Lights Out Liverpool (16 page)

Eileen smiled without answering. The other girls seemed able to keep quite a conversation going above the noise of the machines. Every now and then, one would burst into song and the others would join in. A favourite seemed to be
When They Begin the Beguine
, which they sang repeatedly, closely followed by
Roll Out The Barrel
, and
Little Sir Echo
. Whenever Alfie, the foreman, appeared, the girls would stop singing and there would be a deluge of insults, mainly directed at his sexual prowess. After Alfie had left, cringing with embarrassment, they’d begin singing again at exactly the point they’d left off. Eileen noticed the long piece of metal sticking out of the machine had been used up. She told Doris, who screamed, ‘Billy!’ and a weedy little man without a single hair on his head came along and inserted another.

‘What’cha doing tonight, Queen?’ he asked Eileen, winking.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Fancy a date?’ He winked again.

‘No, I bloody don’t,’ she said weakly.

‘Please yourself, Queen.’ He left, not looking the least bit hurt.

‘Did he ask you out?’ asked Doris.

‘Yes.’

‘He asks all the newies out. If one of ’em said yes, he’d faint. In fact, we all would.’

It seemed strange to sit down to a big meal at half past ten in the morning. The canteen was even hotter than the factory; the gleaming silver counter where they queued for their steak and kidney pie, cabbage and mashed potatoes, was wreathed in steam and the women, serving behind in their green overalls and turbans, were red-faced and perspiring. The meal was good value at ninepence,
and
fourpence for the apple pie and custard.

Eileen carried her tray over to the table where Doris had promised to save her a place, and where half a dozen girls from the workshop already sat. Doris introduced them. ‘You already know Pauline, and this is Carmel, Beattie, Theresa, Lil, Patsy …’

‘How d’you do?’ Eileen glanced down at the plate heaped with food. ‘I’ll never eat all this!’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Theresa said comfortably.

‘Aye, I suppose I will.’ It seemed impossible to believe that she would get used to the heat and the noise and the awful smell, the funny hours, the uncomfortable overalls and being on her feet for seven hours a day, but if the other girls could, then so would she. In fact, close up, some of the ‘girls’ looked quite old; Lil and Beattie were well into their forties, and Carmel, who appeared to be entirely toothless, was sixty if she was a day. She watched, fascinated, when the woman took a full set of false teeth out of her overall pocket and put them in before attacking the meal.

Eileen picked at her own meal until Doris offered to eat it for her and she handed it over gladly. ‘Is it possible to go outside? I’m gasping for some fresh air. I’ll be back in time for a cup of tea and a ciggie.’

Pauline pointed to double doors in the wall on the far side of the canteen. ‘Go through there, then through another door, and you’ll find yourself outside. We used to sit out during the summer, but it’s too cold now.’

‘The summer? You mean you were making aeroplane parts during the summer? I thought this factory only opened when the war began.’

‘Oh, no,’ she was assured. ‘We’ve been here a good year.’

‘So Chamberlain wasn’t as unprepared as everyone
thinks
,’ Eileen remarked.

The women looked at her blankly. ‘Well, I’ll be off,’ she said hastily.

‘Don’t forget your coat, otherwise you’ll get pneumonia,’ Doris shouted. ‘You’re stripped naked underneath them overalls.’

There was a chorus of whistles from the men on the next table and Eileen fled, her face red, to the cloakroom to get her coat from the locker.

She emerged from the factory through a side door and to her delight found herself on a soil path next to a little stream which gurgled along over a layer of moss-covered rocks and white pebbles. The water was beautifully clear. Eileen knelt on the damp grassy bank, removed her scarf and splashed her face, rubbing her chafed and aching neck with her wet hands. She took several deep breaths of bracing fresh air and glanced around. It was a nondescript sort of day, neither bright nor dull, the sky was a mishmash of hazy clouds with patches of anaemic blue here and there and little sign of the sun making an appearance. Despite this, it seemed extraordinarily bright, and the brownstone bridge which spanned the narrow stream about twenty feet away on her left and the cows grazing in the field opposite were sharply defined, as if they’d been picked out by a spotlight. Further down the bank, a man in a corduroy suit and a wide-brimmed hat was sat fishing, apparently oblivious to the fact he had company. The smells, compared to the smells inside the factory, were wholesome: damp earth, damp grass, wild flowers. It was such a peaceful scene Eileen felt it was obscene that, in the midst of such beauty and tranquillity, parts were being made for aeroplanes which would eventually carry bombs to drop on the innocent citizens of Germany.

She made up her mind to bring Tony out here next summer. He knew nothing about the countryside and until now had only seen cows at a distance, on their way into Southport on the train, never at such close quarters. When she’d come to Melling for the interview, she and Annie had walked down the High Street, marvelling at the fact that such a sleepy little village existed a mere twelve miles or so away from the thriving metropolis of Liverpool.

After splashing her face a second time, she went inside reluctantly. Two o’clock, finishing time, seemed an eternity away.

Somehow, the time passed, crawling by, and at five to two a hooter sounded, and the girls downed tools and made for the door.

‘Leave the machine as it is,’ Doris instructed. ‘Someone else’ll take over where you left off.’

Eileen quickly got changed, put her overalls in her locker, and left the factory by the main exit. A row of double decker buses, windows painted black, stood in the forecourt, hired specially to take the workers to various parts of Liverpool. Eileen assumed Annie had come on one but, looking around, could see no sign of her. As she made her way towards the bus for Seaforth, she felt as if her unsteady legs were about to give way. She climbed up to the dimly lit top deck so she could have a welcome cigarette. The atmosphere was full of smoke and several girls from the workshop were already on, including Pauline, all sitting on the long seat at the back. They shoved up to make room for her.

‘What d’you think then, Eileen, about your first day at Dunnings?’ one of them asked, grinning.

‘I’m completely worn out,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve got aches in bones I didn’t know I had.’

‘It’s because you’re using muscles you don’t usually use, pushing all them levers and things. You’ll get used to it.’

‘If I had a pound for every time someone’s said that to me today, I’d be well off,’ Eileen said dryly.

Once home, she slipped out of her shoes and sank into a chair, totally exhausted, convinced she would never get up again. She hadn’t been there long when Sheila came in, using her key, carrying Mary.

‘How d’you get on, Eil?’

‘I’m dead, Sis,’ Eileen said dramatically. ‘Completely dead.’

A shadow fell over Sheila’s face. ‘Oh, Christ!’ thought Eileen, ‘what a tactless thing to say.’ Her sister had taken the news about Calum with surprising calm, but inside, Eileen knew she was devastated.

‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ Sheila asked lightly. ‘I can’t stay more than a minute. Ryan’s asleep and Brenda Mahon took Siobhan and Caitlin off me hands for a few hours. I’ll have to collect them soon.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Me! I’ll have a good wash in a minute. I’d love a cup of tea, though, Sheil. I think I’m stuck in this chair forever.’

‘Here you are then, take our Mary while I put the kettle on.’

‘I haven’t got the strength, I’ll drop her,’ Eileen threatened when the baby was thrust into her arms.

‘No, you won’t.’

Mary nuzzled at her breast. ‘You won’t get a feed off me, miss,’ she said sternly, providing a none-too-clean finger.

‘Don’t you wish you’d had more kids, Sis?’ Sheila shouted from the kitchen.

Eileen looked down at the tiny face of her niece, the
little
mouth sucking on her finger. ‘Yes, I do,’ she shouted back. Then, in a soft voice to herself, she added, ‘Not that there’s much chance of that with Francis.’

But somehow Sheila heard. She appeared in the doorway, her normally tranquil brow puckered in a frown. ‘What d’you mean, Eileen?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Eileen said dismissively.

‘Come off it, Sis,’ Sheila persisted. ‘What did you mean, there’s not much chance with Francis?’

Eileen took a deep breath. She would never reveal the real reason, of course, but the question of her future with Francis had occupied her mind almost every waking minute since he returned to Kettering a few weeks ago. Without him, the house was a different place altogether. She hadn’t felt so relaxed and contented in years, and Tony was blossoming, becoming more assertive without his dad nagging at him over the least little thing. The decision had come to her like a blinding flash of light when she was in bed one night, and it was his absence that caused her to take it, but she knew it was essential to her and Tony’s future happiness that they never live with Francis again. She’d felt somewhat nervous the following morning, knowing the furore it would cause when people found out. Apart from the brief conversation with her dad, she hadn’t discussed it with anyone so far, not even Annie. Now the subject had come up with Sheila, more by accident than design. People had to find out sometime, and she wondered what her sister’s reaction would be.

‘I’m not having Francis back,’ she said bluntly. ‘In fact, Dad’s already changed the locks on both the doors.’

‘But you can’t do that, our Eileen! He’s your husband!’

Eileen was taken aback by how shocked her sister looked, and felt slightly annoyed. ‘You don’t know what
he’s
like, Sis. It’s not you that’s had to live with him for the last six years.’

Sheila shook her head emphatically. ‘It doesn’t matter what he’s like. You took him for better or for worse. You can’t go back on your wedding vows.’

‘Dad doesn’t seem to mind,’ Eileen said stiffly, which was not strictly true. Her dad only thought Francis needed ‘straightening out’ before he was allowed back. She began to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Sheila had always been fervently religious, far more so than Eileen. Her house was stuffed with statues and holy pictures. The last thing Eileen wanted at the moment was a row, not with her brain so muggy with tiredness she could scarcely think straight.

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ Sheila answered. ‘Our dad doesn’t think the way other people do.’

‘Perhaps I take after him.’

‘Aye perhaps you do.’ Sheila could feel the hot fires of anger burning in her breast. She rarely lost her temper, but it seemed too unfair for words. Her Cal was missing, almost certainly dead. There’d been no time for a distress signal from the
Midnight Star
before the deadly torpedo struck, no reports of survivors having been picked up. Cal was dead, the most precious husband a woman could ever have, the only man she would ever love, gone forever, and she herself felt dead inside. It was an effort to get up each morning and see to the kids, to keep on living. Yet here was her sister talking about getting rid of Francis Costello, who may well have not turned out all he was cracked up to be, but even so, he and Eileen had been joined together in Holy Matrimony at a Nuptial Mass. They’d promised to stay together, ‘till death do us part’. Breaking up with your husband, any husband, was against everything she believed in.

‘What does Francis have to say about it?’ she asked, trying to remain calm.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Eileen said tiredly. ‘I wrote to him, but I haven’t heard back yet.’ The letter, sent soon after he’d returned, had taken days to write. She’d used an entire notepad, screwing up page after page until she got the wording more or less right. She’d told him she never wanted him back, but didn’t say why, presuming he would know the reason only too well.

‘That’s nice, when he’s about to fight for his country,’ Sheila said hotly.

Eileen felt too weary to argue any longer. ‘He’s not going to do much damage with a typewriter. Anyway, Sis, you don’t know the least thing about it. It’s only since he went away that I found out what life could be like without him, not just for me, but for our Tony, too. When he came home on leave, I realised I wasn’t prepared to take it any longer. It’s easy for you to talk, your Cal’s a different kettle of fish altogether. I mean, he was …’ She stopped and stared at her sister in despair. ‘I’m getting meself in a proper muddle.’ She tried to smile. ‘Talking of kettles, mine’s been boiling away for ages. You’ve got me kitchen like a Turkish bath.’

Sheila made the tea, but didn’t pour one for herself. ‘I’ll have to be getting back,’ she said stiffly. ‘The main reason I came was to say I’ve done pigs’ trotters for tea and there’s plenty enough for you and Tony. I thought you wouldn’t feel up to getting a meal after your first day at work.’

‘I don’t. In fact, I was thinking of sending Tony to the chippy when he came home. Ta, Sheil. I’ll be across later.’

After her sister had gone, Eileen determined not to rake over their argument. Right now, all that seemed to
matter
were her various aches and pains and enormous throbbing tiredness. She closed her eyes and imagined herself soaking in a bath of scented bubbles, the sort of thing you saw film stars do in the pictures. When she opened them again, to her surprise it was dark outside, and she panicked, thinking she’d fallen asleep and Tony was late home. Then she remembered that double summertime, which had been extended by five weeks until the middle of November, had ended the day before so the blackout had begun two hours earlier than usual. It was scarcely four o’clock, yet almost pitch black.

Eileen shuddered. She always felt a bit depressed when the winter closed in, but this year it seemed particularly heavy and oppressive, what with Cal and Mary dead, and the terrible carnage at sea where even neutral ships were being torpedoed. As if that wasn’t enough, a few weeks ago, the Government had published a white paper on German concentration camps and poor Jacob Singerman, on the verge of tears, had brought the newspaper cutting across to show her, convinced there was little hope for his Ruth and the son-in-law and grandchildren he’d never met.