Read Online Put Out the Fires by Maureen Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maureen Lee
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heard the news?” asked Lil.
“No,” she snapped, uninterested.
“An entire bomb disposal team were blown up in Liverpool this morning working on this bomb. What sort was it, girls?”
“Delayed action,” said Pauline.
“Jaysus!” Eileen gasped.
“Not only that, you know Myra from the assembly shop? She lost her mam last night in the raid on Norris Green.”
Later on the girls began to sing, but that night they sang only sad songs, The Old Lamplighter and Among My Souvenirs. How many more sad songs would they sing, thought Eileen, close to tears, before the damn war was over and the world returned to normal? Not that things would ever be normal again for her. Nick had gone, that lovely part of her life had ended. When the time came to leave Francis, she and Tony would have to strike out on their own, she thought listlessly. She did her best to push Nick to the back of her mind and concentrate on work, because it seemed selfish to be preoccupied with her own affairs when people were dying everywhere. At least Nick was alive.
It seemed only appropriate that the klaxon should blare out a warning that a raid had started just after eight o’clock. They trooped down to the shelter, but the raid wasn’t a long one. The women returned to the workshop, and for the last hour at Dunnings, no-one sang at all.
When Eileen got home, she found Francis had a visitor.
George Ransome lived across the street and was known as the “Pearl Street Playboy”. He was a dashing bachelor of about fifty with a pencil-thin moustache, who wore loud pinstripe suits and two-tone shoes, and spent most of his time in the company of various young ladies whose appearance was as flashy as his own. George’s parties were frequent and very rowdy, with music and shrill screams coming from Number 17 till well past midnight.
When people complained, he would merely wink and say jovially, “Well, next time I have a party, you’re welcome to come.” Before the war, he’d worked for Littlewoods Pools, but when the premises were taken over by the postal censorship service, George had been kept on, his sharp intelligence, not normally apparent to his friends, a useful tool in a vital job. George, conscious of his important contribution towards the war effort, had started to acquire an air of gravitas and the parties and the young ladies were becoming less and less frequent, particularly since he’d joined the ARP. Despite his bad reputation, Eileen quite liked him. Indeed, she secretly found him rather attractive in a seedy sort of way, and although George would have been outraged if he’d known, she also thought his way of life more than a little pathetic.
“Hallo, George.” She was pleased to see him, though would have been pleased to see anyone rather than be alone with Francis.
“Lo there, kid.” He jerked his head and made a clicking noise. “I’ve just been keeping the war hero company till you came home.”
“How’s your day been, princess?” Francis asked. He looked like a pantomime pirate. The bandage had been removed from his eye and there was a black patch in its place. The left side of his face was the ugly yellow of fading bruises, but for all that, he looked remarkably fit. He was wearing the trousers of his next-to-best suit and a knitted pullover over a collarless blue shirt.
“Fine,” she said, though the day had been anything but.
“What did they have to say at the hospital?”
Francis said, almost proudly, “They’re going to take me ould eye out and put a glass one in its place. According to the doctor, no-one will be able to tell it isn’t real.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s the bloody gear,” George said as he lit a cigarette! from the one he’d just finished. He was a chain-smoker and rarely seen without a fag hanging from his bottom lip.
“It’ll be dead good having you back in Pearl Street again, Francis. It hasn’t seemed the same since you left. Eileen’s missed you something rotten,
“No,” she snapped, uninterested.
“An entire bomb disposal team were blown up in Liverpool this morning working on this bomb. What sort was it, girls?”
“Delayed action,” said Pauline.
“Jaysus!” Eileen gasped.
“Not only that, you know Myra from the assembly shop? She lost her mam last night in the raid on Norris Green.”
Later on the girls began to sing, but that night they sang only sad songs, The Old Lamplighter and Among My Souvenirs. How many more sad songs would they sing, thought Eileen, close to tears, before the damn war was over and the world returned to normal? Not that things would ever be normal again for her. Nick had gone, that lovely part of her life had ended. When the time came to leave Francis, she and Tony would have to strike out on their own, she thought listlessly. She did her best to push Nick to the back of her mind and concentrate on work, because it seemed selfish to be preoccupied with her own affairs when people were dying everywhere. At least Nick was alive.
It seemed only appropriate that the klaxon should blare out a warning that a raid had started just after eight o’clock. They trooped down to the shelter, but the raid wasn’t a long one. The women returned to the workshop, and for the last hour at Dunnings, no-one sang at all.
When Eileen got home, she found Francis had a visitor.
George Ransome lived across the street and was known as the “Pearl Street Playboy”. He was a dashing bachelor of about fifty with a pencil-thin moustache, who wore loud pinstripe suits and two-tone shoes, and spent most of his time in the company of various young ladies whose appearance was as flashy as his own. George’s parties were frequent and very rowdy, with music and shrill screams coming from Number 17 till well past midnight.
When people complained, he would merely wink and say jovially, “Well, next time I have a party, you’re welcome to come.” Before the war, he’d worked for Littlewoods Pools, but when the premises were taken over by the postal censorship service, George had been kept on, his sharp intelligence, not normally apparent to his friends, a useful tool in a vital job. George, conscious of his important contribution towards the war effort, had started to acquire an air of gravitas and the parties and the young ladies were becoming less and less frequent, particularly since he’d joined the ARP. Despite his bad reputation, Eileen quite liked him. Indeed, she secretly found him rather attractive in a seedy sort of way, and although George would have been outraged if he’d known, she also thought his way of life more than a little pathetic.
“Hallo, George.” She was pleased to see him, though would have been pleased to see anyone rather than be alone with Francis.
“Lo there, kid.” He jerked his head and made a clicking noise. “I’ve just been keeping the war hero company till you came home.”
“How’s your day been, princess?” Francis asked. He looked like a pantomime pirate. The bandage had been removed from his eye and there was a black patch in its place. The left side of his face was the ugly yellow of fading bruises, but for all that, he looked remarkably fit. He was wearing the trousers of his next-to-best suit and a knitted pullover over a collarless blue shirt.
“Fine,” she said, though the day had been anything but.
“What did they have to say at the hospital?”
Francis said, almost proudly, “They’re going to take me ould eye out and put a glass one in its place. According to the doctor, no-one will be able to tell it isn’t real.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s the bloody gear,” George said as he lit a cigarette! from the one he’d just finished. He was a chain-smoker and rarely seen without a fag hanging from his bottom lip.
“It’ll be dead good having you back in Pearl Street again, Francis. It hasn’t seemed the same since you left. Eileen’s missed you something rotten,
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