Lights Out Liverpool Read Online Free PDF Page A

right. C’mon, let’s go indoors and take a look at her.’ She ushered them inside, her spirits lifting at the thought of the new life, though in a somewhat precarious world.
    All in all, she thought with satisfaction, it was impossible to imagine a more perfect end to an almost perfect day.

Chapter 2
    It was Sunday, sunny and fresh, with an invigorating tang in the air. The heavy overnight rain seemed to have washed away the sultry heaviness of the previous week.
    The party in Pearl Street eight days before had become no more than a pleasant memory, though throughout the dark times ahead people would look back upon the day with increasing fondness, as if it symbolised a mythical period when there were no worries to speak of and the world seemed an entirely happier place in which to live.
    In Number 16, Eileen Costello had been up since well before seven o’clock. She’d woken, steeped in misery and despair, with Francis snoring volubly at her side, thinking it was still the middle of the night because the room was in total darkness. It was several seconds before she remembered the thick grey blanket pinned over the window. The blackout! It had begun two days ago, much to everyone’s irritation. ARP Wardens had already started patrolling the streets ordering people to, ‘Put that light out,’ even when the light was no more than a pinprick. Dai Evans had told the one who knocked on his door to complain about the thin streak showing between the black curtains Ellis had made for the parlour to, ‘Bugger off, you nosy bastard,’ and had been threatened with a fine.
    Eileen lay there for a long time until, in the far distance, she heard the peal of the Holy Rosary church bells, which meant it was time for the first Mass, time to get up. She slid furtively out of bed so as not to disturb her husband, and felt for her dressing gown. Once downstairs, she stumbled through the darkness towards the back kitchen where she removed her nightdress and washed herself from head to toe with a face flannel, scrubbing her body with unnecessary vigour as if to rid it of something unsavoury. That done, she gave a sigh of relief and slipped back into her nightclothes. She felt better, cleansed.
    It was time for some light. The sunshine outside came as a welcome surprise when she took the blankets off the windows. She waved to Phoebe Crean who was drawing back her parlour curtains at the same time. Phoebe’s windows, like most in the street, were by now crisscrossed with sticky tape to reduce the effect of shattering glass following an explosion. Eileen was determined not to tape her windows or make proper blackout curtains until the war had actually begun. To do otherwise seemed defeatist, as if admitting war was a foregone conclusion – and it wasn’t, not yet, though before today was out they’d know the worst.
    As she put the kettle on for tea, she wondered if millions of people all over the country were doing the same thing at the same time, and did they have the same sickly ominous feeling in their stomachs as she had?
    While the kettle boiled, she went into the living room and turned the wireless on for the seven o’clock news and was met by the sound of crackling which soon gave way to some rather gloomy music. As she stood waiting for the announcer’s voice, she was surprised to hear a soft knock on the front door and went to answer it.
    Jacob Singerman was standing outside. His eighty-year-old face looked drawn and tired, though he was impeccably dressed as usual, in a frayed white shirt and his best brown suit. His shabby shoes were highly polished and his wispy grey hair still damp from his attempts to comb it flat.
    ‘I saw your curtains coming down, Eileen,’ he said, ‘and I wondered if I could listen to the news on your wireless?’ His deep voice, which still held traces of a Russian accent, trembled slightly.
    ‘Of course you can, Mr Singerman. You must excuse me, still in me dressing gown. Come in, luv. It’s