A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Trellis Street had seen three major events this year. In May there had been the street party for the coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth with the women bringing a little something to help fill the trestle tables they’d set up, with nearly fifty kids sitting down to sandwiches, cakes and jelly. The men had brought the beer for later, dragging a piano out from one of the houses for a sing-song and a booze-up.

  Earlier this year, in January, had been the funeral of Tim Goodings with whom she had gone out for a while when she’d been eighteen. He had died from pneumonia; that and TB ran rife among people with little money. His funeral had been done by the Co-op, a single hearse and one following car, all his family could afford from years of putting into the Co-op funeral divi.

  After the coronation do had come the still-talked-about fight between Mrs Cummings and Mrs McNab, one a fierce Cockney and one an equally fierce Irish woman, each yelling the other down, each as fast-talking as the other. It had ended with the two women rolling in the gutter, tearing out each other’s hair. The police had had to be called. Rumours had gone around but no one ever knew the rights of the argument. Something to do with kids – it usually was – ending up with both insulting the other’s husband. Arguments did go on, but never normally to the point of rolling in gutters and letting blood, no matter how little.

  Now there was to be a fourth event. Her wedding. On Saturday, the eleventh of September, she would emerge from her home, arrayed in shimmering white satin and step into the waiting car paid for by her father. All the neighbours would stand at their doors watching her go. They’d grin and wave and call good luck to her. And she would shine.

  Happy again, she craned her neck to see further down the street.

  ‘Hold still!’ came the command. ‘Stop wrigglin’ or I’ll end up gettin’ one of these bloomin’ pins in yer skin. Then yer’ll yelp. And stand up, will yer?’

  Brenda brought herself back to attention. Vera was still standing in the doorway, carping, glaring at her headdress. Brenda just hoped she’d cheer up on the big day.

  ‘Right!’ Her mother’s conclusive tone brought her sharply back to the fact that she was still balancing on the kitchen chair in the bedroom. ‘Does that suit your ladyship?’

  But Mum’s voice was kindly and Brenda dutifully looked down. Yes, that looked better. Much better.

  ‘Mum, you’re a marvel. You really are,’ she exclaimed and from the corner of her eye saw Vera’s nettled figure disappear abruptly from the doorway, the door closing with a sharp click behind her.

  Vera would be all right on the day, would smile with the others and cause no trouble to mar her sister’s wedding. And pink suited her fine. She would give that hair just the tiniest of tints to make it work.

  Chapter Two

  She lay in their new bed in their new flat, trying her best to come to terms with this new experience. And by his very lack of movement as he lay beside her, she knew Harry was doing the selfsame thing.

  It had been a lovely day, a perfect day, which had gone without a hitch. Although the church was crowded with family and neighbours and friends, more people than she had expected, only her and Harry’s immediate families – about all his parents’ house could hold – had been invited back for the wedding breakfast and party afterwards.

  The sun had shone without a break, the day had been just warm enough to be comfortable, almost balmy one could say. Everything had sparkled. The bridesmaids had been gorgeous. Vera had submitted to having her hair tinted a couple of shades darker than its natural blonde; she had said she liked it and was thinking of keeping it that way, though Brenda knew she wouldn’t – too much trouble and expensive as well for a girl earning only twenty-one bob a week as a shop assistant. But she and Sheila had looked truly lovely in that pink she had moaned about so much, both girls like two peas in a pod with such a strong family resemblance and their identical height.

  And Vera had smiled all through the ceremony, through the wedding breakfast too, finding herself attracting the attention of a friend of Harry’s brother and best man. Vera could be stunning when she smiled. Pity she didn’t do it more often, then maybe she’d keep a boyfriend. Boys went for her, invited her out, but after a while they’d drop her and find someone else. Brenda knew why – if she’d only stop carping about everything – but you could hardly tell her and upset her. Maybe one day she’d learn. But at least she had taken that one’s eye. They had been together the whole evening.

  ‘Did you see the way yer brother’s friend was looking at Vera?’ she whispered to the motionless figure beside her.

  His voice came low, muffled by the sheet pulled up around his chin despite the warm night. ‘I think ’is mate is sweet on ’er. Told me ’e was finking of asking ’er out.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Brenda said softly and lapsed into silence again, her eyes wandering about the room which was faintly lit by street lamps, closed curtains stirring in the night breeze that came through the half-open sash window.

  There were sounds too, making the room seem even more still: some way off a dog barking; faint passing footsteps from the pavement below, someone on their way home at this late hour; now and again a passing car, all public transport having long since stopped. She wished Harry would move or at least put his arm round her. He lay like a log. But she did understand. And they’d not long got into bed. It needed time.

  It had been traumatic to say the least, this business of actually going to bed. One could almost have described it as a shock to the system – it had been to hers. She still wasn’t sure what she for her part was supposed to do, having no example to go by. Mum had never told her the facts of life. ‘Just do what comes natural,’ she’d said sharply on being asked and had turned away, her narrow cheeks reddening – and she was now sure that Harry too hadn’t much of an inkling. She could be relieved that he hadn’t, proof that he’d had no experience with girls before her.

  Both she and Harry were innocents. Though it didn’t help now. If only someone, Mum for instance, had enlightened her just a tiny bit on what was expected of newlyweds. Maybe it was awkward for a mother to explain such things to her daughter. How would she explain when her own grew up and got married? It was a delicate subject, not easy to broach. Staring up at the faintly lit ceiling, Brenda silently forgave her mum.

  She remembered the girls at the factory where she had started work, at nearly fourteen. An uncouth lot, some of them. On one occasion someone had related having it off with a bloke and how she had handled the biggest dick you ever saw, her audience of five girls screaming with laughter and making comments of their own. Innocently she’d asked what was a dick and had been told to take a peek at a horse when it sees a mare.

  She had gone looking at all the horses she could find, those that pulled the coal carts and milk floats, but there was nothing to tell her what she should be looking for. Intrigued, she’d asked Mum and had seen that thin face go bright crimson. The next minute her mother’s hand had struck out and connected with her cheek in a sharp stinging smack. She was told to keep a ladylike tongue in her mouth and to shut her ears to the things filthy people said. It was years later, to her extreme mortification, that she finally discovered what it meant.

  The girls she had worked with at Alfio’s had been too nice to talk about anything crude or relate what they got up to with boys outside work – if they got up to anything at all. She had got married today knowing nothing and that too in its own way now seemed somehow mortifying.

  Did he feel the same? Was that why he lay so still and quiet beside her? Neither of them had looked at each other as they crept into bed; she felt very conscious of being in her new nightdress, of him being in his pyjamas. She had undressed in the living room, he in the kitchen. From there he had called softly, ‘Ready, Bren?’ and suddenly all pent up and shy, she’d replied that she was. He had already clicked off the bedroom light switch by the time she came in. They’d clambered into bed in the dark.

  So far, with the covers pulled u
p to their chins, he had kissed her, briefly, leaning over her, and had then fallen back into the position he still retained beside her.

  ‘Orright, Bren?’ he’d asked and she’d nodded vigorously so that he’d be aware of it if he couldn’t see her in the dark. Now they lay side by side, aware of each other’s closeness – or she was of his – neither of them with anything to say, and with each passing moment embarrassment grew, since neither of them felt ready to make the first move. Of course, it should be him to make it, not her. She lay wondering what was going to happen, and how, this consummation of marriage that the vicar had spoken of.

  It was ridiculous after all those evenings they’d said their goodnights to each other while they were courting, when he would cup her breasts in kissing her and she would love it, not drawing away, feeling the wonderful sensation that passed over her, even though a blouse or dress lay between his hand and her flesh. There’d been hardly ever more than that; she, determined to save herself for her marriage, had felt gratified that he hadn’t made too intense an advance. But they’d always been at ease with each other. Until tonight.

  From the start of their relationship she had been surprised by the diffident way he behaved. From his apparently knowledgeable attitude when she had first seen him with his mates, she’d taken him to be a bit of a woman-chaser and had hoped he’d behave himself on that first date. He had. He hadn’t even kissed her. Encouraged, she’d let him take her out the following Saturday to the pictures, at La Boheme, the big imposing cinema on the corner of Burdett Road. He’d seen her home to the top of her turning, and had actually asked if she’d mind him giving her a goodnight kiss. It had been that gentle and tentative kiss of his that had sent little needles of joy pinging through her, invoking the love she still felt for him.

  Harry hardly dared to breathe. His mind was in a whirl, indecisive, and he felt sick. Hell sometimes being a bloke. All right for a woman, all she had to do was wait her cue and follow his unspoken instructions. It was him what had to make the first move, and it was like jumping off a bloody precipice. Worse: with that all you had to do was jump, your lights going out as soon as you hit the ground. With this, you knew you’d be spending the rest of your blinking life forever being reminded of the bleeding blunder you made of it all.

  He’d never been a one for girls, not until Brenda. For all his displays of bravado, of discussing girls with his mates, they made him uneasy. They were wily and clever, got there before you and shied away making you feel a bloody fool. If they didn’t, they were all over you, scaring the life out of you.

  He had turned twenty-two before he found any real self-confidence to take on a girl seriously. The girl had been Brenda and after a couple of dates he’d seen no reason to change her. He was comfortable with her, and he was a man who preferred things easy. She was the sort a bloke could let do the thinking. He was proud of her too. She had everything: brains, looks, poise, bags of charm, and a sort of calmness about her. She was not your soppy sort who squealed and frisked about, showing a bloke up everywhere they went. Yet she could be the life and soul of a party. Everyone liked her. And now he was married to her. Now he must show how strong and virile he was, that he was boss . . . Well, not exactly boss, he didn’t think she’d stomach that, but worthy of his role as husband.

  He drew in a deep fortifying breath and felt her body grow taut. The nerve that breath was supposed to fortify collapsed instantly. What should he do now? If he put his arm under her head? That meant lifting it, making a big thing of it. Perhaps if he leaned over and kissed her again? He should never have lain back after kissing her that first time. Bugger it!

  To think of all the times he’d fumbled her breasts as they stood locked in each other’s arms inside her parents’ dark porch, hardly even daring to whisper in case her dad came to the door and hurriedly yanked her indoors, being protective of his daughter’s honour. As if they could do much inside a poky little porch! Or her mum would invite them in for a cup of cocoa before he went home. A real passion-killer, cocoa, as was her mum, nattering on, seeing him to the door when it was time to leave, saying to Brenda, ‘Now don’t stay out here too long, luv, yer dad an’ me want ter go ter bed.’

  What chance did a bloke have after that?

  Not that he’d ever have touched Brenda against her wishes. Naturally a girl wanted to be intact on her wedding day. It wouldn’t have bothered him if she wasn’t, so long as it wasn’t by some other bloke. But the truth of it was, he’d never had the courage, and God knows he had his needs all right, that tightening and swelling down there every time they said goodnight making him feel he might go potty if he wasn’t relieved. He’d go home feeling downright frustrated like he’d been dropped into a bucket of cold water. But he’d never given way to it. Imagine losing Brenda – and she’d certainly have given him his marching orders – it would have been the end of the world. Yet now, when it was all right to go all the way, he couldn’t even begin. Not so much as a stir down below.

  Nerves. If he made a hash of it, how would she react? He dreaded even thinking of it. The mere thought of her contempt, of maybe hearing her giggle, was a threat to his tackle. Soft as a bloody overripe grape. Something had to be done. He reached a hand across his body and felt his fingers touch the smooth, slippery satin of the nightdress just above her breasts. They felt so firm under his fingers. A split second later he heard, ‘Oh . . . Harry . . .’

  It took no more than that. She was in his arms and he at last felt in total command. This their first night as man and wife was grand, perfect. Apart from the business of hurriedly pulling on protection – she’d warned earlier that she didn’t want any babies too soon, not until they’d saved a bit – yes, it was great. How could he have been so blooming stupid as to even think it wouldn’t be?

  Brenda awoke with a tingle of excitement, but not because of their love-making last night. That hadn’t quite been what she had imagined, although she had not really known what it was she had expected.

  Lovely, of course, being explored all over, experiencing the thrill she had always felt whenever Harry held her close, his hand wandering as he kissed her, but surely there had to be something far more when a man and woman really became one, as it were?

  The sensation of him slipping himself inside her had for a moment been a bit alarming. In fact, she had found herself praying it wouldn’t do her an injury, which was silly because this had gone on ever since man walked the earth, and women had never come to any harm by it, had they? After the first thrill of his hands touching her there, it had sort of gone off, so she lay there while he did what he needed to do. Much more enjoyable had been the long and ardent kiss he had given her when he’d climbed back into bed after disposing of that thing he’d worn to stop babies happening. After that they had fallen asleep.

  No, this excitement stemmed from the anticipation of going off on the honeymoon this morning. The suitcase was already packed. And now would come the rush to catch the train to Eastbourne where they were spending a week before coming home next Saturday.

  Bringing herself fully awake, she gazed down at Harry, who was just beginning to stir. Her husband. It did seem funny, as if they had magically come by this state. He looked so handsome lying there. Pity to disturb him. In fact she could easily have sat here watching him forever.

  She dropped a kiss on his firm, narrow cheek. ‘Time to get up,’ she whispered, and saw him stretch, screwing up his face.

  ‘Ahh . . .’ He yawned mightily, then opening his eyes, he turned and smiled at her. ‘You orright, old gel?’

  She gave him a push. ‘Old gel? And us just married. Give us at least a chance to get old!’

  She leapt out of bed before he could catch her, even though it would have been nice to be caught and make love all over again. There wasn’t time. On the narrow mantelshelf over the tiny oval-topped firegrate, their new alarm clock, a wedding present from one of his aunts and uncles, showed eight fifteen. Its tinkling had woken her up but for some reason it hadn’
t been that loud and had ceased of its own accord. Well, cheap and cheerful, Harry would have to tinker with it later to make sure it behaved itself properly when he had to get up and go to work. But not until they returned from their honeymoon.

  ‘Come on, love,’ she scolded. ‘We’ve got ter be out in half an hour or so. Mustn’t miss our train.’

  She heard him singing in their bedroom as he dressed while she made the breakfast – her first-ever breakfast for them – a bit of bacon, egg, and fried bread. Mum had got in a few provisions on Friday before the wedding.

  Harry had got under her feet, washing and shaving in the sink behind her as she busied herself around the gas stove; he had said sorry several times. But it was lovely to know that this was how married life would be from now on, getting in each other’s way, saying sorry to each other.

  Breakfast was a rush, and the washing-up got done hurriedly. She put everything away tidily, and made a last-minute visit to the loo in the yard to empty out so as not to be caught out before getting on the train; her heart pounded from all the preparations to be off.

  Soon, once they had their going-away togs on, Harry carefully locked the door of the flat as if it was the most precious thing he would ever do, putting the key carefully into his pocket before picking up the suitcase.

  ‘You got our door key safe now?’ she asked.

  He grinned at her, which showed him to be very pleased with himself. ‘Yer saw me do it?’

  She grinned too, happy that he was happy. ‘Yes, but I just wanted to make sure you’d remember where you put it.’

  He took her arm with his free hand. ‘You leave it all ter me. Come on, let’s be orf.’

  He helped her down the iron staircase to the side gate that took them out on to Bow Road, very quiet at this time of a Sunday morning; in a way she was sad at leaving their home so soon for a whole week, but their honeymoon beckoned, and they needed to hurry. There weren’t that many tube trains running on a Sunday, though the excursion train to Eastbourne would be crowded on such a sunny morning. People would be taking maybe a last trip to the south coast before September with its uncertain weather put an end to any more days out.