Put Out the Fires (17 page)

“I did, actually, but me feelings won’t be hurt if it’s not wanted.”

“That’s good, because it’s not!”

“Never mind,” Sheila said contentedly, “the kids like it.”

“Don’t give our Tony any. I don’t want him poisoned.”

The sisters looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Isn’t it funny,” Eileen mused, “the way you can laugh, no matter what happens? Yesterday morning, after Miss Thomas told us Theresa and her entire family had been wiped out, I thought I’d never laugh again, but before the day was out, the girls were making jokes, and we were all laughing fit to bust, though none of us could get the news out of our minds. Everyone kept saying, ‘Theresa would have appreciated that!’ ‘

“It’s a way of coping, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Eileen sighed. “Anyroad, I’ve come for your ration books. I’m off to do the shopping.”

“They’re on the mantelpiece behind St Anthony. By the way, Brenda said your frock’s ready for the final fitting.”

“I’ll pop round later on.” Eileen had decided on a relatively plain-styled dress in fine lavender-coloured wool.

“I asked her to make our Sean a Fair Isle pullover for Christmas,” Sheila said, “and she did nearly all one side during Thursday night’s raid. Sean was saying the other week how much he fancied one, so it should be a nice surprise.” Her face lit up. “Talk of the devil!”

The back door opened and Sean Doyle came in. People had joked Mollie Doyle must have had it off with the coalman when Sean was born. He was a throwback to some wild Gaelic strain in the family, a dark-eyed, dark skinned, goodlooking gypsy of a boy, with a natural, outgoing personality.

“Lo there!’he said easily.

The sisters watched fondly as their young brother threw himself gracefully into a chair, whilst the object of their gaze basked in the affection which he only regarded as his due. He knew one of them would get up and offer him some food, which was why he’d come. His dad wasn’t home and he was too idle to feed himself.

“Would you like something to eat, luv?” Sheila asked.

“Wouldn’t say no,” Sean grinned. “Got any bacon?”

“You must be joking! And I’ve no eggs, either, to save you asking. There’s cornflakes, porridge or toast. Take your pick.”

“Cornflakes, please, with lots of sugar.”

“It’ll be cornflakes with hardly any sugar,” Sheila said briskly.

“You’re a lazy bugger, our Sean,” his other sister complained. “Surely you can help yourself to cornflakes at home?”

“You know I don’t like eating by meself”

“You’re a bloody liar, as well.”

The words were uttered with a smile, because lazy though Sean was, and a liar to boot, the sisters’ love for their brother was largely uncritical. He was spoilt, not through being showered with worldly goods and allowed to do as he pleased -Jack Doyle had always been strict, a stern, uncompromising man to have as a dad - but there was something engagingly attractive about Sean, which, taken with his unusual looks, made him irresistible to family, friends and strangers alike. Everyone liked Sean Doyle. They either didn’t notice, or didn’t care about, the many weaknesses in his character. He was training to be a motor mechanic and led a charmed life; made a fuss of by his sisters, and enjoying the special glory of being “Jack Doyle’s lad”. Eileen and Sheila muttered disapprovingly about the numerous girlfriends, the numerous broken hearts he caused, “But if the girls are daft enough to fall for him, there’s nowt we can do about it,” they remarked to each other.

“I got me call-up papers this morning.” Sean knew this would be a bombshell, and was gratified when both his sisters reacted with appropriate shock, though it was no more than he expected. “They want me in the RAF.”

Sheila screamed, and Eileen groaned, “Oh, no!”

“When do you have to go?”

“I’m to report at Warrington in a fortnight’s time.”

“Does our dad know?” asked Sheila.

“Not yet. The postman only came as I was leaving.”

“Jaysus!” Eileen glanced at Sheila. “It doesn’t seem right, does it? It feels like only yesterday he was a little boy.”

“Well, it isn’t right, is it?” Sheila cried angrily.

Sean looked quite unconcerned, but Eileen remembered Donnie Kennedy, who’d appeared so proud and full of himself, yet was inwardly petrified.

Calum Reilly appeared in the doorway, in the process of buttoning up his thick flannel shirt. A youthful looking man with clean-cut boyish features, Cal bore himself with a quiet dignity that commanded respect. He was loved to distraction by his family, and the love was wholeheartedly reciprocated - Sheila and his children were all Cal thought of when he was away at sea. His eyes locked with Sheila’s for a second before he said, “I thought I heard voices.

Hallo, Eil.” He kissed Eileen on the cheek and gave Sean a playful cuff around the head.

“He’s had his call-up papers,” Sheila said tearfully. “They want him in the RAF.”

“I reckon that means we’ve lost the war for certain,” Cal smiled. “Is there a cup of tea going, luv?”

“In a minute. I think this jam’s just about ready.”

“Is that what it is? I thought you were boiling some of me old socks.”

“Don’t eat it, Cal,” Eileen warned. “It tastes worse than it smells.”

Cal carried the heavy pan into the back kitchen and Sheila went with him to fetch the water for the tea.

“Don’t forget me cornflakes,” Sean shouted.

Eileen regarded him worriedly. “Are you scared about joining up, luv?”

Sean said flippantly, “I’m not scared a bit.”

Eileen felt convinced there was a undercurrent of fear in his voice. “Have you heard from Donnie Kennedy?” She’d been meaning to ask him about Donnie for ages.

“No,” Sean said lightly. Insensitive he might be, but even Sean Doyle knew this was not the right time to inform his sister that only the other day he’d heard his old classmate had been killed.

It looked as if it was going to be a raid-free night, Brenda Mahon thought thankfully as she began to sew the hem of Eileen Costello’s dress by hand with neat, symmetrical stitches. It was a nice style, classically plain, and would suit Eileen’s tall, shapely figure to perfection.

This was her favourite time of all, when Muriel and Monica were in bed, and she was free to sew all night if she wished. She frequently stayed up well into the early hours if she had a load of work to get through. Brenda smoothed her hand over the soft material. She loved the feel, though velvet was the nicest, with silk coming a good second.

Taffeta she liked least, so harsh and stiff.

The lavender thread came to an end, so she backstitched, snipped the remainder off, and threaded another length. Most women used far too much cotton when they sewed by hand—sheer laziness, because they couldn’t be bothered threading the needle frequently, though more time was wasted in the end, because the cotton only became knotted if it was too long. Brenda never used more than about fifteen inches.

She began to sew again, humming Whispering Grass underneath her breath. Xavier sometimes sang it at parties and weddings when he did his Hutch impersonation.

Brenda began to plan the letter she would write him tomorrow. She always wrote to Xavier on Sundays, reporting in detail on the week’s events, though she wouldn’t tell him how bad Thursday night’s raid had been, else he might worry. He’d never get the news from the wireless or the newspapers. They still seemed intent on pretending there’d never been an enemy plane anywhere near Liverpool, let alone that the city had been bombed.

Brenda had bought a postal order for two pounds ten shillings to include with the letter. There was no way her Xavier could possibly live on the shilling a day allowed him by the Army. Even when he was home, she’d always subsidised her husband - not that she minded. Xavier was a man in a million, and pandering to his expensive tastes made her feel necessary and needed, as if he wouldn’t shine so much if it weren’t for her. She was secretly proud he preferred whisky to beer and always bought good cigarettes. His collection of hats was way beyond the means of any normal LMS employee—he had a penchant for headgear of all different styles and colours. She smiled fondly, recalling the time he took deciding on which hat to wear whenever he went out.

As soon as Eileen’s hem was finished, she’d make herself a cup of cocoa, then start on that navy-blue costume for the woman from Hunts Cross. Brenda felt a little anticipatory thrill at the idea of cutting out the serge material.

That was the best part, the beginning; a length of smooth, virginal cloth and knowing that it would shortly turn into a beautifully finished garment, something she had created.

The sharp rap of the knocker on the front door made Brenda jump. Glancing down, she saw she’d pricked her finger and drawn blood, which fortunately hadn’t touched the frock.

She looked at the clock. Half past eleven! It could only be someone like Sheila Reilly at such an unearthly hour.

Perhaps one of the kids had been taken ill and she needed a hand.

On the other hand, it could be Xavier, home without warning in order to surprise her!

With this exhilarating thought predominant, Brenda hurried down the hall and opened the door.

A young woman stood outside, a grubby child of about eighteen months in one arm, and a cheap cardboard suitcase in the other. The child, a boy, was crying pitifully and his nose ran, to such an extent that the sight made Brenda feel slightly sick. She resisted the urge to reach out and wipe the mess away with her hand-embroidered hanky.

“Yes?” she said politely, convinced the woman had come to the wrong house.

She felt even more convinced this was the case, because the woman was frowning, as if she’d expected someone else to have answered the door. “Is Mrs Mahon in?” she asked.

If she’s come for dressmaking, I’ll kill her, thought Brenda, I could have been in bed by now. On the other hand, the woman didn’t look as if she had two ha’pennies to rub together, let along the money for new clothes. Her coat was too tight across her noticeably buxom breasts, and her thin flowered frock hung several inches below.

She wore a black felt hat that looked as if it had been used as a football, it was so full of dust. The baby was even more shabbily dressed. He’d stopped crying and was watching Brenda warily, eyes like saucers, whilst he sucked on a dummy. He was a handsome little chap, all the same, and reminded Brenda of someone. She couldn’t quite put her finger on who.

“Well, is she in or not?” the woman said impatiently.

Brenda was never sure afterwards why it should happen, but warning bells began to ring inside her head. “Is who in?” she asked, playing for time. Why should the woman automatically assume Brenda wasn’t Mrs Mahon?

“Mrs Mahon, of course.” She was quite pretty in a tartish sort of way, with blonde curly hair protruding from underneath the battered hat, and big brown eyes. She must have only recently renewed her lipstick, which was a greasy and startlingly vivid crimson. Despite the fact she looked worn out, she had a spunky, tenacious look, as if life had been tough, but so far she was still on the winning side.

“Oh, I know,” she cried as she hoisted the baby upwards with her arm, “I expect you’re the lodger, Brenda, ain’t you?”

“The lodger?” Brenda said weakly. The woman was a cockney. Why should a strange cockney woman come searching for her in the middle of the night, and what on earth was she on about—the lodger?

“Put that light out!” a voice thundered from out of the darkness.

Brenda realised she’d left the parlour door wide open and the light was clearly visible outside. “You’d better come in,” she muttered.

She showed the woman into the living room, where she threw the suitcase on the floor and plopped down on a chair with a sigh of relief.

“Christ! It’s good to get the weight off me plates o’meat.”

“Y’what?” asked Brenda, mystified.

The plates o’meat—me feet.”

“Wanna drink, Ma,” the little boy whined.

“In a minute,! Sonny.” She looked up at Brenda, who was standing in the middle of the room feeling dazed - the lodger! “Well, if you wouldn’t mind telling Mrs Mahon I’m here. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I set off from Stepney at ten o’clock this morning and we’ve been travelling all day.

Poor Sonny ain’t had a bite to eat, poor little shrimp.”

“Who shall I say it is?” hedged Brenda.

There was a horrible smell in the room; perspiration and dirty underclothes and that cheap perfume you could buy by the pint in Woolworths for three pence ha’penny, and something else. Brenda sniffed. Sonny had dirtied his pants.

The woman smirked. “It’ll probably come as a bit of a shock, but say it’s Mrs Carrie Mahon, her daughter-in law.”

The warning bells in Brenda’s head stopped merely ringing and began a thunderous clang. “I think there must have been a mistake . . . ”

But there was no mistake. Before Brenda could say another word, the woman pointed across the room at the photo of Xavier on the wireless, crying, “There he is, the darlin’! Look, Sonny, it’s your daddy!”

Sheila Reilly was savouring the first raid-free night in weeks, though she’d got so much into the routine of spending hours wide awake under the stairs that, despite the fact she was dead tired, she just couldn’t get to sleep.

Fortunately, the children had dropped off straight away.

Mary was breathing easily in her cot in the corner. It seemed strange, not having a baby to breastfeed during the night. For the first time in nearly eight years she hadn’t a child under twelve months to nurse.

Cal had gone back to sea that morning and she felt lonely in the bed without him; one night they’d had together, just one night, and that had been rudely interrupted by a raid. She laid her hand on the pillow where his head had rested, when the front door opened and someone came running up the stairs. Sheila sat up, heart racing. The last time this had happened, it had been her dad and her sister coming to tell her Cal’s ship had sunk. He’d survived on that occasion, but to be sunk a second time was tempting fate . . .

A figure rushed into the room and began to shake her furiously.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Sheila whispered hoarsely.