Put Out the Fires (12 page)

The rates Brenda charged were variable, depending on where the client lived. Those from “toffy-nosed addresses” paid double what she charged her friends and people from less salubrious places. Even then, she was far cheaper than most dressmakers, but Brenda didn’t just sew for money, but for love. She was never happier than when she sat at her machine, treadling away as she made a dance frock for some posh lady from Calderstones, or something out of a piece of leftover material for one of her friends.

Brenda was equally good with knitting needles or a crochet hook, and she’d turned out scarf and glove sets too numerous to count for the Red Cross during the air-raids she could turn a thumb in the dark.

“That’s lovely,” Eileen said when she went into the parlour. A length of maroon panne velvet was being rapidly fed through under the foot of the machine.

“It’s for a cloak. I’m going to line it with cream satin.”

“It should look lovely. I expect you’re booked up till Christmas.”

“Till next February, actually,” Brenda said through the row of pins she kept conveniently in her mouth. “But not for me mates. What are you after, Eil?”

“I’m not sure. I just wanted to look through your pattern books.”

“Here’s the Simplicity. The Vogue’s on the mantelpiece.”

It was something of a mystery how Brenda had acquired the books, because she never bought a pattern, being able to cut the material out by merely looking at the picture.

Eileen moved a length of bottle-green taffeta out of the way and began to leaf through the pattern book.

“Is it for a special occasion?” asked Brenda.

“Francis has got tickets for a dinner dance in Blundellsands on Christmas Eve,” Eileen replied, knowing this news would reach her sister before the day was out.

“Xavier and me took the girls to Blundellsands once,” said Brenda. “I remember there was a tent on the beach.”

She cocked her head sideways and said thoughtfully, “I’ve fancied making a tent ever since.”

There was a lifesize head-and-shoulders portrait of Xavier Mahon on its own specially crocheted mat on top of the wireless in the other room. He was the handsomest man in Pearl Street, or possibly the whole of Bootle, with exquisite matinee-idol looks. The picture showed him staring romantically into the far distance, his smoky dark eyes brooding, his lips curved in a mysterious smile. The film star impression was slightly marred when you met Xavier in the flesh, because he was short, barely five foot four inches tall, and spoke with a pronounced and rather unattractive nasal twang, as if, people said nastily, he had an ollie stuffed up each perfect nostril.

Xavier was either unaware or unbothered by any criticism of his voice and stature; everyone agreed he was the most conceited man who ever lived and seemed convinced the sun shone out of his own miniature arse.

Brenda openly adored him. If she could have sewn herself a husband, she said frequently in his hearing, he would have turned out looking exactly like the one she already had, which only bolstered Xavier’s already massive ego even more. She waited on him hand and foot.

Xavier didn’t need to strike a match before Brenda had struck it for him. He preened himself in a never-ending variety of Fair Isle and complicated cableknit pullovers, with sleeves and without, which his wife had lovingly made, for Xavier was a dandy, the Beau Brummell of Pearl Street, whose collection of hats—eleven at the last count—was a source of amusement to most people and of envy to a few.

Six months ago, Xavier had been called up and was now garrisoned on a wild, remote island in the Orkneys.

Although she missed him, Brenda -was already used to his frequent absences, as he used to work for the London, Midland & Scottish Railways as a guard, and often spent nights away.

“Found anything?” Brenda enquired through the pins.

“Not yet.” Eileen realised she was merely enjoying looking at the fashions rather than choosing something for herself. “Trouble is,” she said, “I don’t know-what I want. If I have something dressy, it might be ages before I have the opportunity to wear it again.”

“True,” agreed Brenda, “but y’know, Eil, nowadays, with so many women going to dances in uniform, not everyone gets dressed up like they used to. You could have something plain, like a costume or a cocktail dress.”

Eileen grinned. “I can’t see meself in a cocktail dress!”

“You know what I mean,” Brenda said placidly. She was the happiest and most contented person Eileen knew and never lost her temper, not even with her most irritating customers who changed their minds after the material had been cut or didn’t buy enough for their chosen pattern.

Or, even worse, put on weight, or lost it, in between being measured and the final fitting. Her mouselike plainness was perhaps accentuated by the lovely tumbling material she was surrounded with, and her looks were in direct contrast to those of her husband, though everyone agreed that Xavier Mahon wouldn’t have wanted a pretty wife.

He couldn’t have stood the competition.

It was the remainder of the house that reflected Brenda’s rather prim and proper self, being as neat as the pins that were so often in her mouth, almost unnaturally so.

“I’d quite like a costume,” Eileen conceded. She eyed the maroon velvet. “How much a yard would that cost? I wouldn’t mind it in blue.”

Brenda pursed her lips, losing several pins. “Nine and elevenpence, I reckon.”

“Jaysus! Nine and eleven a yard!”

“You’d need four yards for a suit, and I charge seventeen and sixpence. That’s less than three pounds for a velvet suit. I reckon it’d cost seven guineas or more in George Henry Lee’s.”

“I’m not sure, Bren. It’s nearly a week’s wages.”

“It’s up to you, girl.”

“I might go to the Co-op on Monday and take a look at their material.”

“Don’t take too long, now,” Brenda warned. “I’ve already got a rush on to finish stuff for Christmas.” She finished a seam, cut the thread, and started on another.

“Did you see the King and Queen when they came to Bootle last week?” she asked.

“Nah!” Eileen said dismissively. “I was at work, anyroad, but you know what me dad’s like. According to him, he came out of the womb a republican and he reckons us three kids should feel the same. He’d have a fit if he thought I’d hang about just to get a glimpse of royalty. Did you go?”

“I took the girls,” said Brenda. “It was an excuse for them to wear their new frocks.” Brenda’s daughters, Muriel and Monica, were always identically and impeccably dressed.

“She looked nice, the Queen. Wore a lovely hat tilted on the side of her head and three rows of pearls. The King seemed a pleasant enough chap, though a bit shy. It were good of them, y’know, Eil, to come all the way to Bootle just to see the folks who’ve been bombed out.”

“Maybe, but it’s only what they’re paid to do out of our taxes.”

“Your dad’ll never be dead while you’re alive, Eileen,”

Brenda said with a smile. Jack Doyle’s position as a socialist, trade unionist and sworn enemy of the establishment, was well known and mainly respected throughout Bootle.

Eileen took the remark for what it was meant to be, a compliment. “In that case, forget about the velvet. I’d feel uncomfortable wearing something that cost more than some men earn in a week to keep their family. I’ll look for something cheaper.”

“It’s all the same to me, Eil,” Brenda Mahon said cheerfully. “It’s still seventeen and sixpence, whether it’s sacking or gold lame.”

“Is anyone going down the High Street today?” Carmel screeched. “If so, I’d like a jar of homemade tomato chutney off that woman by the Post Office.”

“What did you say?” Doris yelled.

Carmel repeated the request at an increased decibel.

“I can’t hear you. Say it again.”

“Have you gone deaf or something?” Carmel frowned suspiciously. “They say too much of the other affects the hearing.”

“I’m not deaf,” Doris grinned. “It’s just that every time you say ‘tomato chutney’, a shower of spit comes out. I just wondered if the louder you shouted, the further it went.”

“Cheeky bugger!” Carmel looked affronted.

It was only then that Eileen remembered she’d left a pound of tomatoes in the cottage, along with a loaf of bread, a tin of salmon and quite a few other groceries. It wouldn’t have entered Nick’s head to throw the fresh food away. He said he hadn’t eaten and almost certainly hadn’t noticed it was there.

She decided to forgo her dinner, which was no hardship, as she rarely felt like a full blown meal at ten o’clock in the morning, despite the fact she’d been up since five.

“I’ll get you some chutney, Carmel,” she called.

“Ta, luv. You’re a dead good sort.”

“Huh!” said Doris scathingly.

Eileen ignored the comment. Although most of the women had taken kindly to her promotion, a few, Doris in particular, resented the position of overseer being given to someone who hadn’t worked at Dunnings for as long as they had.

“I wouldn’t have wanted to be overseer,” said Carmel in the ensuing row, during which Eileen had been accused by Doris of sucking up to Miss Thomas. “It would have been no use asking me. I couldn’t cope with the responsibility.”

The neither,” echoed Theresa. “Anyroad, if it was the person who’d been here longest, it wouldn’t be you, Doris, but Mona Dewar, and I wouldn’t want her telling me what to do, not in a million years. Mona’s a right ould cow.”

“Not only that, you’re too young, Doris,” said Lil. “No one wants to be bossed around by a chit of a girl.”

“Thanks very much!” Doris tossed her head haughtily.

“There’s nowt wrong with being a chit of a girl,” Lil said reasonably. “We’ve all been chits at one time or another. I think Eileen’s got the right . . . ” Lil regarded Eileen thoughtfully. “The right air of authority.”

Eileen began to wish she’d never accepted the promotion as she was scrutinised for the appropriate air of authority by half a dozen pairs of eyes, particularly when Doris said, “You mean the right creepy-crawly attitude.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doris,” she said weakly. “I’ve never creeped or crawled to anyone.”

“No! You were forever in Miss Thomas’s office sucking up.”

“How can you say that when you weren’t there?” Eileen began to lose her temper. “If you must know, Miss Thomas was sorting out a domestic problem for me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Doris said flatly.

“Well, I don’t bloody care,” Eileen flared back. “Now, get on with your work. That batch is supposed to be finished by going home time and you’ve scarcely started.”

With ill grace, Doris turned back to her machine, and Pauline said, “I wish you’d shurrup about it, Doris. I don’t give a toss who’s overseer. As long as I get me wages at the end of the week, that’s all I care!” There was a murmur of agreement from the other women.

The job made little difference to Eileen’s own work. It merely meant consulting with Alfie, the foreman, at the beginning of the day and getting a schedule of work in hand. Then, as each woman completed a batch of work, it was Eileen who assigned the next job on the list. She was scrupulously fair, unlike Ivy Twyford, the previous overseer, who, everyone suspected, kept the simplest jobs for her friends. As everyone was paid on piece work, a string of complicated work assignments could seriously affect the level of wages received at the end of the week.

Gradually the women grew to accept Eileen as overseer and the tension eased. Doris was the only one who continued to make life unpleasant.

As soon as the hooter went, Eileen slipped into her coat and made her way down the High Street to the cottage. It was a glorious day for November, brilliantly sunny and unseasonably warm.

The first thing she noticed was that the windows needed a good clean. She longed to attack them there and then with the new window leather which was in the cupboard under the sink, but there was no time. Inside, the table was still set, ready for tea, and it looked rather ghostly, Eileen thought, with the cutlery and condiments full of dust and the flowers in a bowl in the centre completely dead. She forced herself not to mope and feel sad as she put everything away, though it was hard not to compare the dead, withered flowers which turned to dust when she touched them, with the end of her love affair with Nick.

The tomatoes were in the larder, squashy and full of mould. She put them in an old newspaper to throw away at work, and flung the loaf, which had turned completely green, out to the birds. The remaining groceries, the salmon, a few jellies, tins of custard and gravy powder, she decided to take home, even the butter, which smelt more than a bit off, but it was silly to waste food during a war.

“I think that’s it!” she said aloud.

She was about to leave when she noticed the family photograph on the sideboard; her dad looking like a martinet with his hand on her dead mam’s shoulder, Sean a mere baby, the girls standing one each side, Sheila coyly gazing at the camera, and Eileen looking rather awkward.

There were other things; little ornaments people had given her for birthdays or Christmas, including a set of lace doilies Brenda Mahon had made. Eileen wasn’t quite sure what prompted her to leave everything where it was.

Maybe it was because doing otherwise meant there would be no reason for her to visit the cottage again.

On the way back, she almost forgot Carmel’s chutney, and had to return to the house by the Post Office, where she bought ajar for herself at the same time. Worried she’d be late, she began to hurry towards Dunnings, but as she approached the factory, realised there was plenty of time.

The men who usually went for a drink in the pub across the road were still sitting on the bridge which passed over the narrow stream. She could hear the occasional wolf whistle, which meant the girls must have come outside for a breath of fresh air on such a lovely day.

When she arrived at the bridge, she saw them sitting on the path, their backs against the factory wall. Most were having a last minute smoke before the hooter went.

Doris, hands outstretched, was wiggling her fingers wildly in the air—she’d probably been painting her nails with that hideous purple polish she used. All the women were staring as if fascinated at something in the sky and when Eileen followed their gaze, she saw a plane making acrobatic turns in the far distance. It looked no bigger than a fly as it looped and twisted. There was a lazy, idle air about it, as if the pilot had merely gone up to play. If you listened hard, you could just about hear its distant drone.