by Maggie Ford
‘Serious, then, you and Ron Parrish?’ she asked Vera as she leaned over Addie’s pram, which she’d drawn up close to the table. They were eating in the back room for once and it made Brenda feel very special. Normally Saturday tea was eaten in the kitchen, with no one really sitting down for long; Vera and the two boys were usually eager to be out again for Saturday night’s enjoyment.
She laid a smear of margarine from her little finger on the baby’s lips, taking pleasure from the attention her child got as the lips smacked at the new taste, the china-blue eyes wide with what could only be seen as wonder.
‘Don’t want ter get ’er too used to our food yet, Brenda,’ said Mum, though she too enjoyed the lovely spectacle. ‘Spoil her meal, it will.’
‘It’s only a smear, Mum.’
‘Still feedin’ ’er OK? Plenty of milk?’
‘Plenty,’ Brenda told her proudly, but desisted from smearing any more marge on the little rosebud lips. Her mother watched the child adoringly before she turned her eyes to her daughter. They glowed with pride.
‘She’s a picture, luv. Yer’ve done well.’
Brenda prinked inwardly and bit into her jam sandwich, all she would take from Mum without spoiling her own tea when she got home.
‘What d’yer mean, Ron and me serious?’ queried Vera suspiciously. Her eyes on Brian, who was wont to torment her, she addressed Brenda in a low voice.
‘I mean is he the one?’
Vera coloured slightly and, suspicion fading, relented. ‘I ’ope so,’ she murmured.
Brenda hoped so too. It would be nice to see Vera settling down with a steady boy, and from what she’d heard of Ron Parrish, he was an easy-going sort who’d probably put up with her tantrums and carping enough for them to make a go of it.
It was a good couple of hours she spent there. Brian talked about where he was going this evening, to a dance apparently; Davy was going to the pictures with half a dozen other lads, Vera seeing her Ron. Mum and Dad would settle back in their armchairs by the fire once their children had gone out, keeping each other company, comfortably.
Brenda said her goodbyes long before the boys departed. Vera was already up in her bedroom, the one she and Brenda had once shared, getting herself ready for Ron when he called.
Brenda wouldn’t be seeing her family next weekend. She could have, as Harry was going away again for weekend training, but she intended to style a couple of heads on Saturday afternoon, and another on Sunday morning.
Of course she’d get dark looks from her in-laws when she and Harry went there the following Sunday. His mother would wonder aloud why she couldn’t have spared an hour or two for them on Saturday afternoon. But she’d face that when it came, smile sweetly and make some excuse.
They, like Harry, had no idea what she was up to, and the less they knew of it, the better. She didn’t want any arguments with Harry. Not until she had enough in her savings to proudly put in front of him when the time came, and so dismiss all his objections. While he was away playing soldiers, even though he was bringing in a little bit of money, this was her flat, her place, and when he wasn’t here she would do what she wanted in it.
Chapter Nine
Harry was worried out of his life. He was no hero, he knew that. He had been transferred into the proper army a couple of months back to be bellowed at by Sergeant Dodds, known with deep disaffection as Ole Doddy. Shaking in his boots he plunged the bayonet deep into the dangling straw sack seeing it as the enemy and believing it too with the protracted scream he was ordered to let out while hurtling full tilt at the thing. On manoeuvres, dodging real live bullets and real live grenades near enough to put the fear of God up him while real live shells burst in front of him and his mates in their headlong and erratic rush, designed to scare the shit out of him, he knew he was not a brave man. If this was as near to real live war as the authorities could make it, God help him when it did finally become real.
‘’Undred bleedin’ times worse!’ bellowed Sergeant Dodds in the ears of those returning exhausted, tottering and white-faced beneath the streaky camouflage of dirt.
August and the news was not good. Here in Aldershot he listened to men discussing excitedly how they were going to show them bloody Nazis a thing or two, and felt for those like himself who wished they’d never signed on at all.
How often she regretted what she had done. In moaning so much about her precious dream house she had pushed Harry to join the Territorials in the first place. But for that he’d be safe here at home. They trusted that if war came he as a married man with a kiddie would escape, at least for a while, being called up. It had been said earlier in the year that only unmarried men had been ordered to register. If war broke out maybe it wouldn’t last long enough for Harry to get conscripted.
Every time Brenda thought of it, she mentally wrung her hands and hoped against hope that it would all blow over like last time and he would come back, maybe even be discharged from the forces. Meantime she fretted, angry that she now had all the time in the world to carry on her little hairdressing business. She no longer had any heart for it, pining for Harry, reproaching herself that it was all her fault that he wasn’t here any more.
Perhaps writing and telling him she was doing hairdressing again might alleviate some of that remorse, like confession was supposed to do. Maybe he would understand the justification for it now that she was allowed only a soldier’s wife’s allowance, which gave her hardly enough to live on. He wouldn’t quibble, surely.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Joan Copeland advised her when she mentioned it to her over a cup of tea together. ‘Wiv ’im away, that’s all he needs, ter be told his wife’s bin doin’ somefink be’ind his back.’
‘You make it sound like I was being unfaithful,’ protested Brenda. ‘As if I was going out with someone else.’
‘It’d sound like the same fing to ’im,’ Joan said. ‘He didn’t want yer ter work, an’ you ’ave, be’ind his back. Ain’t that a bit like bein’ unfaithful?’
‘It ain’t the same at all,’ she murmured. ‘Every woman what’s got a man in the forces will ’ave to get work to make ends meet. They don’t give yer much to live on. You ’ave to. He knows that.’
But she didn’t write and tell him. And as August progressed she went back to doing hair with a slightly easier heart that she hadn’t.
It would have been with an even easier one if the news wasn’t so ominous. Polish troops, it said, were rushing to their border as Hitler now began demanding Danzig and the Polish Corridor dividing Germany from East Prussia, and demanding an end to the British and French pact with Poland. If that wasn’t a prelude to war, then what was? It seemed it could no longer be averted and Brenda, like everyone else, held her breath.
Five days later while Addie slept sublimely in her cot, the Copelands having popped over to support her following the announcement that the Prime Minister would speak of his failure to win peace, she and they sat in her flat tense and disturbed on the edge of their seats in front of her oval-topped, Bakelite wireless to learn that Hitler had cocked a snook at Britain’s threats, had invaded Poland and bombed Warsaw, and thus they heard the tired voice of Chamberlain issue through the speaker informing them that, ‘as a consequence, this country is now at war with Germany. We are ready.’
‘Oh, Joan . . .’ Brenda’s sigh was a low, drawn-out wail, her gaze flying to her small daughter, just eight months old and utterly defenceless.
Joan leaned forward as the voice died away, touched her hand, then with Brenda and Mr Copeland, stood up as the National Anthem boomed bravely into the room, its initial defiant roll of drums causing little Addie to start in her sleep and whimper briefly and fall quiet as all three looked at each other in silence, none knowing what to say. The silence seemed to go on forever, then abruptly cease with all the effectiveness of a thunderclap.
Brenda’s next utterance of, ‘Oh Joan!’ was an exclamation of even deeper fear as a thin wailing came to their ears followed by a nea
rer wail and a still nearer one as if it were stalking. This was the first time either of them had heard it but they recognised it immediately for what it was, just as wild prey instinctively know the meaning of a snapping twig. The women stiffened, the man swore. Breasts rising and falling in near panic they gazed towards the window and the man let out yet another epithet.
‘Bleedin’ air raid!’
Adrenaline rose in them as if for flight, but where?
‘Under here!’ yelled Brenda, and grabbing a half-wakened and now crying Addie, scrambled with her under the big Victorian table that had stood the test of fifty years’ continuous use, the sturdy top and the heavy, bulbous legs offering an immovable shelter.
Below in the street, people could be heard shouting, running, no doubt for the nearest communal shelter. Then all faded away to silence.
Under the table the three crouched, Addie making sure this room would not be anything like silent for the next twenty minutes, as Brenda did what she could to quieten her.
Distantly came another wail, this time one even note. The all clear! Creeping reassuringly nearer. Those under the table let out a great sigh of relief and crawled out. The street outside came alive; they heard voices talking animatedly, calling out, even laughing as Britain continued about its business.
‘Thank Gawd we’re all in one piece,’ breathed Joan. She turned to Brenda. ‘Look, we’d best be getting back ’ome.’ She didn’t add that they’d feel safer there, their own walls about them. She gazed at Brenda with something like appeal in her washed-out grey eyes as if for forgiveness that she was deserting her. ‘Yer do understand?’
Brenda nodded reassuringly. ‘Of course I do. I’ve got things ter do anyway.’
‘Yer sure yer don’t mind?’ Again Brenda nodded. ‘Yer’ll be orright?’
‘I’ve got to get something to eat, and feed Adele.’
Joan’s gaze dropped to the baby Brenda was still holding. ‘She’s a little dear. She took it all well, didn’t she? Well, I suppose being only a baby she’d know no diff’rent. Yer sure now?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Go on. And thanks ter yer both for coming in ter be with me.’
After dinner she had a lady coming whom Joan herself had put on to her, to have her hair trimmed. It would mean another few pence to add to her coffers. That was if the lady came now that war had been declared. But little could stop most women from wanting to look their best.
Brenda smiled, and with the others gone, got herself something to eat and gave Addie her bottle. Her own milk was fast drying up. After that she would lay down an old sheet to catch the trimmed hair, bring in a chair from the kitchen and set out the comb and scissors from her hair-dressing days. The scissors were sharpened by the old knife grinder who came round once a week.
It was mediocre work. How she longed for the days when she would give someone a lovely permanent wave, see the results all silky and bouncy. But she had no equipment for perming and no room for it, and no hairdryer. No room existed for that either, even if she could have afforded it. Maybe one day she would. All she could do was wash, dry with towels, trim, style and curl, using tongs laid to heat up across the gas ring.
The results were always appreciated and it was cheaper than a proper hairdresser’s. And sometimes a client would leave a little tip. It all helped, though in her heart she yearned to be able to do so much more. But even if she did have room, Harry would see it and not be too happy, feeling that his self-esteem was being undermined.
Brenda sighed and went out to the kitchen to wash up her dinner things and make everything nice and tidy ready to wash her first customer’s hair over the sink. Thank God she had an Ascot for hot water and the little metal hairspray she had found it necessary to spend a little of her hard-earned profits on. Swiftly she fished in the cupboard under the sink and brought out the spray to fit on to the Ascot’s nozzle.
Ethel Briggs would be here shortly. She was a young girl from across Bow Road who worked all week and went out all day Saturday. She came twice a week, Sunday afternoon ready for Monday, and on a Thursday evening ready for Friday and Saturday. She always requested the same style, her long blonde hair swept up from her small oval face, the curls pinned on top of her head. She brought her own hairpins though Brenda nearly always had to add a few from her small stock, for which she charged a little extra. No point giving them away – she’d had to buy them in the first place and it didn’t take long that way to eat into the savings.
Ethel Briggs said she modelled in a big store in the West End which was why she was hardly ever home. She never said which West End store, but she wore lots of vivid make-up, and Brenda, looking out of her flat window, often saw her getting out of a taxi quite late at night. She was beautiful. Oddly, Brenda had never seen her leave for work in the mornings, or had always managed to miss her.
After Ethel Briggs she would have Mrs Bickham, who came regularly every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine. Hers was a simple wash and trim, her iron-grey hair stiff and harsh, but Brenda suspected she came here mostly for the company. Mrs Bickham was a naturally chatty old soul and it seemed a terrible shame when such people lived alone. Poor old thing had lost her husband years ago in an accident where he’d worked in the docks. Fell into a ship’s hold, she said. She’d had one child who’d died young, and few of her family came to see her. Sundays could be long for those on their own and she really used these appointments as an excuse to fill an hour of the day. She always left a little tip. ‘Fer the pleasure of yer comp’ny,’ she’d say.
It made Brenda think of Harry; she too was alone these days. But she had Adele and she had her hairdressing, and she still had Harry even though he was away and could only come home when allowed. She thanked God for all three as she pushed the end of the hairspray tube on to the nozzle of the Ascot.
It was a mad rush to get everything put away out of sight. By the time Harry walked in the door and she flew into his arms full of joy at seeing him home on his weekend leave at the end of September, no one would ever have suspected what she had been doing in his absence.
Getting his letter last weekend she had hurriedly cancelled all three regular appointments for this weekend, steeling herself against her disappointed customers’ looks of pique and hoping they’d continue patronising her. After all, she cost a third of what they’d have to pay in a shop. She also prayed no one who might have been recommended to her and didn’t know what was going on this weekend would come tapping on her door on the off-chance of having their hair seen to. It did happen from time to time, thus her reputation was spreading.
She’d dusted and swept, searched every nook and cranny for tell-tale traces of hair snippings, had rearranged chairs, and, thinking of the tidy sum she’d accrued in her post office savings, hugged Harry in his rough-textured khaki uniform to her.
It was worth losing money to have him home, to cook for him and see him eat with relish what she had cooked, to have him look at little Adele and remark how she’d changed and grown in the weeks he’d been away.
He’d changed too. She could hardly take her eyes off him, he looked so well and fit. He’d filled out in a muscular way that made her shiver with delight, hardly able to wait for the time when they clambered into bed, together again.
‘Missed me?’ he whispered as he got in beside her. The house lay quiet. Adele slept. She was very good at night, there’d be no interruptions.
She felt solid muscle beneath the pyjamas. ‘What d’you think?’ she breathed, aware of the mounting excitement inside her.
‘I don’t know,’ he teased.
His voice had become lower, fuller, exciting her even more as she responded to his banter, teasing back, ‘Well I ain’t missed yer, so there!’ Then, because that sounded so awful, she pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms about him, adding hurriedly, ‘Yer don’t know just how much I’ve missed yer. I don’t know how I got through these last couple of months.’ And she meant every word of it.
‘Well I’m ’ere now,’
he murmured, his voice growing hoarse, and with bodies entwined time became lost in a tide of pleasure, relief, and finally, deep and utter contentment as they relaxed, the long absence forgotten.
‘We thought we’d pop in ter see yer, son. Didn’t fink yer’d ’ave much time ter come round ter see us on twenty-four hour furlough.’
‘They call it leave these days, Sid, not furlough.’
Harry opened the door to his parents’ knock, they came in talking as if picking up exactly where they’d left off when Harry had gone into the forces. No how are you, son? No welcome home, love. No glad to see you.
‘Brenda told me you was coming home this weekend when I came round on Wednesday.’
Mrs Hutton always dropped in to see her for a couple of hours on a Wednesday afternoon. Brenda made sure to keep that afternoon free of hairdressing appointments, since her mother-in-law still had no idea what she was doing. Had she known, she would have written to Harry about it, and Brenda guessed the way she’d have put it too: ‘Did you know your Brenda is . . . hasn’t she told you?’ etc., making it sound as though she’d caught her doing something underhanded. Brenda was sure she would receive no praise for her efforts to help swell the kitty. Perhaps she was being a little unkind, but she’d come to know Mrs Hutton by now, and was aware of her conviction that her daughter-in-law did nothing but harass her precious son.
‘I’m not being rotten, Mum,’ she confided in her own mother. ‘I ’ave tried to be nice. I must be turning into a right resentful whatsit, but she acts as if I’m always hounding him to get me own way. I ain’t. I just want us to ’ave something better than we’ve got. What’s so wrong about that? I feel she’s always judging me – the way I bring up Addie, that I come to see you more than I see her, for wanting a bit more out of life, all sorts of things.’
At least Mum was on her side. ‘Don’t tell ’er too much – that’s my advice,’ she cautioned.
But Brenda needed an ally, needed to explain how she truly felt. ‘I know I’m being selfish and I know she thinks I’m carping on about wanting my house so much. And I know there’s a war on and many of us’ll never get what we want. I know I should be thinking, “Let’s just get through this bloody war, that’s all”, but when it is over, I want to ’ave saved enough, or helped Harry save enough, for us to get that nice house. After all, even if this war is over by Christmas, I think we both will ’ave deserved something better. That ain’t a crime, Mum, is it, ter think like that?’