The Seven Streets of Liverpool (7 page)

‘Oh no!’ gasped Lena.

‘Oh yes! Actually, it was Jess Fleming – she’s Jess Henningsen now, after marrying an American major. She’s lived on Pearl Street on and off. Now she’s in some village by Burtonwood. Once the war’s over, they’re moving to America – New York.’ She looked at the slices of bread she’d cut that were only faintly smeared with margarine. ‘Do you think cress will be enough for proper sarnies? These look awful miserable as they are.’

‘They’ll probably taste nice and fresh. Anyway, it’s the company that counts, not the food.’

‘What a lovely thing to say, Lena.’

Lena flushed. ‘Well, it’s true.’

‘When are we going to meet this husband of yours? What’s his name?’

‘Maurice. He’s been to Liverpool twice but couldn’t stay more than a day and a bit.’

‘Next time he comes, let us know and we’ll have a party. We’ll all help with the food.’

‘Thank you.’ Lena didn’t say that a party was the last thing Maurice would want when he came home.

‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the teddy bear. Nicky loves it.’ The bear had been christened Pip and the little boy had been nursing it all afternoon.

The men appeared, Jack Doyle bearing half a dozen bright red tomatoes. ‘These are ripe, luv.’ He handed them to his daughter and asked Lena if she’d like a couple to take home with her.

‘You can have some too,’ he added to Peter Wood, ‘if you don’t mind taking them all the way back to London.’

‘I don’t mind a bit. They look very wholesome. My London friends will be very envious.’

They sat down to cress sandwiches, tomatoes, home-made tomato chutney, and gooseberry tart. Eileen apologised for not having enough milk to make custard, and for the sparseness of the meal.

Peter declared it absolutely delicious. ‘Do you mind if I come again?’ he asked Eileen. ‘Is it open house on Sundays?’

‘Saturdays
and
Sundays,’ she replied.

‘What about if your husband’s here?’

‘Oh, Nick just loves company. He wouldn’t mind. But,’ she added sadly, ‘I have no idea when he’ll next be home.’

‘I see. Would it be possible to have your telephone number? I really would like to call and make sure it’s all right first.’ Lord, he felt like a cad, deceiving her like this.

‘I’ll give it to you before you go,’ she promised.

It was five o’clock when Lena got up and announced it was time she left. ‘I’m going to the pictures tonight with a friend,’ she said to Eileen.

Peter Wood got to his feet and stretched his arms. ‘I’ll come with you. I sometimes forget I have to change trains in Liverpool to catch the one to London. I won’t get home until well after midnight.’

‘I don’t go as far as the station,’ Lena explained. ‘I catch a bus to Walton Vale, then the tram to Bootle.’

‘I shall see you to the bus stop,’ Peter said with a smile and a little bow.

Eileen frowned. ‘Will you have time to say ta-ra to your uncle Jimmy?’ she asked Peter.

‘I said a proper goodbye earlier when I left to come here.’ Peter was glad Eileen had mentioned his non-existent uncle’s name; he had totally forgotten what he’d called him. He must remember for next time he came.

Lena felt as if she was playing a small part in a romantic drama set in Liverpool; either a film or a play, she wasn’t sure. On the way to the bus stop, Peter Wood talked of nothing but Eileen. He waited with her until the bus came.

Throughout the afternoon, Lena had noticed the appreciative looks Peter had bestowed on Eileen. He had listened to her with such a soppy look on his face, she’d almost wanted to laugh. It was as if everything Eileen said was some sort of golden prose that demanded extra special attention. Lena would be amazed if he wasn’t head over heels in love with her.

Eileen didn’t appear to be aware of Peter’s fascination with her. Lena supposed that men fell in love with her all the time, so much so that she stopped noticing. It had never happened to Lena, who wasn’t even sure if her own husband loved her all that much. He was forty-one, ten years older than she was, and they’d lived next door to each other since Lena had been born. He’d only proposed after his mother died. Lena’s own mother claimed he just wanted a woman to look after him when he was home from sea.

‘Turn him down, girl,’ she’d urged, but Lena was twenty-one, and until then no man had even asked her out, let alone proposed. Anyway, it wasn’t so much a husband she wanted as children. However, there’d been so sign of a baby in the ten years she and Maurice had been married. What was more, he had turned out to be a terrible crosspatch, something she had noticed even more since they had been seeing each other more frequently in Liverpool. Lena was forced to admit that her mother had been right. Sadly, Mam had died five years ago, though she’d stayed alive long enough to see her prediction about her daughter’s husband come true.

The following morning, Eileen telephoned Dunnings Munitions. The factory was only about ten minutes’ walk away, in the village. She asked to speak to Miss Thomas, who answered her extension immediately with a crisp ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning, Kate. It’s Eileen.’

‘Eileen! I’ve been meaning to come and see you for weeks. How are you? And how are Nick and Nicky?’

‘We’re all fine, thank you.’ After the little lie, Eileen explained the reason for her call – letting out one of the bedrooms, but only to a woman. ‘I never thought about it before, but it’d be really convenient for someone working at Dunnings – but not the sort of woman who’d want to go out dancing and partying every night. The buses are few and far between and it’s a bit of a walk to Kirkby station.’

Kate promised to look into it. ‘I’ll give you a ring back when I find someone – I might even come and see you one lunchtime, if that’s all right.’

‘I’m looking forward to it, Kate.’

On Tuesday, Nick found Eileen’s letter on the doormat in his digs in Birdcage Walk, along with post for the other tenants of the building. He recognised her writing and his stomach gave an unpleasant twist. In the past, a letter from Eileen would have been a reason to feel joyful, but this wasn’t likely to be a good letter, no matter what it said. If it was complaining about him hardly going home these days, it would be a bad letter. If it was as nice and pie and she was emphasising how much she loved and missed him, then it would still be bad, because it would make him feel guilty.
More
guilty. He felt guilty enough as it was.

He didn’t open the letter until he was at his desk. When he did, he discovered that it was an Eileen letter. Written neatly, it didn’t complain or demand; it asked in a clear and simple way if something was wrong. If there was, she would like to know what it was so that she could do something about it – ‘if possible, that is’, she added. In other words, she had no intention of humiliating herself.

If he was so completely overwhelmed with work, she went on, perhaps she and Nicky could come to London and stay for a few days, meet him at dinner time and after work, possibly stay with him in his digs if there was enough room.

‘We could go for a walk through Hyde Park like last time,’ she suggested. The letter finished ‘All my love, Eileen (and Nicky).’

It was dated Sunday, and he imagined her writing it in the late evening as darkness fell on the cottage. He also remembered the last time they had been in London together, him and Eileen and Nicky.

No! Not Nicky, but Tony, the little boy she’d had with that brute of a husband. Tony, poor dear Tony, such a lovely child, lost now, just like the love he’d once had for Eileen.

But was that true? Nick groaned, then turned it into a cough when he remembered he was in the office and other people could hear. He had no idea if it was true or not.

Doria appeared at lunchtime with a picnic basket containing sandwiches, cake and a flask of coffee, which they would eat in Green Park just across the road.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ She touched his face. She looked smart and pretty in a green linen Utility frock.

‘I’m fine.’ He smiled.

‘You look pale. You know, next Sunday I really do think you should go and see your wife. I could tell you were worried about it the entire weekend in Suffolk. It’s not fair on her.’

‘You mean tell her I’m having an affair with you?’

‘Not if you don’t want to. Just go and see her – and your little boy. I wouldn’t mind spending a weekend at home with the family. I haven’t seen Peter in ages – I think he might have got a new girlfriend that he’s keeping under wraps.’

‘I’ve never met Peter,’ Nick remarked. ‘At least not properly. We haven’t been introduced.’ They’d been at the same party once, but had never spoken. That would never have happened in Liverpool, where no one was allowed to be a stranger.

He sighed. Next week he’d go and see Nicky. And Eileen.

On Wednesday, Kate Thomas turned up at the cottage at ten in the morning – lunchtime at Dunnings, where the shift started at six o’clock, as Eileen knew from the time she’d worked there.

Kate and Eileen had met at Dunnings. Eileen had been having problems with her violent husband and Kate had confessed that her own husband, a prominent lawyer, had been brutally cruel to her. She had fled her home, leaving not only her thug of a husband but her three daughters too. The girls had had no idea what had been going on.

Kate was a tiny woman, with no idea of fashion. Today, despite the warmth of the day, she wore a too-long tweed skirt and a heavy cream blouse. Her nice brown hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed for weeks.

She had brought a small amount of tea with her. ‘There should be enough for a pot for two, with two cups each,’ she said as they went into the kitchen. The back door was wide open to the sunny garden and Nicky was playing with his wooden blocks while clutching Pip, the teddy bear Lena had brought.

‘I’ve found you a lodger,’ Kate announced.

‘Is she new? Is she nice?’ Eileen enquired.

Kate made a face. ‘She’s me, actually, if you don’t mind. You know they took my car off me? Well, not my car, but my petrol allowance. They – being those persons in authority who make decisions affecting ordinary people like you and me – decided I didn’t really need petrol. As you know, I frequently have to take girls to hospital for one reason or another, or to see a doctor, or to sort out difficulties they might be having with landladies, et cetera. I’ve been taking them on the bus, or by ambulance if it’s something serious. But it’s affected me personally. None of the Dunnings special buses run from near where I live, so I need to move somewhere more convenient, and what could be more convenient than here?’ She waved her arm around the kitchen. ‘If you don’t mind, that is. You might prefer a stranger, rather than a friend.’

Eileen smiled delightedly. ‘Oh, I definitely prefer a friend – especially if the friend is you,’ she cried. ‘When can you move in?’

‘Today?’ said Kate.

‘Today it is.’

Lena Newton and George Ransome had continued to meet in the dark of the Palace picture house, afterwards taking themselves to the Crown hotel in Stanley Road. George had also started occasionally visiting Lena in the evenings at around nine o’clock. By then, the children of Pearl Street were safely indoors, and the men were installed in the various pubs in the area and wouldn’t emerge until after closing time. With hardly anyone around, there was little chance of him being noticed.

As an extra precaution, he went down the entry and through the back of the old dairy where Lena quickly opened the door and let him in, worried that someone would notice and automatically assume that they were having an affair.

‘I’ve brought the latest American
Cinematographer
to show you,’ George would say, or he would share a titbit that he’d read in a newspaper, sometimes even bringing a cutting – he bought two papers a day, the
Daily Herald
and the
Manchester Guardian
, and read them from cover to cover. His favourite pages covered the film reviews.

A few days after Lena had spent Sunday at Eileen’s house, he arrived at just past nine o’clock, smartly turned out as always in a well-laundered shirt, navy-blue pinstriped trousers and a paisley-patterned tie. It was still warm and he was without a jacket.

Lena had been acutely aware of Peter Wood’s desperately obvious feelings for Eileen and the sense of unrequited passion in the air. There was a different but equally obvious feeling in Sheila’s house when Calum, her husband, was home, though there was nothing unrequited about their love for each other. Lena had never experienced anything like this throbbing sensation of love and lust and need. George Ransome would probably have a fit if he thought the neighbours had somehow got the idea that he was having an affair with Lena, but now, in a funny sort of way, she didn’t mind.

This time he brought with him the latest edition of the American magazine he’d brought before. A chap at work had a brother in the merchant navy who’d got it in New York, and George was allowed to borrow it for a few days each month.

He showed her pictures of various stars, including Franchot Tone, and Betty Grable with her heavily insured legs, then read out a paragraph saying that Joan Fontaine had just been signed up to star in
Frenchman’s Creek
, based on the Daphne du Maurier novel. He looked up. ‘Remember Joan Fontaine was in
Rebecca?
Have you seen that picture, Mrs Newton?’

‘No, I missed it,’ Lena said regretfully.

‘They show old pictures at the Palace on Sundays. If it comes, we must go and see it. Which reminds me’ – his tobacco-coloured eyes lit up with enthusiasm – ‘
Alice Adams
is on this coming Sunday, with Fred MacMurray. It was made years ago, but I never mind seeing a really good picture twice or even three times; in fact I quite enjoy it. Hattie McDaniel’s in it too – you know, the black maid in
Gone With the Wind
?’

‘I remember her. Didn’t she win an Oscar?’

‘She did indeed.’ He slapped his knee. ‘By Jove, you know your pictures, Mrs Newton. I’ve never met a woman so interested in them before.’

‘Sometimes,’ Lena murmured, ‘it’s hard to believe those other worlds exist, particularly in America.’ She just loved the frilly curtains Americans had on their windows, the settees with flowered covers and the big airy rooms. And it would seem that almost everybody owned a motor car.