Put Out the Fires Read Free

killed any minute . . . ’ She broke off. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of young pilots had died as the Luftwaffe tried to wipe the British Air Force off the face of the earth in a terrible battle of attrition, but not Nick. At least not so far. He was, for the moment, quite safe and sound in Melling, perhaps still hoping she’d turn up.
    Donnie had been well to the fore in the queue when brains were handed out, and he began to put two and two together. She had a “friend” with a cottage in Melling, and another who’d joined the RAF. Some sixth sense told him the friends were one and the same person and Eileen Doyle was almost certainly having an affair, which gave her an added air of mystery and only made her more seductive in his eyes. He glanced at her keenly. The whisky had brought a flush to her smooth cheeks. She was a bit too wholesome to be termed beautiful; there was a touch of the farmer’s daughter in her fresh, regular features and creamy hair which she wore in an unusual style, not permed like most women, but dead straight and in a fringe on her forehead, though her dad, big Jack Doyle, had probably been no nearer the countryside than his own. Her soft violet-blue eyes were moist, as if she might cry any minute. He felt a strong rush of sympathy and thought, somewhat wryly, that even if Eileen Doyle undressed on the spot and offered herself to him, he would turn her down, because she was too upset to know what she was doing and probably slightly drunk. He racked his brains to remember who she was married to. What was he like?
    Well, there was no harm in asking.
    “What does your husband do, Eileen?” he enquired casually.
    The husband?” She looked slightly startled, as if she’d forgotten she had one. “Oh, Francis was in the Territorials when the war started, like, so he was called up straight away. The Royal Tank Regiment were sent to Egypt last February.”
    Francis! Of course, Francis Costello, who worked for the Mersey Docks & Harbour Board and had a seat on Bootle Corporation. Donnie remembered the chap distinctly. He was one of those silver-tongued Irishmen with the gift of the gab who was great mates with Jack Doyle. Everyone spoke highly of Francis, though Donnie, more astute than most, hadn’t taken to him much. He seemed a bit of a fake, insincere, as if everything he said was only to impress people.
    “I suppose you miss him, like?” he probed.
    “I suppose,” she replied listlessly, which Donnie took to mean she didn’t miss him at all, though she missed the “friend”, the one with the cottage in Melling who’d joined the RAF. She gave a funny, cracked laugh and seemed to pull herself together. “I’m not exactly cheerful company, am I, luv? Anyroad, I’d best be going. I only came out for a breath of fresh air, like, and I’ve been gone for ages. It’ll take half an hour or more to get back, and me feet are killing me in these shoes.”
    “I’ll walk with you,” he said with alacrity, wishing he was big enough to carry her, which he would have offered to do willingly if she’d let him. “In fact, I might call on your Sean. I haven’t seen him since I got me uniform.”
    “Well I never!” she said in surprise as soon as they were outside. “The sun’s come out.”
    The dark clouds which had appeared when she left the house, as if in sympathy with her mood, had completely disappeared and the sky was a dusky blue. The sun itself was out of sight, but the tops of the ships anchored behind the high dock walls were suffused with an unnaturally vivid light.
    A cart passed them, drawn by two horses, magnificent beasts, their sleek bodies as black as coal and with tumbling silken manes. The wooden wheels bumped on the uneven surface of the road, and the driver held the reins loosely in his hands, as if fully confident the animals needed no directions. His shoulders were hunched and he looked tired, as well he might, for he’d probably begun work before the crack of