Lights Out Liverpool (10 page)

‘Oh! Oh, well.’ Mrs Blanchard shrugged cheerfully. ‘You won’t want me no more, then?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Jessica said uncomfortably. There wasn’t a trace of envy or resentment on the old woman’s face. For the first time ever, she wondered why her cleaner was always so happy and vaguely regretted never having spared the time to find out. ‘Of course, I’ll give you a good reference – and money in lieu of notice.’

She went into the lounge where the spare cash was kept and counted out ten pound notes. It was a lot, but when you considered how much the drivers had done them out of, a tenner wasn’t too much to give a loyal employee who’d never taken a penny she wasn’t due in all the time she’d been there.

After Mrs Blanchard had gone, minus her job, but over the moon with her unexpected windfall, Jessica went upstairs and removed the corselet which had begun to feel like a straitjacket. She felt pleased with her off-the-cuff lie. It had been an inspiration, America. That’s what she’d tell everybody. It would explain why the business was being sold, and going abroad for the duration seemed a superior thing to do. Thank goodness they hadn’t had that £350 landscaped air-raid shelter built in the garden. Nearly everyone else in the road already had one installed. No wonder Arthur kept trying to dissuade her, to the extent that she’d nearly gone ahead and ordered it herself. Of course, he knew things she didn’t!

Feeling fidgety and on edge, she made a cake to take her mind off things, otherwise she’d just mope around thinking about the lovely possessions that would be left behind. She beat the mixture in the bowl with unusual ferocity. From time to time, it took on the look of Arthur’s face and she beat it even harder.

The cake in the oven, she sat in the nook and stared
around
the kitchen. The more she stared, the more her rage began to mount. In a few weeks or months, all this would belong to another woman.

‘Damn you, Arthur Fleming, for being a fool,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve cost me my house, my life, everything!’

She’d miss their social life; the supper dances, dinner with their friends, the bridge club, but most of all, she’d miss the choir. At the moment, they were rehearsing
The Messiah
for a special Christmas concert in Liverpool Town Hall. Jessica was the lead soprano. Even when there wasn’t a solo part, she always stood in the middle of the front row; the star. That morning, one of the drivers had said she had guts, but Jessica knew she didn’t have the guts to tell anyone how low she and Arthur were about to fall. No-one knew where Jessica really came from. She told people she’d been born in Woolton. She’d even, once, pointed out the actual house. Her current friends made judgements according to their own standards; the size of your house, the horsepower of your car, the labels in your clothes, the food you set on your table. Jessica Fleming would sooner tell a lie and disappear out of their lives altogether than confess she was going to live in Bootle.

‘Eh, Eileen, come and have a gander at the woman moving into Number Five.’ Annie Poulson came rushing into Eileen’s house through the back way. ‘She looks as if she’s dressed for a garden party at Buckingham Palace – and you should see her furniture!’

‘Annie! You sound just like Aggie Donovan. You haven’t been spying out the window, surely!’

‘I have. As for Aggie, she’s out brushing her step to get a better look. Come on, Eileen.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Eileen followed her friend into the parlour, where she was already peering through the net curtains. It was best to humour Annie at the moment. She’d been in a strange, excitable mood ever since Terry and Joe had been home on leave for a week prior to being sent to France with the British Expeditionary Force. Her lads had looked very young and embarrassed in their clumsy khaki uniforms, their once curly heads clipped so short they looked like convicts. They’d returned to Aldershot with enough canary cake and bunloaf to feed the entire British Army for weeks – not just off their mam; the entire street had contributed.

‘Jesus! Look at that wardrobe! You could live in that quite easily. It’ll never go up the stairs.’

Eileen joined Annie at the window. A large furniture van was parked at the end of the street, its nose against the wall. Two men were struggling to manoeuvre a massive pale oak wardrobe through the front door of Number five,
the
Flahertys’ old house. Aggie Donovan was making a half-hearted pretence of brushing her step whilst watching avidly.

‘Here’s the woman now,’ Annie said. ‘Just look at her.’

The wardrobe had been squeezed inside and a striking red-haired woman came out and regarded the contents of the lorry worriedly. She wore a navy-blue tailored dress, three-quarter length white gloves and a picture hat.

‘She’s wondering how she’ll fit it all in,’ deduced Annie.

‘What are you, a thought reader or something?’ asked Eileen sarcastically. ‘I like her hair, though. It’s a lovely colour.’

‘Hennaed,’ declared Annie flatly. ‘And her corsets are killing her. She can hardly bend down.’

‘Annie!’ Eileen burst out laughing. She left the window and sat in an armchair. ‘What else can you tell from just looking? What’s her name, for instance? Where does she come from?’

Annie didn’t reply, but continued to watch the activity outside with interest. Suddenly she gasped. ‘Well, bugger me, if it isn’t Jessie Hennessy! I
thought
she looked familiar.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me someone like that comes from round here?’ Eileen said, astonished.

‘This very street!’ Annie was almost jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Her dad used to run a rag and bone merchant’s where the coalyard is now. I knew Jessie at school, though she was near the top when I started. She was full of airs and graces, even then. She had a lovely voice, though. I can remember her singing
Silent Night
at a carol concert as clear as if it were yesterday. Not long after she left school, they moved to Walton Road. Bert Hennessy had started doing deliveries on his
cart
by then and began to make a bit of cash. I’ve never seen Jessie since.’

‘You can’t recognise her after all this time?’

Annie was too engrossed to answer. ‘You should see the three-piece, green velvet!’ she gasped. ‘Though it’ll never go in the parlour. They’ll have to stand the sofa on its end.’

‘I’ve got a green velvet three-piece,’ said Eileen indignantly. ‘I’ve never known you drool over
it
before.’ She patted the arm affectionately.

‘Yes, but your three-piece could sit on this three-piece’s knee,’ replied Annie disparagingly. Bored with watching, she came and sat in the other armchair and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of her pinnie. ‘Have a fag, Eileen?’

‘Ta. I’m smoking meself to death, lately. I must cut down.’ As Eileen lit her cigarette, she said sadly, ‘It seems funny, seeing people like that move into the Flahertys’. I wonder what Mary would have thought?’

‘She would have laughed over it as much as we did.’

Nothing had been heard of Joey Flaherty and the kids, they presumed they’d arrived in Canada by now, but Mary’s name had been among the list of casualties off the
Athenia
which had been printed in the
Echo
.

‘It’s awful, isn’t it, when you think about the way they skimped and saved for years to get away,’ Eileen mused.

‘It’s bloody terrible, but there you are, that’s war for you,’ Annie said in a harsh voice.

The two women were silent for a while, thinking about their old friend. Then Eileen sighed. ‘Oh, well! What else do you know about this Jessie Hennessy?’

‘Not much. Shortly after they left, Bert started putting adverts in the
Echo
for the business. He had a couple of lorries by then, so I reckon it must have really taken off.
There
was an announcement years later when Jessie got married, her name’s Fleming now if I remember rightly, and she calls herself Jessica. I began seeing her picture at some posh do or other, the Lord Mayor’s Ball, or singing in some concert. I sort of kept track of her, without meaning to. I read once she lived in Calderstones.’

‘Something awful must have happened to make her move back here,’ Eileen said seriously. ‘Poor ould thing.’

‘Honestly, Eileen, you’d cry for Hitler if he cut his rotten finger. You’re too soft by a mile.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Eileen countered defensively. ‘I just feel sorry for people, that’s all.’ After a pause, she said softly, ‘Annie?’

‘What, luv?’

‘Don’t tell anyone about that Jessie Hennessy, will you? Maybe no-one else in the street’ll recognise her.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Annie. ‘If she wants to keep it a secret, it’s up to her. I’ve no intention of telling another soul.’

They began to discuss the morality of buying stocks of food in anticipation of rationing. Was it unpatriotic to hoard non-perishables? Ration books had already arrived, a brown one for Eileen, blue for Tony, and people were expected to register with a grocer. Eileen and her sister had registered with the Maypole in Marsh Lane so it would be simpler to buy each other’s rations when the occasion arose.

‘I couldn’t get sugar anywhere the other day,’ Eileen said. ‘There’s a real shortage already.’

‘I don’t suppose it’d hurt to put a few odds and ends away each week if you can afford it.’

‘Though it’s not really fair on those who can’t. I bet me dad wouldn’t approve if I told him.’

Annie giggled. ‘I was in Veronica’s the other day
getting
meself a couple of vests for the winter, and she advised me to buy plenty of stockings and knicker elastic.’

Eileen wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know why you go there, Annie, when you can go to the Co-op. That Veronica makes me come out in goose pimples.’

There was a shuddering roar from outside and the houses trembled as the furniture van backed out of the street. Annie left, and as soon as the back door closed, Eileen set a tray with an embroidered cloth and china from the teaset that had been a wedding present from Sheila and Calum. She poured two cups of tea and took the tray over to Number 5 as a gesture of welcome to the new residents. They were probably parched for a cuppa and searching desperately for the kettle or the teapot. She knocked on the door and it was opened by a lean, harrassed man in his forties.

‘I reckon you must be parched after all that hard work,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘So’s I’ve brought you a drink. You can bring the tray back later. I’m Eileen Costello from Number Sixteen.’

His answering smile transformed his fine, rather delicate features. He was actually quite good-looking in a refined way, a bit like Leslie Howard only darker. ‘That’s very kind of you, thanks. I’m Arthur Fleming, by the way.’ His voice was pleasant and cultured, without any trace of Liverpool accent.

‘Arthur!’ The red-haired woman appeared in the hallway minus her hat and gloves. She took one glance at the tray and said, ‘There’s no need, thank you. I’ve already got the kettle on.’

‘But …’ her husband protested.

The woman ignored him. She came down the hall, pushed him to one side and said to Eileen, ‘We’re all
sorted
out, thank you,’ and closed the door firmly in her face. Eileen was left on the pavement holding the tray, feeling rather foolish and hurt.

She walked back across the street, saw her dad coming towards her and grinned. ‘I was expecting you, Dad. See, I’ve got a cup of tea all ready – in the best china, too!’

He regarded her with astonishment and she shrugged. ‘I made it for the new people who’ve just moved into the Flahertys’ old house, but
she
sent me away with a flea in me ear.’

‘That,’ said Arthur Fleming, ‘was utterly despicable.’

Jessica was already feeling slightly ashamed. After all, these people were her inferiors. It was up to her to show how the middle class behaved, not slam the door in their faces. There was no way she would have taken the tray, she wanted no truck with Pearl Street, but she should have declined with more graciousness. Her shame only made her feel even more irritable with Arthur. How dare he criticise?

‘I’ve no intention of having anything to do with the neighbours,’ she said angrily.

‘That’s stupid, Jess. We’ll be living cheek by jowl from now on. You can’t just ignore them.’

‘I can and I will,’ Jessica declared. ‘Another thing, Arthur. I don’t want people knowing we own property, else the tenants will be round by the minute demanding we get things fixed. The agent can collect the money, as before. His name is on the rent book, not ours.’ It was worth the ten per cent fee to remain anonymous.

‘Suit yourself’ Arthur shrugged. ‘Well, seeing as the kettle’s on, I’ll make that cup of tea.’

‘I can’t find the kettle,’ Jessica said flatly. ‘And even if I could, there’s no stove. We’ll have to buy one.’ She
thought
about her Aga and could have spat.

‘No stove!’ Arthur frowned. ‘I think this is a stove.’ He nodded towards the blackleaded range. Mary Flaherty had left it gleaming, but by now there was a thin layer of dust.

‘You
think!
’ Jessica was so full of choking anger that the words came out in a scream. ‘The trouble with you, Arthur Fleming, is you’ve never been poor. You’ve never even been in a house like this before. You
think
this is a stove! Well, you’re right, it is. I cooked my father’s meals on a stove like that in the house opposite when me mam, I mean, when my mother died and I looked after him. That stove is older than I am and I’ve no intention of using it. It can come out and I’ll have a nice modern fireplace installed and buy a proper stove, one of those electric ones, for the kitchen.’

To her intense irritation, Arthur actually grinned. ‘It looks quite an efficient system to me. I reckon it works the same way as an Aga, but you do what you want, though I don’t know what you’ll use for money.’

‘I’ll sell my musquash.’

‘That’s not a bad idea. You’d look pretty stupid going shopping around here in a fifty-guinea fur coat.’

She glared at him. To her surprise and indignation, over the last month, once Arthur had got over the initial shock of losing the business and the finances had been sorted out, he’d become a different man altogether. Not only had he brightened up considerably, but he’d begun to make all sorts of flippant, unsympathetic comments like that. He didn’t appear to be the least bit sorry for what had happened, and went round whistling, apparently full of the joys of spring and indifferent to the fact she only spoke to him when she had to. He started whistling now and rubbed his hands together in
a
businesslike fashion.