by Lizzie Lane
As the children chattered and their parents fawned over them, commenting how much they’d grown and were they looking forward to Christmas, a thick mutton stew was served with the toasted bread. As they ate, Mrs Cottrell outlined the sleeping arrangements.
Bridget’s parents were given the same double room they’d had before with a blue eiderdown on the bed and pale wallpaper sprinkled with forget-me-nots.
To Bridget she said: ‘Seeing as all the girls are staying, I’ve put them in the room you had last time, so I’ve made up a bed down in the small sitting room. Hope you’ll be comfortable there.’
The small sitting room was set off the huge kitchen and was warmed by the range which kept going all night.
Bridget stared at the narrow bed. James would have known before he’d gone out that she would be sleeping here. Would he knock at her door when he got back? What would she do if he did?
At first, she slept lightly, hearing attuned to the sound of James’s small car. She considered what to say to him. If she hadn’t received the letter from Lyndon she wouldn’t have been so confused. Everything would have been so very straightforward because Lyndon would not have figured at all because he’d been more or less engaged. Now it appeared that it just wasn’t so.
Tired by the journey, the light sleep deepened and her apprehension vanished.
In the feeble light of a winter morning, she arose, got dressed and made her way to the dining room, where the smell of breakfast wafted in from the kitchen, not just fried bread like at home, but bacon, eggs and field-picked mushrooms.
Her mother’s morning would be taken up helping with the Christmas feast and decorating the house with boughs of greenery brought in by Patrick and her boys. Her father had occupied himself in adjusting the fine grandfather clock that sat at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway.
An eerie silence existed between mother and daughter. Every so often, Bridget’s eyes met hers, saw her lips form a soundless sorry.
After collecting the few eggs laid at this dour time of year, Bridget sat on a wall, retrieved the letter from her pocket and read it again. Reading the words made the day seem much warmer. It was a lovely letter and explained a lot. On the other hand, Lyndon was still on the other side of the Atlantic, though he seemed certain that they would see each other again.
‘My mother said you didn’t eat much breakfast. There’s a war on. Make the most of it. You’re in the country now.’
James!
The wind whipped at her hair as she turned to face him.
He was out of uniform, wearing typical farmhand gear of corduroy trousers, wellington boots and a scruffy brown jumper with leather patches on the elbows. His face was made ruddy by the wind and his hair was awry, not typical for an RAF flyboy.
Furtively and swiftly, she tucked the letter into her pocket.
He took her in his arms and looked surprised when she pushed him away. It angered her that he was simply picking up where he’d left off. There had been many months in between and the few little postcards saying nothing in particular irked her.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said. ‘Those cards must have been dashed off in a minute flat. You could have said more, written a proper letter.’
He shook his head. ‘Too busy. I’ve been up there,’ he said, one finger pointing upwards at the glowering sky.
She looked him squarely in the face. ‘One night doesn’t mean to say that you own me.’
His smile cracked as he shoved his hands into his pocket. ‘Same here, but the memory is still with me. Will be till the end of my days.’
She shook her head. ‘It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.’
He gave an offhanded toss of his head. ‘You were missing the other bloke. I was the understudy. Isn’t that right?’
She felt her face grow hot. ‘Of course not!’
There was accusation in the way he looked at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’
The morning air was cold and pinched at her cheeks. She hung her head and grabbed at the egg basket. In her haste, the basket turned over and the eggs fell out, some rolling whole on the stony ground, some smashing and spilling. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’
Eggs were precious. All food was precious. She felt so guilty at wasting any of it. She scrabbled on the ground, picked up those that she could. James also picked some up.
As each picked up the warm eggs, their eyes met.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have been more thoughtful. It was a difficult time. I’ve lost a few mates.’ He shook his head and there was sadness in his eyes. ‘It’s best not to care too much in these times. Live for the moment, that’s what most of us are doing.’ He shrugged. ‘How do we know tomorrow will ever come – our tomorrow that is, our personal tomorrow?’
She had been going to carry on being harsh with him, her way of coping with her own guilt. She understood better when she recalled that last visit and more especially the widow and children attending a graveside in a pretty country church. Her own life had not been touched up close by loss, but his had.
After making sure the eggs were safely gathered, her fingers brushed the letter in her pocket. James was right in that he had been a substitute for Lyndon and that in itself had been unfair. ‘Let’s just forget it ever happened,’ she finally said.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’
She started when he stroked her chin with one finger, lifting it slightly so her eyes met his.
‘I will try to make amends. You’re the sort of girl a chap would like to marry and I promise I will stay in touch – if you don’t mind that is.’
Of course she was flattered, but more cautious than she’d been on that heady evening in the hay, a perfect evening, a night full of stars. Despite the fact that Lyndon was on the other side of the Atlantic and James was here, sounding as though he wanted to begin anew, she found herself unable to trust him. She was on her guard and would stay friendly, but keep her distance.
31
Maisie
Christmas had worked out better than Maisie had hoped. She’d stayed with her grandmother in Totterdown. It had been a pleasant day. Grace had shown her photos of her father from when he was young. His looks had surprised her, his complexion darker than her own, but with the same eyes and unruly thatch of dark hair.
She’d washed up after they’d eaten, placed a blanket over the old lady and took the empty sherry glass from her hand once she’d fallen asleep. It was good to have somebody to look after, also to feel that she belonged with the old woman, that she was part of her.
She’d explained about living with Bridget in an effort to keep out of Eddie’s way, but that it couldn’t be permanent. ‘Bridget’s brothers will want their room back, though I don’t know when that might be.’
‘You can move in if yer like.’
The offer came out of the blue. Her grandmother wasn’t to know that she’d had it in mind to ask her if she could. The worry she’d been carrying on her shoulders dropped away.
‘That would be lovely, Gran.’
A wide-lipped smile appeared amongst the heavy wrinkles. ‘Might as well. We’re all the family we got. And not too far to your work.’
‘Best Christmas present I could ’ave, Gran.’
‘So’s this,’ said Grace Wells, patting the blanket that Maisie had bought from a church hall jumble sale.
Following Christmas Day, she’d spent time with her half-brother. It had taken some courage to tell him what had happened to Frank Miles, after all he was Alf’s natural father.
He shook his head when told about the rotten meat he’d been selling. ‘Will the old bugger never learn?’
Maisie asked cautiously if he was going to visit him in prison, where he was awaiting trial and sentencing.
Alf looked pensive. Finally, he replied. ‘No. ’E made ’is bed, ’e can lie on it.’ He shook his head again. ‘Killing two nippers! What the bloody ’ell was ’e thinkin about?’
; ‘Money.’
Alf took in a lungful of cigarette smoke and funnelled it out through pursed lips.
Maisie adored her brother. He’d always been decent, always handsome. His time at sea had made him more rugged. No wonder he attracted admiring glances from good-looking women in the pub where they were having a drink. It wasn’t in him to return their looks. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d gone on a date with a girl. None of them had lasted more than one or two nights. On occasion, she’d caught sight of the troubled look on his face and recalled his closeness to a sailor on a night out in the pub at the end of York Street. He’d shaken his head when she’d asked after he’d been on one date if he was going to see the girl again. ‘Not for me,’ he’d said. ‘Not my type.’
He hadn’t asked who’d shopped his father to the police, and she didn’t venture any information that might mar their relationship. She’d told him the reason she was no longer living at the Llandoger, that she was living with Bridget’s family though only temporarily.
He winced at mention of Eddie Bridgeman.
He sounded bitter and looked concerned. ‘Keep out of ’is way, sis. Promise me you’ll do that.’
She nodded. ‘He won’t catch up with me. I’ve got plans.’
Maisie’s plans for New Year had not included drawing incendiary duty from six to nine up on the roof of the tobacco factory. Keen to get away, she’d breezed through filling buckets with sand and had also borrowed a pair of binoculars, which she trained on a moonless sky.
‘Nothing up there,’ she finally said, sighing as she passed the binoculars back to their owner. In her mind, the minutes were ticking by.
Fred Black accepted the binoculars with great alacrity. ‘And ain’t we glad there’s nothin’ up there,’ he exclaimed. ‘You off now, are you?’
Maisie pushed her tin hat back and mopped at her brow with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘If it’s nine, then I am.’
‘It’s five minutes to.’
She pulled a face. ‘Don’t be mean. My brother’s just gone back to his ship and me best mate is off to join the war tomorrow. Me and Bridget are going to the station to see ‘er off.’
Taking off his tin hat, Fred scratched what remained of the hair on his head. ‘Women in the army. Well, they did during the last lot and they proved their worth. Reckon this time it’ll be tougher. Best of luck to the girl.’
Clouds of steam billowed up from the locomotive hovering like low lying cloud in the iron rafters of Temple Meads Station.
Phyllis was feeling pensive.
‘Fancy another cup of tea,’ asked Bridget.
Phyllis shook her head and pushed the teacup away. ‘The more tea I drink, the more I want to use the lavatory. I could get caught in there and miss the train if I’m not careful.’
Maisie munched on the remains of the teacake Phyllis had declined on account of a sickly feeling in her stomach. ‘Crikey, how many pennies ’ave you got through so far?’ she asked once the last piece was swallowed.
‘Enough,’ returned Phyllis with a light laugh and meant it. She’d pushed half a dozen pennies into the slot of the brass door locks of the lavatory cubicles. Her nerves were playing havoc with her system.
A waitress came with the bill, which Bridget settled.
The air out on the platform was ripe with the smell of cinders and white with steam.
Maisie breathed it in. ‘That smell reminds me of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap.’
Bridget remarked that some of the women here must also be joining up judging by all of them carrying a single suitcase as per instructions.
‘I hope so,’ said Phyllis. Her nerves had not subsided one iota, but she upheld her confidence by imagining being closer to Sam. ‘They try and put you close to someone you know,’ she said with great confidence and much hope.
The fact that she was trying to reassure herself wasn’t lost on either Bridget or Maisie, who exchanged slightly worried looks but said nothing. Phyllis needed buoying up before setting out on this great adventure.
The guardsman blew his whistle. A green flag was waved at the end of the platform.
‘Time for you to climb aboard,’ said Bridget.
Maisie gave her a peck on the cheek and asked if she had her sandwiches. Phyllis swallowed her nerves and nodded.
Carriage doors were hanging open in the section of train closest to them, though others at the back of the train were being slammed shut.
Suitcase in hand, Phyllis hugged her friends, who wished her luck and told her not to worry. That would have been it, but for the sudden furore spreading like a storm in their direction. Shouts of protests arose from the crowds waving off loved ones or waiting for the next train.
‘Hey watch it, missus.’
‘I demand you stop that woman right now!’
The unmistakable figure of Hilda Harvey hurtled through the crowd, shoving people aside, knocking over suitcases and small children alike.
Maisie gave Phyllis a push. ‘Quick. Get on the train.’
One big step, and Phyllis was aboard.
Bridget slammed the carriage door, then stood side by side with Maisie forming a barrier between the departing train and Phyllis’s mother-in-law.
Wearing a furious expression, eyes glinting and frothing at the corners of her mouth, Hilda Harvey ignored the pair of them and waved her clenched fist over their heads. ‘Get off that train, you hussy. You’re a married woman! You’ve got no right going away. You’ve got a husband in the army.’
Bridget adopted a calm manner and soft but firm voice. ‘Mrs Harvey, whether Phyllis is married or single, it doesn’t matter. Women can join up if they want to.’
The threatening fist was lowered to wave at them.
Bridget backed off and found herself dangerously close to the gap between platform and railway carriage. Maisie grabbed her arm, pulled her back and then, like a terrier confronting a bull or a bear, stood defiantly between them.
‘Now just you listen, you crazy cow! Phyllis don’t belong to you and for that matter, your son don’t belong to you either! What they do is between them, so get off ’ome and leave ’er alone.’
Maisie had always been the outspoken one, but on this occasion her tenacity had taken even Bridget by surprise.
For a moment, Phyllis’s mother-in-law looked dumbstruck. Then suddenly she was lunging forward.
Maisie grabbed one of her arms and Bridget the other. Keeping a tight hold on her arm, Bridget did her best to dissuade her from continuing her wild onslaught.
‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s a free country.’
Maisie kept her mouth shut and used all her strength to hold Mrs Harvey back.
The carriage doors slammed with an air of finality. The train was about to leave the station.
All around them, people who had watched the scene with open-mouthed curiosity now turned their attention to the departing train, waving at loved ones leaning out of windows.
Only once it had built up sufficient speed and the tail end of the train had passed the sloping end of the platform did they release Hilda Harvey’s arms. If they thought that was the end of it, they were mistaken. Her poker face flushed with anger, Hilda rounded on them, pointing a sticklike, black-gloved finger to each in turn.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ she hissed, spittle flying from the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll be watching you two. Just you see if I don’t.’ She stormed off.
Bridget took a deep breath and suggested they wait a while before following her out.
Maisie grinned. ‘Old witch. I bet she’s got a broomstick outside. What a start to the New Year, eh?’
Bridget did not share her humour. ‘She lives in Bedminster.’
‘So she keeps her broomstick in Bedminster.’
‘I live in Bedminster and Phyllis’s mother lives in Bedminster, plus we both work in Bedminster.’
‘You’re worrying too much.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ mused Bridget as they headed for the
concourse.
‘Excuse me. Have you got platform tickets?’
The ticket inspector at the exit had a grim countenance and a stiff moustache.
‘Course we ’ave,’ said Maisie.
His steely gaze shifted to Bridget. ‘Both of you?’
They both said yes in unison.
‘Then show me.’
They both got out their penny platform tickets and the inspector eyed them disdainfully.
He nodded and looked slightly disappointed that they were entirely legal. ‘Right. You can go now.’
Bridget was relieved, but Maisie, who’d always had a less than trusting attitude for anyone official, questioned why he’d stopped them.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Maisie was having none of it. ‘Yes you do. An old witch with a poker face and a scratchy voice put you up to it. Ain’t that right?’
He cleared his throat and attempted to punch the tickets of people coming off the platform and heading for the concourse. ‘I was told you’d sneaked in without buying one.’
‘By a mad-looking woman in black?’ asked Maisie, her jutting chin and straight mouth emphasising the challenge in her voice.
‘Could be,’ he said and turned away.
‘Ain’t as though we told Phyllis to join up,’ said Maisie, her soft lips set in grim defiance. ‘She wanted to be near Sam. That’s the reason, ain’t it?’
Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s hope Mrs Harvey doesn’t find out about him!’
Maisie shook her head. ‘The army’s big and they’re marching about all over the place. Phyllis won’t ’alf be disappointed if she don’t get posted close to ’im.’
Bridget frowned as she thought about it. ‘At least she’ll be typing in an office, or so she reckons. It was always what she wanted to do so perhaps in time Sam might not matter so much as all that. Anyway, she’ll be way behind enemy lines so not likely to get shot.’
Maisie laughed. ‘Thought the same meself. Great minds think alike.’