A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  The only problem was Brenda, six weeks off having her baby. How would she feel about his plan? But if it brought in money towards the house she dreamed of, surely she’d not turn her nose up at him being away for the odd weekend here and there? He’d already tested one of his mates about it.

  ‘’Ow’s it work?’ he’d asked. ‘What do I do ter get in it?’ Bob Bennett had grinned knowledgeably, already in it. ‘Nuffink to it. Just sign up an’ yer do abart thirty-five drills a year. Yer does ’em in yer local hall an’ yer get paid attendance. Yer goes on a few weekend exercises. Yer goes away fer a couple of weeks trainin’, somewhere on the Yorkshire Moors or Dartmoor or the New Forest. Means bein’ away from ’ome, but it’s like ’avin’ a blinkin’ paid ’oliday really, a bit of adventure thrown in, away from the wife. And yer employer’s bound by law ter pay yer fer the time orf.’

  It sounded almost too good to be true, getting paid to attend, getting allowance money, enjoying a bit of adventure at the same time: a two-week holiday once a year, paid for. He’d never been paid for holidays in his life apart from Bank Holidays. Some jobs paid their workers three days’ holiday, but his wasn’t that kind of job. Here a holiday was recognised, but you took it at your own expense. Joining the Territorial Army, his employers had to honour his wages even though he wouldn’t be there working. It sounded like paradise. But first he must speak to Brenda, see what she thought about it. She couldn’t help but agree. After all, it was as safe as houses now the fear of war had receded, and to think of that extra dosh coming in. How could she not agree?

  Dinnertime at the Wilson household was always a big thing. Dad, Vera, Brian and Davy all worked close by, and all came in for their midday dinner around one o’clock.

  Today Brenda had joined them but planned to stay on after they’d gone back to work for the afternoon. If she got back home on the bus around four thirty she’d be in time to cook Harry’s evening meal. Allowed only half an hour at midday, he took sandwiches and she would have a lovely big steaming hot meal waiting for him in the evening, come rain or shine. He worked so hard, he deserved really good food.

  Today she needed to talk to Mum on her own, with no interference from the rest of the family. Mum would advise her properly. Meantime she let herself join in the light-hearted conversation around the kitchen table.

  But Vera, who had come in well after the others and who chattered on after they’d left, seemed in no hurry to get back to work. She too had taken up hairdressing, though not at Alfio’s but a so-called beauty parlour where she was learning mostly to do nails. She took staggered dinnertimes and the place where she worked was very near so she saw no reason to rush away until the last minute.

  ‘Bet you’ll be glad when the baby’s born, Bren.’ She eyed her sister’s bulging middle, Brenda had only five more weeks to go. ‘I’m really looking forward to being an auntie.’

  Brenda smiled indulgently. ‘How’s Oliver?’

  ‘Oliver?’ Vera looked puzzled for a second. ‘Oh, him!’ Emphasis was laid on the ‘him’ in somewhat refined disdain. Vera had started speaking a lot better since starting at a beauty parlour. ‘I’m not going out with him any more. I gave ’im up at the beginning of autumn.’ She still slipped now and again. ‘Well, we just parted company really. I’m going with Alfie Woodman. Me and his sister is friends at work and we went dancing together. That’s how I met him. He’s a lot diff’rent from Oliver, lots more lively.’

  ‘You like him then?’ What she really wanted to say was, ‘I suppose he’ll last about as long as Oliver did.’

  Obviously Vera’s natural bent for fault-finding would have driven him away. But a glow had begun to touch her sister’s cheeks. Vera was in love. Perhaps for the first time. Brenda hoped so. She was dying to see her settle down. Or even Davy. It was a bit exacting being the only married one in the family. She wanted company so that she could discuss husbands, children.

  ‘Mum said I can bring him here after Christmas dinner,’ Vera was gabbling on. ‘You coming to us for Christmas Day, Bren? Yer’ll meet ’im.’

  Brenda parried the question. ‘Aren’t you going ter be late back to work, Vera?’

  It would be Christmas Day with Harry’s people this year. She wasn’t looking forward to it. She now wished she had spent it with Harry’s people last time, then she would have been coming here this year. It would be awful not sitting down to Christmas dinner with them, them carrying on without her.

  Vera had glanced up at the clock on the mantelshelf over the kitchen fireplace. It was only a fireplace these days; the old gleaming blackleaded range the girls had known as children had gone and an efficient modern gas stove now replaced it.

  ‘Gawd! Look at the time! Mum, you should of said. I’m gonna have ter run all the way.’ She was up from the table, grabbing her coat, hat and handbag off the empty clothes horse where she’d drape them when it was not in use for airing at the start of the week. ‘I’ll see yer soon, Bren. See yer ternight, Mum.’ She was off, the front door making the whole house shiver as it slammed after her.

  In the peace that descended with her exit, Mum got up and poured them another cup of tea. ‘How’s Harry, then?’

  It was significant that she made no reference to Christmas Day. Brenda’s reply was automatic. ‘He’s all right – same as always.’

  Dispelling what had become air one could have cut with a knife, now was the time to embark on the subject she’d been waiting to confide to her mother. ‘It’s Harry I need ter talk to you about.’

  She squared her chair to face her. ‘Mum, Harry’s gone and done something I’m not sure which way to take . . .’

  ‘He ain’t playin’ abart!’

  ‘No-o-o.’ Despite herself Brenda had to smile at the question shot at her. ‘No, Mum, he’s gone and joined the Territorials.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Territorial Army, the TA. About two weeks ago he asked me what I thought about him doing it. He explained about him having ter spend some weekends away from me and p’raps two whole weeks away training.’

  Her mother put down the teapot and sat down, drawing her cup towards her, her eyes never leaving her daughter. ‘But ’e knows yer goin’ ter have the baby in a few weeks. ’ow can ’e go orf and play soldiers at a time like that? What did you say?’

  ‘What you’ve just said. I told him to at least wait till I had the baby. An’ I said too that it remained ter be seen if he should do it even then. I might be needing ’is help once it’s born. Trouble is, ’ow can I not let ’im? It’s the only way he’s ever going ter bring in any extra money. He ain’t skilled enough to go finding any other better-paid job, and it do look like we could be stuck in that flat of ours forever. This way he can save a bit towards a better ’ome fer us all. That’s what I want, Mum, somewhere better to live. I’m beginning to hate it there. But him taking me by surprise I went off the deep end at him. We had a row. The next day he just went and signed on.’

  ‘You was still at loggerheads next morning?’ Her mother scrutinised her, aghast. ‘I’ve always said never leave the ’ouse or go ter bed wivvout makin’ up.’

  Brenda fell silent. Trust her to worry over something unimportant when something far more crucial was at stake. Yet what was she consulting Mum for? Harry had already signed on. Whatever she or Mum thought, it was too late. He couldn’t unsign himself. She just wanted Mum to agree that it had been the wrong thing to do without getting her proper agreement first.

  Her mother reached for her hand across the table. ‘Don’t blame ’im, luv. He thought ’e was doin’ ’is best. Ain’t as if ’e’s goin’ orf ter war, now, is it? An’ it might do yer both good, ’im doin’ somethink. Sometimes I fink you two are thrown too close ter one anuvver in that poky little flat of yours. Do yer both good to be apart every now an’ again. Absence makes the ’eart grow fonder, yer know. An’ you’d get a bit of time to yerself too. Maybe see a few friends. You ain’t ’ad enough friends since yer married. Look up some of ’em yer wor
ked wiv. Or join a muvvers’ club. There are some around, talking abart their kids. Yer might find yerself an ’obby. Yer could even take in a couple of people wot wants their ’air cut an’ styled a bit cheaper, an’ make a bit of money on the side.’

  ‘Harry don’t want me to do that,’ Brenda said quickly. When he had put up barriers on her suggestion of returning to hairdressing, before she’d had the baby, she had suggested perhaps doing a bit at home to help their income. He had put his foot down to that as well, morose and tetchy, his manly pride dented with her implication that he was unable to keep them.

  ‘I ain’t havin’ my place turned into an ’airdresser’s, me stuck in the kitchen while you muck about wiv someone’s ’air in ’ere. Every Tom, Dick and ’Arry traipsin’ through, bits of ’air and wet towels everywhere.’

  Yesterday she’d raised the question again. ‘I just want to help us get a proper house some day. On one of them council house estates.’

  He’d shook his head as if she was touched. ‘All that way out, yer’d be moaning abart bein’ on yer own all day while I’m in London at work. Yer’ve read in the papers abart them suburban ’ousewives getting depressions what they’re calling the suburban blues, no one ter talk to except listen ter the bloody wireless all day.’

  ‘Oh, trust the papers ter make a big thing,’ she’d broken in angrily. ‘There must be thousands really ’appy on council estates, all that country around ’em, but the papers find the odd neurotic sort. And you believe ’em!’

  He had remained stubborn. ‘All our family’s ’ere. Before long yer’d be cryin’ ter come back ter London sayin’ yer never see no one. And me wasted me money. That’s if I ’ad money ter spend on an ’ouse in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t see no one now,’ she’d argued. ‘All I’ve got is the wireless for company when it comes down to it, till you get home at night.’

  ‘Yer can still see yer family a couple of times a week. Me mum visits yer. We see them at weekends, or your people. Stuck out at Dagenham yer won’t see a bloody soul. No one’s gonna afford ter go all that way. Yer’ll be isolated. An’ anuvver fing. It ain’t just the rent, it’s the fares fer me ter get back and forwards ter work. I’d ’ave ter buy a bike and cycle twenty bloody miles fer the perishin’ job I’m in. It ain’t worth it.’

  ‘You could get a job locally,’ she’d pleaded. ‘They put up industry to go with housing estates so men won’t have ter travel to London.’ But he’d had enough of arguing.

  ‘There ain’t no way I’m gonna risk it, Bren. Not wiv a baby comin’. An’ I’m not ’avin’ you goin’ back ter work, even in this flat – me a laughin’ stock. I won’t ’ave it. And that’s it!’

  She had flared up. ‘Right! We’ll stay ’ere! We’ll bring up a kid in this cramped little hole and never let it enjoy any fresh air or anythink. Is that all I matter to you – me and the baby? So long as you get your way.’

  ‘Yer do matter ter me,’ he’d yelled back. ‘You and the baby!’

  ‘Then do somethink ter make me believe it!’

  ‘I will,’ he’d bawled at her and had flung himself out of the house, going off to work.

  All day she had pined and fretted at what she’d said to him, letting him go off without them making it up. That evening he’d come back with his shoulders hunched. He’d said sorry about the argument. She’d apologised too, had kissed him tenderly, but it had still rankled. She knew he would never let her go ahead with her scheme to make a bit of money, and she did not care to raise it again in case it provoked another row. It was then that he had told her what he’d done.

  ‘Did it in a fit of temper, I s’pose,’ he had said by way of excuse as she stared at him, too flabbergasted to take it in properly.

  ‘I know I’m not good enough for yer,’ he’d said, his face glum as she continued to stare. ‘It’s the only way I could see of makin’ some extra. The only way I can see of yer getting yer ’ouse some day. I’ll put every penny of the allowance and stuff away and p’raps by next year or so we can move.’

  ‘Oh, Harry . . .’

  Everything else had been forgotten. What he said had struck at her heart. Even the shock of being told what he had done had been erased as she hurried to cuddle him, crying out, ‘Oh, love you are good enough for me. I love you. I’d never of married you if I ’adn’t thought yer good enough.’

  Only when they’d gone to bed had it all sunk in, but she had had no wish to raise it then, with him snoring gently beside her.

  Now talking to Mum it came back to her, as it did then, and maybe unfairly, that he might have done it solely to stop her thinking about doing a bit of hairdressing, even at home, and crushing his self-esteem. Yet she couldn’t blame him. He needed to have his pride, like any man. And the very second the notion of him being selfish came back to her, she wanted to hit herself for thinking such unfair thoughts of him. It was as Mum said, he was trying to do his best.

  Chapter Six

  Brenda’s grin was one of affectionate mockery as she eyed her younger brother’s sullen face. ‘What’s the matter, Brian? Girlfriend let you down?’

  It was Boxing Day. Mum had got over the pique she felt about Brenda coming here today instead of yesterday, but fair’s fair, Brenda debated. Now, with dinner over, washing-up done, and all her immediate family congregated round the cheery front-room fire, Mum was content and glad to have her here.

  Brian grimaced at his sister, his face like a kite.

  ‘I got toofache,’ he said glumly and now the slight swelling on one side of his face became apparent to all, though it had been apparent to his mother since the day before yesterday.

  ‘Yer should get that seen,’ she advised as she cut slices from the Christmas cake already begun yesterday. ‘I told yer, ’ave it seen to before Christmas or yer’ll suffer all over the ’oliday. No one’s goin’ ter look at yer at Christmas. Yer’ll ’ave ter ’ave an hour orf work termorrer and ’ave it done.’

  Brian’s grimace became even more pronounced, but his mother was handing her eldest daughter a piece of the cake, having already dismissed his problem.

  ‘Yer’ll take a bit of this ’ome with yer, Bren, or I’ll ’ave it ’anging about fer ages. Davy don’t eat it. Nor do Vera – watching ’er figure.’ She looked across at her other daughter who was roasting chestnuts by the fire, then glanced again at Brian. ‘And ’e won’t eat any wiv a tooth like that. It weren’t the same not ’aving you round ’ere yesterday, Bren.’

  Brenda looked up sharply from the cake she was nibbling, Christmas cake as only her mother could make it, heavy and moist with fruit and spices, bitterish-sweet and so laced with brandy that its fumes gushed up the nose well before being tasted. ‘I told you, Mum, it’s only fair ter—’

  ‘Of course it’s only fair, luv, but it don’t make it feel no better. I was just saying, that’s all.’ Her voice low, she looked across at Harry chatting in front of the fire with his father-in-law. ‘Next year yer’ll be wiv us.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brenda agreed readily. She too wanted that.

  ‘An’ we’ll ’ave the baby too. Ter fink it’ll be nearly a year old by then. Funny ’ow time goes. Me an’ yer dad grandparents. Makes me feel quite old.’ Mum came to sit down beside her. ‘What d’yer ’ope for, luv? A girl or a boy?’

  Brenda smiled dreamily, conflict over Christmas left behind. ‘I don’t mind really, s’long as it’s all in one piece. A boy I s’pose, fer Harry. He’d like a boy. But it don’t really matter, do it, s’long as it’s all there and ’ealthy.’

  ‘Ow-w-w . . .’ Brian’s moan took her mind off their conversation. His father glanced sorrowfully towards him while Vera went on blithely picking hot chestnuts off the little fireplace shovel she was using as a griddle, and Davy looked up from the crossword he was doing in last Friday’s newspaper to grin unsympathetically.

  ‘He’d rather put up with bags of agony than go orf ter the dentist. Yer a right little coward, Bri, ain’t yer?’

  Br
ian glared at him, fingering the swollen cheek. ‘All right fer you. You ain’t got ter go an’ sit in that dentist’s chair.’ But Davy gave a mocking guffaw.

  ‘I’d be there like a shot. What’s the point sufferin’ when yer can do somefink ter stop it? Yer got ter look it straight in the eye, Bri, yer coward. That’s what you got ter do.’

  Davy, always covertly proud of his willingness to look everything straight in the eye, still glowed from his earlier intention to go and fight in Spain against the fascists. But that was over. General Franco held sway. There was Hitler now to contend with, although Britain was sitting back in the glow of Peace In Our Time. But if the call to arms did come he’d be first in line to join up. He didn’t see much point in joining the TA as Harry had done. Harry had only done it to get a bit of extra money for his family. As he had only himself to keep, with a decent-paid job what did he want going off to play soldiers? He preferred the real thing.

  Brian took his hand from his cheek to round on Davy. ‘Well, it ain’t you’s got toofache, is it?’ And immediately returned to nursing the cheek.

  Brenda looked at him in sympathy. She knew, they all knew, what a raging toothache was like – the unending hours of grinding agony, which even so were easier to endure than the visit to the dentist, where the evil, suffocating almond smell of raw rubber from the mask would ever be associated with that whirling sensation in the brain as the gas entered the body, all provoking a momentary sense of panic before oblivion took over. She could understand how Brian preferred to suffer a little longer until pain finally drove him there. And to have it over Christmas as well, with the house full of family members all being jolly – it had been quite a gathering at Mum’s this year and Brenda ached at having missed out.