by Lizzie Lane
‘The government has decided that bread will not be rationed and neither will fish and chips…’
A great cheer rang throughout the room and tobacco leaves flew like patriotic flags through the air.
‘On another note, it is expected that meat rationing is on the horizon and clothes rationing will come in some time soon…’
Grumbles followed and advice was freely given.
‘Grab what you can, then, whilst you can!’
‘Buy a sewing machine – if you can find one.’
Clothes were already becoming scarce in the shops and things looked to be getting tighter. Rationing was taking a hold and women were making do with whatever materials they could get. Buying a new outfit was almost out of the question – unless you had a lot of money. Those with spare cash had bought what they could before and just after Christmas. Judging by this announcement, it seemed their foresight had paid off.
In an effort to lighten the mood, Bridget picked up a magazine and began to read it out loud. ‘Have you seen the gaily coloured ribbed stockings? Ribbing has a wonderful shapely and slimming effect on your leg, and the bright colours make them gay and smart…’
‘Swelt me bob,’ cried Maisie, a very Bristolian comment, and climbed back up onto the table, raised her skirt and did silly poses that showed off her legs – like everyone else, her stockings were darned but good enough for work. ‘Bright colours will make them gay and smart…’ she trilled.
The dour atmosphere burst with hoots of laughter until the doors swung open and the foreman marched in. Since becoming a company ARP in charge of setting up incendiary watch on the roof, Clifford Morgan marched around as though he was a sergeant major with a battalion of hardened men under his command. The truth was that most of his ‘men’ were ‘women’ and at times the truth seemed to hit his wobbly jowls, a disconcerted frown creasing his pink brow as he looked over his troops.
‘Milligan. You’re on duty tonight. The first four hours. Miles. It’s time you did your bit too.’
‘I am doing my bit,’ Maisie replied tartly. ‘I’ve been up on the roof at The Llandoger. Bit rickety up there, I can tell you.’
‘I don’t care about that. You’re needed ’ere.’
Maisie tossed her head. ‘I don’t fink the Germans will ever come.’
The foreman drew in his jowls and his thick forehead puckered over his bulbous nose. ‘Oh, so you know more than Mr Churchill, do you?’
‘No, but I won’t believe it until it ’appens.’
8
New York
‘Marvin! So good to see you again.’
The tall man with the iron grey hair and tanned face bent over her hand and kissed the fingertips of Betty Jane O’Neill and exchanged the look of two people who had known each other for a very long time. ‘Betty Jane, I could have sworn you were only a few years younger than me. Now I’m thinking it’s more than a few – maybe ten or even twenty. You haven’t changed a bit.’
His tone was as sweet as honey and his smile spoke volumes. There were shared memories in that look and also the affirmation of what they were back then and what they were to each other now.
Betty Jane O’Neill laughed and fluttered her eyelashes as though she was the girl she’d once been, the one who’d been courted by Marvin James Rixey, a man who no longer owned cotton plantations but had divested his interests into factories, utilities and international shipping. He was rich and powerful and of the same social strata as she was cut from. For a time, it seemed they might marry, but then she’d let emotions get in the way, but that was back then. Over the years, love for her husband, Lyndon’s father, had cooled. Status now meant more to her than charm. She had ambition for her son to build anew on his father’s empire, to elevate both the family and the fortune to the very peak of Virginian society – New York too for that matter. Marvin had a daughter and she had a son. Betty Jane planned to unite both their families and their wealth.
‘I’d like you to meet my son, Lyndon.’
Lyndon stepped forward at the waving of her fingers. The hand that gripped his was hard and square. ‘How do you do, sir. Pleased to meet you again, though I can’t quite recall the last time we met.’
‘Some time ago, too long in fact.’ Marvin looked beyond Lyndon to Betty Jane. ‘If I recall, you came to Gilda’s birthday party. You do remember Gilda, though she was only eight at the time?’
Lyndon smiled affably as a flute of champagne warmed to his fingertips. ‘I vaguely recall a girl wearing a pink gingham dress and braids down to her shoulders. She had a way about her.’ The truth was that he remembered her as an only child spoilt and overindulged by her widowed father. In ball games, she sulked if she wasn’t the winner and snatched back toys that others dared play with, insisting that they were all hers and nobody had any right to touch them.
‘That’s my girl,’ exclaimed Marvin with unfettered pride. ‘The pink gingham and braids have gone, but she still has a way about her. Come on, let me introduce you. If you’ll excuse us, Betty Jane.’
Betty Jane’s smile remained fixed as she watched her wonderful son walking side by side with the man who had first made her heart skip a beat. Lyndon wasn’t to know that she’d contrived to arrange this meeting, to tell her old lover of her son’s obsession with a girl from some goddamned provincial city in England. It was a relationship she was determined to break. ‘I firmly believe in like marrying like, Marvin. And besides,’ she’d said, the light of ambition glowing in her eyes. ‘Think of it. The Rixey wealth and the O’Neill wealth combined.’
He’d agreed with her. ‘If your son and my daughter see fit to get fixed, I wouldn’t stand in their way.’ A cunning look had crossed his face. ‘She’s as ambitious as her old man, perhaps even a bit more ruthless.’ Gilda Rixey looked what she was, sleek and polished from her head to her toes. She was a thoroughbred meant to adorn the arm of a rich husband. She had been through all the right schools. She’d also spent two years at Berkeley before she’d flung it aside, declaring that pursuing knowledge or a career would gain her nothing more than what she already had.
Betty Jane appeared to sip her drink, but champagne nor any other alcoholic drink passed her lips when she was plotting something she wanted badly – and furthering the family fortune was top of the list
Lyndon’s thoughts were still in England and, with his father’s backing, he fostered the idea that he might go back over to learn more about cigarette and cigar making – and to see Bridget of course. He knew his mother well enough to know that she was plotting something.
He crossed the impeccable lawn in front of Grosvenor House, the grand New York home named after a plantation the Rixeys used to own in Georgia. Liveried servants, the darkness of their faces emphasised by the whiteness of their jackets and gloves, glided silently and deferentially amongst the guests, their footsteps seeming barely to bend the blades of grass they crossed.
He heard Gilda’s laughter before he saw her, the sound coming from within an encirclement of attentive young men. Each one appeared to be trying to impress her with their straight As at college, their prowess on the sports field, their certainty that the world of business, or whatever other field they pursued, could not possibly last without them.
‘Gilda, my darling. Look who I’ve got with me.’
The circle of admirers broke at the sound of Marvin Rixey’s voice, as though he were Moses himself and they were as obliged as the Red Sea to part before him.
Gilda had shoulder-length blonde hair that fell ‘peek a boo’ style over one side of her face. Her dress was white and covered in red polka dots, her slim waist cinched in with a red satin belt. Everything about her shouted impeccable taste and an expensive price tag. Her smile was wide, her teeth white and her eyes flashed with interest the moment she spotted the handsome Lyndon O’Neill but dimmed rapidly with a cold guardedness.
‘Now come along you two. You must have lots to talk about.’ Marvin guided both of them away from his daughter’s en
tourage of young men. ‘Lyndon is the son I never had.’ His expression suddenly turned regretful. His heartfelt sigh swiftly was followed by a loving kiss on his daughter’s forehead. ‘But I’ve got my beautiful daughter.’
Hamming it up, thought Lyndon and looked down into his drink. To his mind, the grizzle-necked, rotund cotton magnate had seen too many second-rate theatre companies and second-rate actors.
Gilda caressed her father’s arm and smiled up at him adoringly. ‘Daddy has had to settle for me and me alone.’
‘Give me grandchildren, my darling. They’ll make up for it.’
‘I dare say,’ she replied, black lashes fluttering over light blue eyes.
Surmising where this was going, Lyndon looked down into his drink. So Marvin Rixey was looking for a stud, was he? Lyndon wasn’t so much embarrassed as annoyed.
Gilda carried on in the same vein. ‘Daddy, just in case you’ve forgotten, it takes two to make the next generation and the right husband hasn’t yet come along.’
‘I do know that, my dear,’ said her father.
Lyndon fancied he saw connivance in the affectionate look that passed between them before Gilda turned and smiled beguilingly.
‘Lyndon, darling, shall we take a promenade and you can tell me all that you’ve been up to since the last time I saw you?’
She slipped her arm through his. The warmth through the thin fabric of her sleeve was like an electric shock that planted a wary thought in his head; Gilda was out of the same mould as his mother.
The next hour or so was spent in pleasant enough conversation, but he sensed collusion with his family, that the social gathering of today and the following evening would ultimately lead to dinner for two.
‘Play along with it,’ his father counselled when it was just the two of them talking man to man. ‘Just to keep your mother happy.’
He saw the wisdom in those words and for now would concur. The only girl who had piqued his interest was on the other side of the Atlantic.
After the guests had left, Gilda rejoined her father, smiled warmly up at him and slipped her arm through his.
‘Drinks,’ he said to a passing waiter.
Drinks were poured and given.
‘Well,’ he said, his gaze riveted on his beautiful daughter who in his eyes was the Venus who had sprung from his loins. ‘Can you imagine a family alliance with that young man?’
She smiled coquettishly up at him. ‘So that’s what this is all about.’
Her father’s smile matched her own. ‘Exactly. He’s young and handsome. You’re extraordinarily beautiful.’
‘You’re biased, Daddy. What you mean is we both have a considerable fortune, but it could bear bigger fruit when combined – and I don’t mean children. Money. The result would be colossal.’
‘Correct.’ He raised his hands one foot apart at first, then brought them together. ‘A fresh injection of capital could ultimately lead to Rixey Incorporated becoming a global force.’
She kissed her father’s cheek. ‘Daddy, I’m a girl after your own heart. I’ll do what’s best for the family and the firm. Anyway, he’s quite cute.’ She stroked his cheek with one well-manicured finger.
‘That’s my girl,’ he said and laughed. ‘You’re a chip of this old block and that’s for sure.’ He paused and turned to her. ‘Do you think you can snare him?’
‘Daddy,’ she returned with an air of outright rebuke and a fluttering of eyelashes. ‘You could put it a little more subtly.’
‘I stand chastised, but can’t help being blunt. Can you get him to fall in love with you?’
Gilda tilted her head as though she was considering the possibilities. ‘Now let me see.’ She took a sip of her drink before a smile lit up her lips and eyes with catlike endeavour. ‘Of course I can. It’s as easy as falling off a log.’
9
Bridget
Bridget Milligan stood side by side with her mother looking out of the living-room window. The sound of rattling milk bottles signalled the imminent arrival of the milkman. Once he was close enough, they would also hear the clanging of garden gates and the subtle difference between full milk bottles being dumped on the doorstep and empties clattering into metal crates.
The milkman didn’t matter. Mother and daughter were both awaiting the sound of the postman whistling his way along Marksbury Road. Her siblings wrote at least once a fortnight from South Molton. The eldest girls, Ruby and Katy, had turned out to be prolific letter writers, but the youngest girls were still having theirs written for them. They’d all smiled and shook their heads at the one-line messages on the postcards Sean and Michael managed to send between them, their words sparse but full of enthusiasm for their new life.
Patrick Milligan appeared at the door dividing the kitchen from the living room with a spatula in his hand. ‘Me best girls, don’t you know the postman won’t get here any quicker?’ The smell of fried bread came with him. ‘Your breakfasts are nearly ready,’ he added.
‘Keep it warm,’ said his wife, grateful that she had a man who could cook. It wasn’t beneath him to do a spot of dusting either.
Like her mother, Bridget was edgy. Receiving letters from Devon was one thing, but she badly wanted one from America. Her vow to be a spinster after witnessing her mother miscarrying had gone out of the window on meeting Lyndon O’Neill. The look, sound and smell of that dreadful morning, the aftermath of burning the bloodied remains on the fire would never go away entirely, but his arrival had muddied the waters. Something had shifted inside her.
Although it wasn’t much past seven o’clock, the sky beyond the window above the rows of uniform houses was already as blue as Bridget’s eyes. Her brandy brown hair nestled on her shoulders. Later, once she arrived at the tobacco factory, she would hide its glossy glory beneath a headscarf. But that was for later, after the postman had clanged the garden gate, marched up the garden path and posted a letter through the letterbox.
Her mother sighed. ‘He’s taking his time, so he is. P’raps we should be having that breakfast your father’s frying.’
Bridget shook her head and kept her gaze fixed on the scene beyond the window. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Unseen by her, the eyes of her mother flickered with concern. Mary began folding some items of laundry ready for ironing. Pain shot through her. There were only adult clothes amongst the sheets, pillowcases and towels, no children’s clothes. She forced herself to look on the bright side. ‘No news today, but I must admit them last letters they wrote were lovely. I never knew our Katy and Ruby could write so well. They sound happy.’ She swallowed down the feeling of regret that they didn’t appear to be missing her and went on to mention the boys. ‘Typical of Sean and Michael to say so little. They could write three times as much on the postcard if they set their minds to it. Still, that’s boys for you.’ She gave a little laugh, but Bridget wasn’t fooled. She knew very well it was the two youngest she was worried about. Her mother hesitated before mentioning them. ‘I wish the little ones could write for themselves, but…’ she shrugged, and Bridget knew she was worrying that the letters from the two youngest might not be reliable seeing as they were being written by the adults they were staying with. ‘Still, I suppose they must be nice enough if the local evacuation committee have billeted them there.’
She didn’t sound convinced. Bridget eyed her mother’s worried face and did her best to reassure. ‘Tell you what, I’ll write to the boys and ask them to go along and check on them.’
Her mother slapped the sheet she’d just folded on the top of the pile. ‘I thought of that, but they’re living on a farm so must be some distance away.’
‘I know the boys are older, but they do go to the same village school and must see Molly and Mary at some point in the day.’
She was relieved on seeing a little spark of brightness on features that so closely mirrored hers. The passing years had been kind to Mary Milligan despite being the mother of seven children. Every one of the grey hairs had been
earned, and although they softened the original colour, her mother’s hair was still lustrous.
She felt her mother’s eyes on her. ‘Don’t be too disappointed if your young American doesn’t write, me darling. This war…’
Bridget swallowed the tight feeling that rose in her throat. ‘I just think that today’s the day,’ she said.
Her mother eyed her sidelong. She would do anything in her power to prevent her daughter being hurt and, to her mind, that meant doing what she could to end the relationship before it could go any further and cause real harm. ‘Maybe you can stay pen friends seeing as he’s so interested in Bristol.’
Bridget heard the warning in her mother’s voice, the suggestion that it might be wiser if she settled for less. ‘We’ll keep writing,’ returned Bridget. ‘Until such time as he does manage to get back here.’
Mary Milligan clamped her mouth tightly shut. There were so many things she could have said, but on second thoughts perhaps some hope should remain for the young in these troubled times. Resigning herself to the hurt she felt sure would come, she went back into the kitchen, where the greasy smell of the frying pan drowned the fresh air coming in through the back door and kitchen window.
Bridget kept her eyes peeled. She’d seen the pity in her parents’ eyes, heard the warning that he wasn’t of their class, that he’d already forgotten her and that his family might not – no – would not approve of their son being involved with a girl from a lowly background and a different country. All the same, she couldn’t get him out of her mind and she truly believed she would see him again – it was just a case of when.
Her father came in from the kitchen, along with the smell of slices of bread frying in the fat scraped from the beef dripping saved from the Sunday roast. Every bit of fat was laboriously scraped and saved, used for frying and even in cakes and pastry for savoury and sweet pies alike.