’t look any different?’

‘Well, you’re not big enough, are you? You need to stuff yourself with cotton wool if you want any shape at all.’

‘Thanks a lot! Just for that, I might not wish you a Merry Christmas.’

When Eileen merely grinned, Annie sighed dramatically. ‘I’ve brought your Christmas present.’ She handed over a little box and gave Eileen a hearty kiss on the cheek at the same time. ‘Merry Christmas, luv.’

‘And the same to you, Annie.’

‘It couldn’t be any merrier, not with our Terry and Joe home. I’m so bloody happy I could hug meself to death.’

‘Earrings! Oh, they’re lovely, Annie. Thanks very much. I’ll put them on this minute.’ Eileen clipped the pearl drops on her ears. ‘What do they look like?’

‘They look a treat, honest.’

‘I’ve got your present under the tree.’ She’d bought Annie a leather purse, as her old one had worn away to
the
lining in places.

‘It’s exactly what I wanted!’ said Annie delightedly when she opened the gift. ‘And there’s a penny piece already in it!’

‘That’s so it’ll never be empty.’

‘Ta, luv. I’d better be getting home. I’ve never had to make a meal for six people before. I was working meself up into a right tizzy earlier on.’

‘Six people, Annie?’

‘Well, you know I asked Charlie and Rosie Gregson?’

‘That makes five, with you and the lads.’

Annie’s eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘And there’s Barney.’

‘Who the hell’s Barney?’ Eileen demanded.

‘Remember me telling you about this chap from Dunnings who asked me out the first week?’

‘Yes, but you never said you’d accepted.’

‘That’s ’cos I didn’t. The other girls – I told you they turned out all right in the end, didn’t I?’ When Eileen nodded, Annie went on, ‘Well, anyway, they told me Barney Clegg – he’s a bachelor, by the way – was a proper womaniser, out with a different girl every night and a string of broken hearts behind him. I quite fancied him meself, but I’d no intention of joining his harem. I’ve been playing hard to get, though quite frankly, I don’t know what he sees in me.’

Eileen began to protest indignantly at this and Annie shushed her with, ‘Come off it, Eil. I’ll be thirty-nine next birthday and I don’t exactly look like Lorretta Young, do I? Anyroad, when Barney was complaining he had nowhere to go on Christmas Day, I asked him to dinner. I told him if me lads liked the look of him, I’d go out to this dance he’s been going on about on New Year’s Eve.’

Eileen burst out laughing. ‘Annie! You’re the end, you
really
are! I’ll be round to have a dekko at this heart-breaker later on.’

After Annie had left, Eileen thought about Nick, who’d gone down to London to spend Christmas with friends. For someone who played such a minor role in her life, he seemed to occupy a major part of her thoughts. She wished she were in Annie’s position, free to go out with whosoever she chose and wondered, if she were free, if he asked, what would she say? Without hesitation, she knew it would be ‘yes’. Despite the differences in their backgrounds, they seemed to have an endless amount to talk about. With him, she seemed to run through a whole gamut of emotions. One minute he would make her feel feminine and desirable, a real woman for the first time in her life, despite her old coat, her clumsy overalls and headscarf. Then they would begin an argument, usually over some aspect of the war, and he appeared interested, even anxious to hear her views, unlike the men she’d met so far, who didn’t seem to think women were entitled to an opinion about anything. At other times, when he fell into one of his black moods, she would tenderly chivvy him back into a good humour.