His big, swarthy, handsome face flushed. He wasn’t used to discussing intimate matters with anyone, least of all a woman, even if she was his daughter. “I can’t see that it would do any harm,” he protested.
“It wouldn’t be fair on Nick,” she said flatly. “He’s only young, twenty-five. We were going to be married, but how can I go ahead with the divorce under the circumstances?
No, it’s best to set Nick free. He’ll soon get over us and meet someone else.” She quickly went into the back kitchen to hide her face, because the thought of Nick with another woman was more than she could bear.
“You know that’s not true,” her dad said gruffly. He’d never felt so close to his girl as he’d done that day. There’d been times when it seemed as if his own heart was breaking along with hers. He followed her. “Anyroad, I reckon nowt’ll keep Nick away. He’ll be round to Dunnings on Monday looking for you.”
Eileen was already prepared for that eventuality. She’d ask one of the girls to send him away and tell him, for the final time, that it was all over. “Well, he’ll look in vain,” she said briefly.
Jack Doyle persisted, “What about that card he sent with Tony? What did it say?”
“We’ll meet again,” she said in a low voice.
“I reckon you will,” he mumbled. “I reckon you and Nick were made for each other.”
“Oh, Dad!” She gave him a half laughing, half tearful push. “Get away with you! Any minute now you’re going to turn into a beetroot, you’re so red. You’re making me feel dead embarrassed.”
Jack Doyle retreated thankfully to the living room.
“Anyroad, as Sheila said, everything might be over by Christmas.” She might feel differently about leaving Francis then.
“D’you honestly think so?”
He wished he’d kept his big mouth shut. He was as straight as a die, was Jack Doyle, and he would never lie to anyone, let alone his daughter. There was no way, as he saw it, that the war would be over by Christmas. He said gravely, “Well, at least we’re seeing some action since Winston Churchill took over the reins, which was more than we ever had with Chamberlain.”
She came to the door and to his relief she was grinning slightly. “You’re a right ould hypocrite, Dad. I thought you always hated Churchill.”
“Oh, I do,” he nodded firmly, “but it doesn’t mean to say he’s not a good war leader. Not only that, we’ve got Attlee as his Deputy, and Ernest Bevin at the Ministry of Labour.
Two good socialists at the very heart of power, though it’s a pity it took a war to get “em there.”
She wrinkled her nose. “All you ever think about is politics.”
“What else is there? What d’you think started the war if it wasn’t politics? Everything’s politics.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“And you’ll hear it again.”
Eileen grinned again. “I know I will, Dad.” She’d been brought up on politics, listened to him, morning, noon and night, sounding off about inequality and injustice.
He’d used her as a sounding board after Mam died when Eileen was fourteen. Sheila, a year younger, was too flighty and never there to listen, and Sean too young. Jack Doyle had been the unpaid representative of the Dockworkers’
Union for as long as she could remember, fighting for workers’ rights with a tenacity and strength of purpose that were the envy of weaker men and a never ending bane to management. The local Labour Party still held their monthly meetings in his parlour. To her shame, the politics went in one ear and out the other, but she was proud of her fiery, charismatic dad, and doubted if there was a better known or more respected man in the whole of Bootle.
“What are you going to do about your job?” he asked. He was pleased she’d taken up war work. “I hope you’re not thinking of giving it up, like, because there’s no need.
Francis seems quite capable to me.”
“Well, I don’t want to leave.” It was bad enough losing Nick, without losing her job as well. “The thing is, what am I to do with Tony now Annie’s moved away?” She’d had an arrangement with Annie, who also worked at Dunnings but on a different shift, to look after Tony while she was at work. Now Annie was married, and as from Monday would be living miles away in Fazakerley in her new husband’s house. It was one of the reasons that had prompted Eileen to move to Melling where Dunnings was only a few minutes’ walk from the cottage. “I don’t want him shoved from pillar to post while I’m at work,” she went on. “He needs somewhere safe and regular to go when I’m on late shift, particularly when there’s a raid.” It was useless to rely on Francis, who would almost certainly return to the old routine of spending his evenings at Corporation meetings or in the King’s Arms. Anyroad, she would prefer Tony had as little as possible to do with his dad.
“I’ll lend a hand when I can, luv, but I’m on shifts meself, and I’ve just taken up firewatching on the docks.
“Fact, I should be there now ‘case the siren goes. I’ll make me way the minute I’ve had a quick pint.’
Eileen looked worried. “I can’t ask our Sheila. She’ll see to his meals and makes sure he gets off to school with Dominic and Niall, but they’re already crammed like sardines in the cupboard under the stairs during the raids.” It had always been her worst nightmare when she was at work and in the relative safety of the underground shelter, imagining Pearl Street being bombed and Tony killed. But it was merely another terrifying aspect of the war shared with all the other men and women in the factory who’d left their families at home.
“We’ll try and sort something out tomorrow,” Jack said. “In the meantime, I’d better be off.” As he was about to leave, he turned, his face once again flushed scarlet.
“By the way, when Francis went upstairs, I suggested he use the back bedroom from now on. I thought that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she murmured gratefully. She’d sworn she’d never sleep with Francis Costello again. In fact, she felt convinced she would kill him if he tried anything now he was back. Even so, she’d been dreading broaching the subject when bedtime came. For over a year, she and Tony had slept in the front bedroom - on the clear understanding he was only there to protect her from enemy attack!
The front door closed and in the ensuing silence she could actually hear the sound of Francis snoring. She put her hands over her ears to shut out the noise. Never, in her wildest dreams, she thought dejectedly, had she visualised living under the same roof as her husband again.
The music in the street had changed. Now it was Paddy O’Hara playing Danny Boy on his mouth organ. When Eileen peeped through the parlour window, it was virtually dark and nearly everyone had gone in. One or two remained outside, sitting on their steps, and Harry and Owen were still dancing. As she watched, Phoebe called and they went indoors. Then another door closed, and Paddy began to wander along the street towards the King’s Arms, his dog, Rover, faithfully at his heels. Paddy hadn’t known whether it was light or dark since 1917, when he’d lost his sight fighting for his country in the trenches of the Somme.
Eileen sighed as she drew the black-lined curtains, making sure the edges touched completely before she turned the light on, otherwise she’d have an ARP Warden banging on the door, demanding, “Switch that light out? which was all they’d had to do until the raids started a few weeks ago.
The parlour mantelpiece looked very bare. The ornaments and photos were already in the cottage, along with quite a few other personal possessions which she’d been taking along for weeks. She wrestled with the problem of getting them back. She had a key and could collect them in a few weeks’ time, when she was sure Nick had gone.
Or should she leave them?
She went into the living room and took Nick’s card out of her handbag. He’d bought it at Exchange Station and given it to Tony to bring back; a sepia photo of St George’s Hall with just a few words written on the other side in his untidy black scrawl.
We’ll meet again, Nick.
Would they?
You never know, she thought with an unexpected surge of tingling optimism, after a decent interval and once Francis had settled in, she could bring up the subject of divorce again—he’d already had a letter from her solicitor.
Just because he’d been injured didn’t alter the fact he’d done those terrible things in the past. She remembered the way he found fault with every single little thing she did, found dust in places she’d only dusted that morning, and no matter what she cooked for tea, it was either underdone or overdone or something he didn’t like. If in a particularly bad mood, he’d squeeze her shoulder or pinch her arm until she felt like screaming and the marks would stay for days, red and angry and painful.
When you thought about it, really thought about it, things weren’t quite as hopeless as she’d first thought. In fact, she felt slightly ashamed of the way she had overreacted.
She’d behaved as if her life had ended the minute Francis stepped out of the ambulance, whereas perhaps she should have looked upon it more as a delay. It would merely take longer for her and Nick to be together, that was all.
Eileen put the card back in her bag and was beginning to wonder where Tony was when the air-raid siren went. She immediately felt goosepimples rise on her upper arms - it always happened at the sound of the menacing up-and down wail - and hurried to the front door. To her relief, Tony came running out of Sheila’s. She noticed the white shirt which had been bought specially for Annie’s wedding was stained with grease and tomato sauce, and his knees -were filthy. His wire-rimmed glasses were, as usual, perched,on the end of his little snub nose, and his hair, as fine and blond as her own, looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. She felt a rush of love that almost choked her as she stretched out welcoming arms, realising with a pang of guilt how much she’d neglected her son that day.
“Come on, luv. Let’s get under the stairs.” She shepherded him into the narrow cupboard which had recently been completely cleared and an old mattress put on the floor. Not many people used the public shelters which were cold, damp and uncomfortable and, incredibly, didn’t even have a proper door, merely a curtain hanging where anyone with half a brain knew a door should be.
“What about me dad?” Tony asked.
As soon as Eileen had put a match to the nightlight, she closed the cupboard door and they sat down. The enclosed space was rather claustrophobic, but Tony didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, so far he seemed to find the raids more exciting than anything and enjoyed the time spent under the stairs. Secretly, Tony wanted the raids to continue until he was grown up so he could become a firewatcher like his grandad, or, even better, join the RAF and fly a Spitfire like Nick did.
Eileen said, “Your dad’s in bed. Let’s see if he wakes up, shall we? Otherwise, we won’t disturb him. Come on, sit on me knee and we’ll give each other a cuddle while there’s no-one else around. Today’s been a day and a half, hasn’t it? It’s nice to have a bit of quiet to ourselves.”
Though “quiet” wasn’t exactly what they were having.
In no time she heard the grim drone of planes approaching, a sound even more menacing than the siren. Then came the answering crackle of ack-ack guns from their side and the thud of explosions in the distance. She hugged Tony close, wondering what on earth the world had come to and wishing Adolf Hitler had never been born.
The raid was surprisingly short. They’d scarcely been there twenty minutes when the All Clear went. “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she said thankfully. “The Germans must have got tired and gone home.”
“Mam?” Tony sounded slightly querulous. He made no attempt to get off her knee.
“Yes, luv?”
“Is me dad home for good, like?”
“It looks like it, son.”
“But what about Nick? He didn’t half look fed up when I met him at the station and told him you weren’t coming.”
Tony thought he’d never forget the expression in his beloved Nick’s eyes, as if all the happiness had drained out of him and there was nothing left inside.
Eileen said softly, “He’s not the only one fed up, is he, luv? You’re fed up, and I am, too. But,” she went on with a determined effort to be cheerful, “I won’t be fed up tomorrer. And neither will you,” she added sternly.
“Tomorrer’s another day altogether, and I intend to be as happy as a lark.”
Tony frowned and his glasses threatened to fall off altogether. Eileen pushed them back with her finger and kissed his nose. “But what about Nick?” he demanded a second time.
“Nick will understand. It’ll just take a while longer than we thought before we’re all together.”
“Does that mean we will be—one day?” he said eagerly.
“Of course we will.
“Of course we will,” she repeated under her breath. How could she possibly have thought they would never see each other again? She couldn’t give Nick up. They were meant for each other. Even her unromantic dad recognised that fact. “Of course we will.” She pushed him off her knee.
“Come on, I feel as if I’m in me coffin shut in here. I reckon it’s well past supper time. I’ll make a cup of cocoa. D’you fancy a jam butty?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Yes please, Mam,” he grinned.
“Turn the wireless on,” she said as she snuffed the nightlight out. She glanced at her gold watch, a present from Nick when they were in London. “We’re just in time for the nine o’clock news.” She almost wished she hadn’t listened when the cultured voice of Alvar Lidell announced there’d been another raid on the East End of London. More innocent civilians had been killed, more British planes lost. One hundred and eighty-five German planes were reported shot down, but she felt no jubilation at this news. It was merely a waste of young lives, no matter whose side they were on.
“Try and find the Forces network,” she said. “Let’s have some cheerful music. And once you’ve eaten your butty, you’d better get to bed. Your dad would have a fit if . . . ”
She was about to add, “if he knew you were still up,” and bit her tongue. Francis no doubt would be angry if he knew.
He’d always insisted Tony go to bed at half past six, even if it were the height of summer and no matter what day it might be, and even if all his mates were still playing outside. But there’d be no more of that, she thought grimly. Tony’d go to bed when she said and Francis could like it or lump it.