by Lizzie Lane
Having eaten two pieces of fried bread, he pushed the bits of clock he was working on to one side of the table. He’d begun mending clocks not long after his return from the Great War of 1914–18 and was good at it. Of late, he’d mentioned opening a proper repair shop giving him more room to spread out the wheels and cogs, screws, casings and pendulums. ‘Once the war is over,’ he’d proclaimed.
It was his custom before beginning his daily work to settle himself in the brown armchair closest to the window, the best place for reading his newspaper. He glanced at his daughter before redirecting his attention to the headlines. ‘That postman isn’t going to come any quicker, no matter how much you want him to, and there’s no guarantee he’ll be posting through our letterbox,’ he remarked.
Bridget sensed him regarding her through the dense smoke that twisted and turned from the bowl of his pipe. Her mother read tea leaves. Her father read minds, or at least observed people very intently.
Her mother had read the tea leaves a while back, not long after Lyndon had departed on a transatlantic liner for New York, and foretold that there was no future in the relationship. He wouldn’t be back; he wouldn’t be in touch.
Bridget’s instinct told her otherwise, and anyway there had been something odd about the way her mother had carried out that reading, holding the cup in both hands and taking her time before making a pronouncement. She’d also been too quick to discard the leaves as though unwilling to accept what they were telling her.
‘Do you think America will come into the war?’ she asked her father.
He frowned over the bowl of his pipe as he tamped in more tobacco. ‘They did the last time, though late in the day. This time…’ He sighed. ‘Who knows what might happen. Anyways, don’t dwell on the fellah.’
‘We’re just pen friends,’ she said adamantly, though deep down she wanted so much more.
‘Aye,’ he said thoughtfully, the newspaper – made of thinner paper nowadays – cracked as he attempted to flatten it. ‘A tickle under the heart,’ he added, without raising his eyes from the news, most of which was not good.
The sound of whistling joined that of early-morning birdsong, a sure sign that Dan the postman was on his way. This morning he was whistling ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary…’
She was aware of her father leaning forward, watching with interest as Dan pushed open the gate and whistled his way up the garden path. ‘I don’t know how he does it,’ he said. ‘Gets to the sorting office at four, then traipses round the streets carrying that heavy sack. No wonder he’s got one shoulder higher than the other. Then it’s the second post and after that I know for sure that he does four hours fire-watching. Barely time left to close his eyes.’
Neither do you, Pa, she wanted to say, knowing he didn’t sleep well what with his gammy leg, the result of an injury during his Merchant Navy service during the Great War. He also put in some time with the ARP unit, traipsing up and down the streets hereabout, checking that nobody was showing a chink of light.
The garden gate of number twenty-two, a tubular thing of painted metal, clanged open on its strong spring. Dan was barely halfway up the garden path when Bridget sprang into the hallway, grabbing the letter with both hands before it hit the coconut mat behind the front door.
The bright morning turned even brighter as she checked the handwriting and postmark before sliding it into her overall pocket. Her headscarf went into the other pocket as she went to collect her handbag.
At the sound of the mailbox, her mother came running in from the kitchen and her father looked over the top of his paper.
‘Is there anything from Devon?’ asked her mother.
Bridget shook her head. ‘No. It’s for me.’ Her voice trembled with excitement. ‘It’s from him.’
It wasn’t difficult to interpret the look that passed between her parents, disappointment that there was no word from Devon, and worry.
‘Never mind. Perhaps we’ll get something from the kids tomorrow.’ Bridget kissed her cheek. ‘Definitely tomorrow.’
At the sound of the slamming door followed by the clanging of the metal gate, Mary Milligan sat down on the sofa opposite her husband. The furniture took up most of the space in the square living room, which could barely contain the whole family when home together. A fitted dresser, something all the houses in the street had, took up most of one wall and a round mirror over the fireplace reflected the light from the window.
‘Another letter turns up like a bad penny,’ Bridget’s mother said and sounded bitter.
Patrick Milligan looked up from his newspaper and felt overcome with love. The worry in her eyes matched his own. ‘Tis only the letter, not the man himself. We should be thankful for that, Mary me darling.’
A soft frown beetled between her brows. ‘I suppose. I’d been looking forward to grandchildren and worrying our Bridie wasn’t interested in courting. Then this American came along.’ She shook her head disconsolately. ‘Why ever did she have to go and fall for a young man from the other side of the ocean?’
Patrick got up from his chair and wound his arm round her shoulders. ‘Now, now, Mary me girl. We’re worrying about something that’s not happened.’
Mary smiled weakly.
Patrick still saw his wife as the girl he’d first met in Cork and still loved her to bits. Though he never mentioned it, he recalled every detail of the last miscarriage, more specifically the bundling of the foetus in newspaper, the smell and the smoke as it had slowly been consumed by flames on the bonfire in the garden. ‘How are you feeling, Mary?’
Mary knew her husband well. ‘You’re trying to change the subject.’
‘Nonsense.’
She gave him a direct look as sharp as a knife. Sometimes he felt she knew every thought in his mind.
‘Mary, he’s on the other side of the Atlantic. How can she get hurt? They’re never likely to meet ever again.’
‘He’ll hurt her, I’m sure he will.’
The piece of waste land immediately opposite the crowded Milligan house was known locally as ‘the tip’ and was dominated by a green gasometer. The smell from it resembled rotten eggs, but that was the price to be paid for something that kept the gas stove alight and made coke as a by-product – a bright burn in the grate during the dark days of winter. Initially the gasometer had stood alone, but in the closing months of 1939 had been joined by two concrete air-raid shelters. Her father had baulked at the news of them being built so close to the gasometer.
‘A direct hit and the whole lot will go up in flames.’
Being early, the rush of girls and women heading for the factories and shops of Bedminster had not yet happened, a fact Bridget was thankful for. She had time enough to read her letter so headed for a sunny gap not overshadowed by either the smelly gasometer or grim-looking shelters.
For a minute she just looked at her name and address, caressing the writing with her eyes and then with her fingers. The lightweight paper fluttered in her hands at the same rate as her pulse, racing as though there were hurdles to jump and streams to ford. There would indeed be obstacles, and her instinct told her they would be quite formidable.
She opened the letter. Her eyes devoured the date – 14 June – two weeks ago. She read on.
Hi there, Bridget,
Loved your last letter describing how famous statues in the city have been boarded up or moved to a safer place – we wouldn’t want Queen Victoria getting bombed, would we? Here’s hoping the old girl is content with her new quarters.
There’s a lot of disagreement over here as to whether we should get involved in this war. According to my father, we already are. A number of American companies are making items stated to be machine parts, which are in fact propellers for fighter planes.
My father sits on the fence with regard to getting involved, mostly I think to placate my mother, who is definitely against getting involved. No big deal. They rarely agree about anything.
I’m off up to New York shortly. My
mother has a few social engagements lined up and wants me to accompany her. We’re also meeting family, uncles, aunts and cousins from Georgia that I haven’t seen since childhood. It will be nice to see them, though I fear my mother has an ulterior motive. She keeps mentioning the daughter of a friend from way back who she reckons would be a good match. I keep trying to tell her that I’m not ready to get hitched. Strikes me that I shall need to be on my guard.
Have you got a steady boyfriend? It wouldn’t surprise me if you did. You’re better than pretty. Beautiful even.
I understand the tobacco is still arriving safely, though not in such quantities as required. Wish I could too. All of me! There was talk of me coming over there to get some hands-on experience in the factory. W. D. &. H. O. Wills like members of their family to work their way up and gain some experience of what it’s like on the factory floor. I suggested to my dad that I could do the same. He thought it a good idea. My mother nearly fainted and reminded us both that there was a war on and neutral vessels are fair game!
I’ve told everyone about visiting St Mary Redcliffe Church and the tomb of Admiral Penn, father of our own William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania and a founding father of the US constitution.
Bye for now, sweet Bridget, and keep safe.
Lyndon.
The warmth of the summer day suddenly turned ice cold. His mother was trying to marry him off? Although she’d always told herself that she never wanted to fall in love, marry and have children, those convictions now seemed hollow. She feared that, like Phyllis, he might not be able to resist persuasion from his parents.
With this in mind, she made herself a promise; if she heard nothing else from him, then that was it. She would banish him from her thoughts and get on with her life.
10
Phyllis
June came and went and as there was still no word from Robert, Phyllis became more restless. Letters had been sent, but none returned.
Phyllis’s suggestion that she should go home to her mother was met with outright fury.
‘Your place is here. You’re his wife.’
‘If he comes home.’
It was entirely the wrong thing to say. Phyllis felt the intensity of her mother-in-law’s sharp glance over the click clack of her knitting needles. More wool from an ancient pullover was in the process of becoming a scarf or a pair of socks.
‘That’s a wicked thing to say.’
Phyllis barely held her temper but stabbed at the lisle stocking she was in the process of darning – yet again. ‘I’m not being wicked. We may have to face up to the facts – whatever they may be.’
In a rare moment of feeling sorry for Robert’s parents – especially his father – she’d agreed to stay with them. Tom Harvey had been heartbroken enough that there had been no news from his son but he’d been even more devastated at the loss of the baby. He’d told her about the funeral.
‘At least it was a sunny day,’ he’d said, mopping at his eyes with an oversized handkerchief. ‘Alice had a nice bit of sunshine and lovely flowers. Hilda saw to that.’
She’d imagined that funeral, Hilda standing stony-faced at the head of the grave, her own mother pushed to the sidelines. Tom would have been crying. She knew that was so even though she hadn’t been there, confined to hospital for the requisite two weeks.
Her mother had visited on her return from hospital when she was still in bed, alone with her tears and the weakness she’d suffered for a few days after returning home.
Hilda had insisted her mother didn’t stay for long. ‘She’s still weak.’
Her mother had been sympathetic but had also agreed with Hilda. ‘I do have things to do. I’m going out tonight and Hilda is right, you do need the rest.’
It was only after she’d gone that it had occurred to Phyllis she’d been wearing lipstick. Still, that was some weeks ago and she hadn’t exactly been herself.
A light had gone out in Tom Harvey’s eyes. Phyllis noticed it, even if his wife didn’t. He was in mourning for a son lost and a grandchild that had failed to be born. Despite his personal grief, he continually asked Phyllis if she was all right, if she wanted anything – a cup of tea perhaps, a pillow for her back. She always thanked him and said that she was fine and could she get him a cup of tea.
The past two months felt like a lifetime. From the very first Hilda Harvey had made it obvious that Phyllis was to blame for losing the baby. Phyllis had almost got used to her whining and moaning, putting up with it for Tom’s sake.
A whole army had been pulled out of France at the end of May and, as Churchill had stated, the battle for France was over. The battle of Britain was about to begin. There had already been air raids in London and other places. So far, Bristol had got off lightly, hit-and-run raids mostly aimed at the aircraft factories and the docks. The city was still intact.
Hilda Harvey stabbed with renewed energy at her knitting. ‘Robert will be home soon. I’m sure of it.’
Tom Harvey went back to staring down at his newspaper. It occurred to Phyllis he’d been looking at the same page for the last half an hour.
‘As for you, Tom Harvey, well, your attitude is only to be expected. Putting ideas about joining up into Robert’s head…’
Tom Harvey looked astounded, as though she’d shot him straight through the heart.
Hilda carried on. ‘Him keen as mustard to go off and fight. I tell you, what did he know about fighting? I suggested he could have applied for something in a reserved occupation, something where he could use his brains, not his brawn. That’s what he should have done. At least he would have been here for his daughter – not that it counts for much now.’
Phyllis stared into the empty fire grate aware of an angry glare flying in her direction. ‘Well, he wasn’t here,’ Phyllis said at last, resigned to the fact that Hilda Harvey would never forgive her for marrying her son and certainly never forgive her for losing the baby!
With silent detachment, Tom Harvey got up from his chair, his face grey, his shoulders hunched. ‘In the absence of anything stronger, I think we could all do with a cup of tea.’
Phyllis was about to say, yes please, but Hilda Harvey, red spots on her pale cheeks laid into him.
‘Oh yes, that’s you all over, Tom Harvey! Let’s all have a cup of tea. A cup of tea makes it all right. Don’t think of Robert. Don’t think of me.’
Tom Harvey regularly looked downtrodden and henpecked, but Phyllis perceived that tonight he looked thoroughly beaten as he headed for the kitchen.
Unable to stand it a minute longer, Phyllis laid the darning to one side and got to her feet. ‘I’ll see if he needs a hand with the tea.’
Despite their departure, the carping voice continued unabated. ‘I’m sure he’s capable of making a cup of tea. Even someone as useless as him is capable of doing that.’
It struck Phyllis that her mother-in-law could stand in for an air raid siren if need be.
She shot through the kitchen door and pulled it closed behind her, glad to have a barrier between her and Robert’s mother. A gas flame licked at the base of the kettle. Cups and saucers were set on a Bakelite tray.
‘You’ve been a bit down today,’ she said, then stopped, suddenly aware that something was very wrong.
Tom Harvey was stood with his back to her, staring out to where the setting sun bathed the garden in a golden light. Like the sunlight, his shoulders appeared to be shimmering gently with noticeable regularity.
As though suddenly realising she was there, she heard his intake of breath, then saw him swipe at his eyes before turning round to face her. His face was streaked with tears.
Her heart went out to him. She took a step forward. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
He used his finger to lift the remaining wetness from one cheek, then the other and looked at her as though making up his mind to tell her the problem. Coming to an instant decision, he took a brown envelope from his pocket. ‘It’s a telegram and came this morning before I went to
work. It’s addressed to you, but you know how Hilda is, she would have insisted on opening it, so I shoved it in my pocket and took it with me.’ He shook his head and his big sad eyes were again filled with fresh tears that he barely kept in check. ‘It’s been burning a hole in my pocket all day.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it sooner.’
It was as though her fingertips had turned to ice, the coldness travelling up her arms, into her shoulders and the rest of her body. It was official of course. War Office. Black lettering. The numbness was as strong in her mind as in her body. So many regrets whirled round in her head like the waltzer in the winter fairground that came to the ‘Cut’ before Christmas each year.
She finally remembered that she wasn’t the only one in the kitchen. Tom Harvey stood with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. Phyllis took hold of the telegram in one hand and began to open it with the other. Despite everything, she hoped it would say that Robert had been held up, even that he had been taken a prisoner of war. Her freedom was too high a price to pay for a man’s life.
The words swam before her eyes, but three, just three jumped out at her.
Missing presumed dead.
She read it for a second time, then a third when it hit her. She was indeed free, but instead of elation she felt a great surge of guilt. No! I did not wish for this, she told herself.
A sickly feeling rose in her stomach. She reached for the kitchen table, the pattern on the oilcloth covering whirling and dancing before her eyes.
She passed the telegram to her father-in-law.
He held it close to his face and, just as she had, read it more than once. Finally his hand fell away, the telegram still grasped tightly in his fingers. ‘What am I going to tell Hilda?’
Phyllis heard the despair in his voice and saw the helpless look on his face.
Suddenly the kitchen door was tugged open and there was Hilda in her lace-up shoes, as tightly restrained as the rest of her. ‘I thought I was going to get a cup of tea.’ She frowned, looked from daughter-in-law to husband and back again before spotting the telegram. ‘What is it? What’s that?’