Lights Out Liverpool (34 page)

Jessica licked her lips and waited for the door to open.

When it did, it was Jack Doyle who came into the room.

She thought he might slam the door and run. Instead, he stood transfixed at the sight of her standing seductively in the bath.

‘I thought you were out. Arthur lent me his key. I left me paper behind,’ he said in a strangled voice. His eyes (oh, how she’d loved those blue eyes once!) gazed up and down her body, as if hypnotised by her beauty. His craggy, handsome face was impassive, but Jessica sensed there was a tremendous struggle going on within. He was a man of honour and integrity and she was the wife of a friend.

Jessica said nothing, but licked her lips again. Her insides felt as if they were on fire and all inhibitions fled. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted, more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life before, for Jack Doyle to stay.

She held out her hand, and with all her might, with
every
fibre of her being, she willed him to come forward and take it, to take her.

And he did!

‘What the hell are y’smoking, Nobby?’

‘Christ knows, Cal.’ Nobby wrinkled his little gnome like face. ‘Bit o’baccy, mainly tea leaves. I traded it for me breakfast.’

‘Where did the paper come from? It’s a funny colour.’

‘Lavvy roll, mate,’ Nobby grinned. ‘Trouble is, it goes up in flames.’

Calum Reilly lay back in the sacking hammock which he’d made himself and slung up between two pipes in the flat of the
Altmark
. It was hard for him, a non-smoker, to understand the craving some men felt for a cigarette. One man insisted on smoking jute in his pipe, even though the acrid fumes sent him, and anyone unfortunate enough to be close, into paroxyms of coughing, and meant a day in solitary confinement on a diet of bread and water if he was discovered by their captors.

The flats were the areas between the decks, each containing a vast network of pipes of varying diameters, large and small. The men had managed to make themselves comfortable, on hammocks or pieces of carpet. There were no portholes in the flats, nor proper ventilation. Illumination was provided by low wattage electric bulbs.

Lately, Calum was beginning to wonder if they’d ever be found. His ship had been one of the first to have its crew taken prisoner by the
Graf Spee
They’d stood on the deck of the German battleship and watched the
Midnight Star
blown
to pieces before their very eyes. Not long afterwards, they’d been transferred to the
Altmark
. That was almost four months ago, Cal thought miserably, or sixteen weeks, 117 days. Once, a few weeks ago he’d worked out the hours.

They’d sailed like a ghost ship for what seemed like forever through the mountainous seas and mists of the South Atlantic. Now, despite the Jerries doing their utmost to keep their bearings a secret from the prisoners, the trapped men knew the ship was making its slow and tortuous way back to Germany. Once they reached that Godforsaken country, they’d be held prisoner for the duration of the war. At this very moment they were approaching Norway.

Was the Navy looking for them? If so, why hadn’t they been found? Trouble was, the
Altmark
kept changing its name, which caused added worry. What if they were torpedoed by the Navy who didn’t realise there were nearly three hundred British prisoners on board?

Cal sighed. At least Sheila knew he was safe. They’d heard on Christmas Eve that not only had the
Graf Spee
been scuttled by its captain, but the news had broken at home that the men off the
Midnight Star
and other ships were still alive.

Sheila! She was rarely out of his mind, his Sheila and his kids. Unlike some of the other men, Calum Reilly had taken no part in the plans to escape, which he regarded as foolhardy. Even if they got out of the flats, they were unarmed, and there was no way they could take over the ship. He was as brave as the next man when it came right down to it, but as long as it didn’t mean acting like a coward, he considered his main aim was to stay alive for his wife and family. Besides, although conditions in the flats were appalling, damp and cold and
vile-smelling
with so many men living in close confinement, the Jerries had treated them surprisingly well. The food was basic, but adequate: they had even managed to provide a Christmas dinner, rabbit and tinned gooseberries and a bar of chocolate each. Of course, their captors weren’t members of the German armed forces, but merchant seamen the same as themselves. Cal even recognised one he’d sailed with on a P & O ship several years ago. They nodded to each other, quite friendly, when they came face to face.

‘Fancy a game of chess, Cal?’ asked Nobby, who had just finished repairing his canvas shoes with twine.

‘Not just now, mate.’

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Me wife. Me kids. When will the Navy find us? That sort of thing.’

‘Me, too.’ Nobby laughed ruefully. ‘S’funny thing, Cal, but although I can’t wait to get away, I’ll miss it in a way. Know what I mean?’

‘I know, Nobby.’ Cal reached down and squeezed Nobby’s bony shoulder. The two had become firm friends since they’d come on board, Nobby arriving the week after Cal. After months of living, quite literally, on top of each other, you grew either to hate your companions or to love them. Cal knew it was unlikely he’d ever feel so close to other men again. They’d gone through a lot together, but had managed to retain their good humour and their friendship.

‘Mind you, Nobby, I wouldn’t shed a tear if I never saw a chessboard again.’ He was utterly sick of it, as well as ludo and draughts, and it would be a long time before he would see a pack of cards and not think about the endless hours playing poker and blackjack in the flats of the
Altmark
.

‘
Land ahoy!
’

The shout went through the flats like wildfire. The men emptying the latrine drums had seen land.

Cal looked at the calendar scratched on the bulwark beside him. 14 February, St Valentine’s Day.

‘It’s Norway!’

The men had been forbidden to go on deck for several days. They knew the Jerries had good reason to keep their prisoners down below. Norway was a neutral country and didn’t welcome ships from warring nations sailing through its waters. The Norwegian Naval Authorities would come on board as a matter of course, and if they suspected the
Altmark
was not the innocent supply ship she purported to be, they would insist on a thorough search. If so, the secret human cargo would assuredly be found.

As the
Altmark
proceeded at about eight knots, the prisoners reckoned the Norwegians might board any minute. All day long, they kept up a racket, banging the deckhead with iron bars, starting up a rowdy sing-song in order to make their presence known. But by the time dusk fell, nothing had happened, though most of the men, convinced rescue was at hand, had packed their few belongings, and those who still had a few precious cigarettes left smoked the lot, telling themselves there’d be plentiful supplies by tomorrow.

Night came. The men did their utmost to remain cheerful, though by now, the smell of unemptied latrine drums had become unbearable. Everyone was too excited to sleep and all night long there was a constant babble of conversation. Cal Reilly prayed, as he’d never prayed before, that they’d be rescued soon.

Next morning, the situation was the same. Somewhat subdued, the men began to curse the evil-smelling
drums
, the stifling atmosphere. They felt unclean without a change of clothes nor a proper wash on deck for several days, and they were hungry. Ever since the welcome shout, ‘Land ahoy!’, they’d eaten nothing but dry biscuits washed down with water. Surely freedom wasn’t to be denied when it had appeared so close? They listened intently for every sound, finding the most optimistic reasons for innocent, everyday movements. To add to their misery, the Jerries had turned out the lights, so they were in constant darkness.

That evening the Jerries kept the steam-winches going for a long time, making a terrible din. Thinking this was a way of disguising any noise the prisoners might make because the Norwegians were on board, the men set up a din of their own, stamping and shouting again, banging the deckhead with anything they could get their hands on, blowing the SOS code on their whistles. But it all appeared to be in vain.

‘This is killing me,’ groaned Nobby. It was now more than two days since Norway had been sighted. An air of hopelessness began to descend. They felt convinced the Norwegians had cleared the ship and allowed it to sail freely on to Germany.

‘
What’s that!
’

The men froze as the ship ground to a juddering halt with a loud crunching noise. The sound was so deafening that they stared around them, petrified, half expecting the sides to collapse and the sea outside to come pouring in.

‘We’ve run into the ice!’ someone said in relief.

Soon afterwards, they heard the steam jets at work, trying to free the trapped ship. The men tried to read what they could into this mishap. The German captain was an excellent seaman. Was he on the run? Had the ship been cornered? They listened intently, but there was no
further
activity. They sank back, disheartened, ready for a third sleepless night.

Suddenly, they were alerted by the sound of a shot being fired, then another. The men sat up, never more wide awake. There were a few excited whispered comments, but otherwise dead silence in the flat as the shots became more frequent, then louder, closer.

The suspense was almost unbearable. It seemed an eternity before bullets began to slam into the hatch door. The men listened, nerves at breaking point, to the noises behind the door. It sounded as if someone was trying to open it.

At last came the words they’d begun to think they’d never hear. A voice shouted, ‘Are there any Englishmen down there?’

‘We’re all English,’ came the joyful reply.

‘Then come on up. The Navy’s here.’

The Navy’s here!

Those words were to echo around the world. They were repeated over the airwaves, in cinemas and newspapers, and in millions of homes. Calum Reilly knew he would never forget them as long as he lived. The prestige of the Navy soared, along with that of the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill. Churchill got things done. He was a winner, the right man to be at the helm of a country fighting an evil fascist dictator.

Cal came home a hero to Pearl Street, where the bunting was hastily ironed and strung from the snow-covered roofs, along with a home-made banner painted with, ‘Welcome Home, Cal.’

To everyone’s surprise, Cal, leaner, paler, but otherwise fit and well, refused to say a bad word against his captors.

‘They treated us fine,’ he insisted, when a reporter from the
Bootle Times
came to interview him.

‘Were you beaten or tortured?’ the reporter asked.

Cal laughed. ‘Of course not! The Jerries didn’t lay a hand on us. They looked after us and fed us as well as they were able. It was only the last few days we went hungry. I shook hands with one of the
Altmark
crew before I left. We’d sailed on the same ship together once.’

Sheila Reilly was starry-eyed, clinging to her husband’s hand as if determined never to let go, though she knew that in a few weeks’ time Cal would be taken away from her again. He would be allocated to another ship and sent once more to risk his life on the high seas.

March came. As if in mitigation for the fearsome winter, God blessed the country with the balmiest of springs. Magically, almost overnight, every trace of snow disappeared, and in parks and gardens snowdrops and crocuses thrust their jubilant heads through the ground. The soil looked richer and blacker, the grass a vivid, almost unnatural green, as if renewed after so many months hidden under its winter blanket of white.

The clocks had gone back with a jump, two whole hours, which meant it was daylight when people made their way home from work and the blackout didn’t seem to matter so much.

In Pearl Street, people wondered, some gleefully, others with sniffing disapproval, if Paddy O’Hara would continue calling on Miss Brazier now the nights were getting lighter.

It was the street’s worst kept secret. Everyone knew Paddy came out of the front door of his lodgings, tapped his innocent way towards the King’s Arms, then disappeared down the entry to go into the old maid’s house by
the
back way. Hours later, he would appear in the pub just before closing time.

‘You’re late, Paddy,’ Mack would say automatically.

‘Had a bit of business to attend to, mate,’ Paddy would explain.

The phrase became a joke in the pub. ‘Well, I’ll be off now,’ various customers would say as they were leaving and looking forward to some activity between the sheets with their wives. ‘I’ve got a bit of business to attend to.’

Mind you, nowadays few men would have turned down an invitation to a bit of business with Helen Brazier. Since Christmas, a transformation had taken place and a buxom, comely woman had taken the place of the bulkily clad, bespectacled spinster of old. Aggie Donovan claimed she looked no more than a tart, as she waltzed down the street, lipstick too bright and rouge too much, hair waved, earrings jangling. The men, though, envied Paddy. It was about time he got his end away.

Poor Paddy O’Hara was exhausted. He’d come to dread the light knock on the wall which meant Helen had his tea ready. Then, after tea … Paddy groaned. Helen was insatiable. Sometimes, he worried she’d knock a hole in the wall and he’d never have any peace.

Months ago, if someone had told him he’d be at the beck and call of such a passionate woman, it would have seemed like the answer to a prayer, the realisation of his ultimate fantasy, but the truth was, thought Paddy, grinning slightly, he’d sooner have a dog!

He’d never had a chance to mourn Spot, but had been swept up into Helen’s welcoming, capacious bosom, and had scarcely lifted his head out since. But now the weather was fine and the streets were his again, he missed taking Spot for walks on Sunday afternoons and to the
pub
at night. He also missed the long hours spent chatting with his mates and calling on Eileen Costello to listen to her wireless.