Put Out the Fires by Maureen Lee

“It’s Ruth. I’ve come home.”
    The news flashed around Pearl Street the following morning; Ruth Singerman was back, though she wasn’t Singerman now, but had a horrible German surname, which her dad said she wasn’t to use, so she was going by her maiden name.
    As was the custom, the neighbours started dropping in from early morning, out of both curiosity and a desire to offer a warm welcome to one of the street’s former residents.
    Amongst those who’d known Ruth before, when she was very reserved and extraordinarily ladylike for Bootle, the general impression was that she hadn’t changed much. Of course, in the old days, Mr Singerman had spoiled her rotten, what with her mam dying when Ruth was born and her being an only child. Mind you, Jews always spoiled their children and Jacob Singerman, despite the fact he wasn’t one of those orthodox ones, was no exception to the rule. Now, Ruth seemed more reserved than ever, indeed rather cold and a mite unfriendly when people called.
    As far as looks went, she was still as comely, not a bit like a Jewess with her ivory skin and long brownish-red hair still worn in plaits, though now the plaits were coiled in a bun on her remarkably unlined neck. She’d look even prettier if she smiled, which no-one had seen her do so far, but then, perhaps Ruth hadn’t had much to smile about over the last two years, they all decided sympathetically.
    Everyone had heard the terrible rumours about the things Hitler was doing to the poor Jews.
    Nothing had changed, Ruth marvelled. It wasn’t only the wallpaper and the oilcloth that were the same, but every stick of nineteenth-century furniture, every dish, every curtain. Her father even used the tablecloths she remembered; the brown chenille with the stringy fringe which was on all the time, and a cotton cloth with a blue border, so thin you could scarcely feel it, for when they ate. Even her bedroom was exactly as she’d left it, with the waxed lily in a glass case on the tallboy and the homemade patchwork cover on the bed. It was as if the house had been preserved as a shrine, though a shrine to what she had no idea.
    Whenever people called, and they still kept coming although she’d been home for two days, her father fussily showed them into the parlour which resembled a museum, the uncomfortable chairs stuffed with horsehair, the ugly sideboard and old-fashioned piano with Lady’s fingers painted on the front. There was a hand-operated sewing machine on a small table in the corner. The parlour was even colder than the living room because there was never a fire lit and Ruth dreaded to think what the house would be like in winter. Her father seemed to have become a bit of a miser in his old age, measuring out the lumps of coke for the grate as if they were gold, and keeping the gas light so dim it was far more miserable than it need be with the nights drawing in.
    Ruth was surprised at how irritating she found these economies, and even more surprised at the unexpected concern she felt for her bodily comforts. She’d been anticipating a return to the warm comfortable nest of her childhood. Instead, the house was cold and dark and, even worse, the food was meagre. There’d been mincemeat on a slice of dry bread for dinner yesterday, no dessert, and bread and margarine for tea. She wondered what sort of feast she’d be offered today.
    So far, she hadn’t brought these matters up with her father. To do so, would create an intimacy she didn’t want. He would be upset and fuss around, apologising.
    She wished to remain as distant as humanly possible, even though she could tell from the look in his fading, wistful eyes that he desperately longed for the resurgence of their old loving, demonstrative relationship. But that would never happen, Ruth thought resentfully. She would never be close to anyone again as long as she lived.
    The people who came, most of them, also seemed to want something from her, a friendship, a sort of