A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  She shivered visibly, particularly touched now that she had a child of her own. So did Brenda, her thoughts turning to four-year-old Addie who this time next year would be at school herself. She consequently felt the weight of those tiny deaths perhaps more than Daphne did with her baby only five months old and not really a person yet.

  ‘I had a letter from Harry yesterday,’ she said to rid herself of feelings of dread. She adopted a tone of peevishness. ‘Written before Christmas. I don’t know what they do with our letters. He don’t get mine regularly either.’

  ‘It’s the war,’ Daphne said simply, and losing interest left it at that. Putting her ticket into her handbag she began gazing attentively as best she could towards the opposite window beyond the cluster of bodies standing in the aisle as their bus with its miserable pinpoints of dim blue lighting began to near familiar home ground. This had to be estimated more by instinct than sight, for outside the windows there was only complete and absolute darkness as though no world existed beyond them.

  Something in the back of Brenda’s mind still leapt with anticipation at the flap of the letter box followed by the postwoman’s sharp rat-tat-tat in the mornings. It was usually a postwoman these days with so few men other than elderly ones around.

  She would make her way casually to pick up the post, bills usually, in their once, sometimes twice-used envelopes, sometimes an air letter from Harry bearing the unfeeling inscription ON ACTIVE SERVICE. But casual though she tried to be about it, there was no ignoring those brief heart-thumping seconds of hope that one day there might, just might, be a word from John.

  It was now July. It would soon be a year since the day he’d appeared at her shop door. She should by now have put him from her mind but it wasn’t that easy with the memory of that evening still lingering. Life, other than the joy her salon gave her, had become empty and humdrum. Those weekly Saturday night jaunts to the pictures with Daphne had come to a full stop. Daphne’s baby, Robert, now on hands and knees, got into everything so that Mrs Hutton was not quite as rosy about giving eye to him these days. As a result outings had become few and far between.

  All there was to look forward to each week was going to see her parents, going to see her in-laws, perhaps popping in to Daphne now and again for a chat. More than often this would be interrupted by Daphne running after little Robert as though the least movement away from her side would be his last. And of course she had the pleasure of waiting on Harry’s letters.

  Harry hadn’t come home as she’d hoped. Once the North Africa campaign had been won, he and his lot had got sent straight on into Sicily. The greatly acclaimed Desert Rats did not have any leave granted in reward for all they’d gone through.

  By the sound of his letters Sicily appeared a walkover compared to North Africa, but it still kept him away from her and Addie.

  ‘Like your daddy said,’ Brenda would say to her. ‘You won’t know him by the time he does come home.’

  She would show her the photos he sent, of him all sunburnt and smiling with eyes squinting against the fierce Mediterranean light, his wide-brimmed hat cocked, his knees bared in shorts as he posed alone or with mates against a dry backdrop of flat white houses or pale bleached rocks or in the shade of a gnarled olive tree. He sent home little local gifts for Addie: a tiny handwoven doll or a pretty coloured raffia bag, and some locally made bits and pieces for herself: a leather handbag amateurishly stitched, a leather purse, a brooch.

  She’d tell Addie, ‘Daddy sent this,’ and would point him out in the photos he sent. ‘This one’s Daddy. Say Daddy. This one here. Say Daddy, darling.’

  Dutifully, Addie would repeat ‘Daddy,’ parrot-fashion, but Brenda could never be certain if the word held any meaning for her. It was sad. It was hateful. It was this blasted rotten war!

  Retrieving the mail that had been shot through the shop door, which was easier for the postie than climbing the iron staircase, Brenda picked out in a rush of gladness the flimsy blue air letter of Harry’s from among the business stuff. It was then that she glimpsed another envelope, her name and address handwritten on its usual washed-out wartime paper.

  Harry’s letter forgotten, Brenda stared at it, turning it in her hands in an effort to guess its contents. Her heart had begun beating against her ribs with sickening thuds. The postmark looked faint and smudged, impossible to tell where it had been posted.

  Well, read it! Urged an angry voice in her head, yet it took her a while to acknowledge it, until with feverish fingers she finally had to force herself to tear open the flap.

  There was a single sheet of cheap lined notepaper. Unfolding it, she began to read with growing disappointment and anger. It was from her sister, the handwriting frantic. Not even beginning with ‘Dear Brenda’ but merely ‘Brenda’, it launched straight into the plight in which Vera found herself.

  I’m in a terrible mess. I’ve written to you because you’re the only one I can turn to. I’m being slung out of the forces because I’ve got myself pregnant. It’s not Hank’s fault. We got carried away and we forgot to take the usuals. When nothing happened I supposed we started to get careless and then it did happen. I didn’t tell anyone but now I’m four months and the MO had to examine me. She tore me off a right strip and wanted to know who the father was, but I’ve not said because I didn’t want to get Hank into trouble.

  I hoped we could be married. He’d get permission from his commanding officer and we could make the baby legitimate. But now he’s been sent overseas and I don’t know where he is. He said he’d write and I’m still waiting for a letter.

  I’m in a terrible state and I’m at my wits’ end. I’ll have to come home but I can’t face telling Mum. I don’t know what she’ll say and how she’s going to take it. I don’t know what to do. I’ll be home in a few days and I wondered if I can come and live with you and if you could break the news to Mum.

  I know I can’t keep the baby. I mean how will Mum and Dad face their neighbours with me all out in front and everyone knowing I’m not married? They’ll point the finger and say there goes another tart got herself up the spout with a GI.

  It’s not fair, Hank and me love each other and I know he’s going to write once he is where he’s being sent to. But I don’t want Mum to have to bear the brunt of wagging tongues, so that’s why I wondered if I could come and live at your place. At least till the baby’s born. I suppose I should of sorted out some way to of got an abortion, but it’s Hank’s baby and I love him – I couldn’t of done that to him.

  We will get married, when the war’s over, or when he comes back, but he could even be sent straight home to the States for all we know. I’m in such a mess. Please help me Brenda. Love, Vera.

  And here she had been expecting it to be a letter from John as she opened it. Her heart wrenched by disappointment, Brenda had to steel herself to think about her sister. How could she not help her? Nor could she bring herself to condemn her, knowing how exquisite, and foolhardy, it was to love someone so much that thought of the possible consequence fled in the heat of a moment. Hadn’t she imagined she would never be caught out, and had she not almost rued it? No one had a right to point a finger at Vera, for there but for the grace of God . . .

  After her day’s work, and with Addie abed, Brenda wrote to Vera that, yes, there was a bed for her here for as long as she wanted, and yes, she would break the news to Mum, and she wondered even as she promised all these things, why she took on such problems. She only hoped that had anything like that happened to her, there’d have been someone there for her.

  ‘I don’t want nothink ter do with ’er. She ain’t no daughter of mine!’

  This burst forth from Dad, smoking one cigarette after another, just as Brenda was doing at this very moment in an effort to relieve her tension.

  ‘Dad, she is yer daughter,’ she began, but her mother intervened.

  ‘You come and tell us news like this, Bren, and yer don’t expect us ter be upset? ’Ow could yer come tellin’ us news li
ke this?’

  ‘Mum, it’s not me what’s having the baby!’ Brenda shot at her.

  It calmed her mother and she lowered her voice. ‘No, of course not, Bren,’ but immediately she went back to her strident tone. ‘But ’ow could she go askin’ yer ter do ’er dirty work for ’er. She goes and gets ’erself in a state like that and leaves it ter ovvers ter sort it out fer ’er. Ain’t got the courage ter face us, that’s what.’

  ‘She knew yer’d go off half-cocked, like yer doing now,’ said Brenda, growing angry herself.

  ‘Can yer wonder at it?’ cried her mother. ‘Me wiv a daughter what’s got ’erself pregnant and then expects everyone ter welcome ’er ’ome with open arms an’ say, “There ducks, we ain’t angry, just come in and we’ll let all the neighbours know our business when you start paradin’ around like ’alf the size of a barrel, you go a’ead and ’ave yer baby ’cos we don’t mind.” If she expects that, then she’s gonna get the biggest shock in the world.’

  ‘She won’t be coming home here,’ explained Brenda. ‘I’ve promised to put her up at my place.’

  ‘Then yer a bloody fool! Takin’ on a fing like that, yer a bloody fool! But then you always was,’ said her dad, stubbing out his cigarette and with tense fingers starting to roll another while Brenda herself extracted a tailor-made one from an already half-empty packet.

  She didn’t want to smoke any more. Her throat was dry from it, but it was the only thing she could think of to keep her from tears as he continued, ‘And don’t fink yer can blackmail us inter takin’ ’er in because you can’t cope, because I’m done wiv ’er,’ and Mum looked sad but nodded.

  Later, Dad having gone off to his allotment, it being Sunday, probably to nurse his chagrin, Brenda and her mum were able to talk a little more rationally.

  ‘Vera’s being a fool ter believe this Yank bloke is goin’ ter keep in touch,’ Mum said as they sat on at the table over an after-dinner cup of tea. ‘Everyone knows they’re the love ’em and leave ’em sort. I mean, what ’ave they got ter lose, them from another country thousands of miles away. They can go back there after the war and forget all about the kids they left be’ind.’

  She fiddled with the tablecloth, rolling it continuously between her fingers and thumbs in a nervous motion. ‘I know I sounded terrible, talking about Vera that way. I still love ’er. She’s me daughter. But I can’t ’ave ’er bringin’ ’ome shame like that. Can yer just imagine it, ’er all out in front and the neighbours talking be’ind our backs. I couldn’t look no one in the face, as much as she’s me daughter. But I’m worried. What’s she goin’ ter do? ’Ow’s she goin’ ter cope on ’er own wiv no ’usband, the baby without no father? ’Ow will she live? She’ll never be able ter hold ’er ’ead up.’

  Brenda leaned forward and covered her mother’s hands with one of her own, stopping their fiddling. ‘Look, Mum, she’s going to stay with me. I’ll look after ’er. We ain’t got that many neighbours to worry about, so she’ll be all right. And once the baby comes, Vera can help me in the salon. I’ll teach her. She always did want to be a hairdresser. So now’ll be her chance.’

  ‘It’ll ’ave ter be adopted,’ went on her mother as though she hadn’t heard. ‘She’ll never find ’erself a bloke ter marry, ’er with a baby in tow.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  There had been tears from Vera when she arrived looking peaky and downcast. There had been abject apologies for putting her sister to so much trouble. There had been profuse gratitude, and promises not to make too much of a nuisance of herself. There had been recriminations, not from Brenda but from her family, aunts talking aside or covertly seeking details if the family met, the uncles openly ignoring the business, cousins smirking. Brenda had kept very quiet about it to Harry’s family and although they finally did find out, none of them actually referred to it.

  She wrote to Harry about it, because after all, Vera was living in his flat. He wrote back saying that she couldn’t go on staying there once he was home. Brenda did not reply to that, deeming it best to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Perhaps by the time he did come home for good, Vera would have sorted herself out.

  Vera proved to be no trouble. She had heard from her Hank and was reassured of his continuing love. His letters came from Italy where he was fighting the Germans, Italy having signed an armistice with the Allies early in September. Harry too was now in Italy so she and Vera had plenty to talk about. It was good having her here giving eye to Addie while Brenda worked; Mrs Page would no longer be needed, which helped save money.

  But as time progressed Vera, waddling about the flat with increasing awkwardness, talked of being cooped up and trapped. She had grown enormous and wasn’t carrying her baby easily, so Mum was more often there than not.

  ‘I think you should go back to the doctor’s to be checked out,’ Brenda advised. ‘You look far too big for just one baby to me.’

  Vera had mentioned that at one time Hank had spoken of twins being prevalent in his family.

  ‘What if you was carrying twins?’

  Vera looked aghast. ‘I can’t be! You can’t look after two of ’em!’

  Some time ago Vera had become agitated at talk of her baby being adopted, saying it was his baby, she’d told him about it, he wanted to keep it and so did she. She’d refused to see that it was out of the question. But Brenda and Mum had sneaky feelings that for all his letters, when it came down to it he’d chicken out, go home to Illinois and peace of mind to settle down and marry some nice untarnished American girl from his home town.

  In the end, taking pity on her, Brenda had been fool enough to remark that she might be able to take the baby on while Vera went looking for a job or helped out in the salon. She’d immediately regretted it as Vera took it as gospel. She settled back in relief, saying that the baby could always be passed off to any outside nosy parkers as one Brenda was fostering for someone, having a natural affection for children and a need for a bit more money. Brenda had been taken aback by her assumptions, but hadn’t said much until by now it was too late. Maybe she could manage, she had speculated. But twins?

  ‘If it turns out that way, I couldn’t look after two, Vera.’

  The result was wailing and weeping and flopping about the flat in lethargic misery. But Brenda was resolute. She couldn’t take on two babies. Not in a million years. If it did turn out to be twins, then the solution must be the more painful one. Hank or no Hank, they would have to be adopted. Brenda steeled her heart to it as, still tearful and full of fear, Vera allowed herself to be carted off to the doctor who’d been keeping a check on her, making sure she was drawing her allowance of vitamins and doing all she’d been told to do. All this occurred without a bat of an eyelid at her unmarried state though Vera made a point of visiting him as little as possible, even missing appointments if she could.

  But when at his expert probing twins were confirmed and Vera went ashen-faced, all Brenda’s resolve melted. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ was all she could say on the way home, at the same time biting her tongue that she was in actual fact already committing herself with those five small words as her sister’s face regained its natural colouring, her blue eyes glowing again.

  Within an hour of getting home, Vera was writing of the good news to her Hank.

  *

  Just one more day to go to the birth. Mum was coming round early, despite the cold January morning, so as to stay with Addie should anything happen and Brenda be needed to go in the ambulance with Vera to the hospital.

  ‘Yer usually late with yer first one,’ she predicted. ‘But just ter be on the safe side, I’d better stay on overnight. Yer dad’ll be orright on ’is own.’

  That morning before Mum got here, Brenda went down to open up. Young Joan, now nearly sixteen, had been promoted a while ago to washing hair, and under Brenda’s tuition was proving herself skilled at cutting and setting so long as it wasn’t complicated. There was now another young girl, Betty, to sweep up, clean sink
s and make tea for any customer bringing a little from out of their own rations. Brenda had wisely avoided taking any appointments for perms or other jobs that might tax Joan’s new skills until after Vera had given birth, though it meant losing money.

  With Joan and the other girl still to arrive, Brenda was contemplating making herself a quick cup of tea when the post flopped through the letter box. Leaving the gas unlit beneath the kettle, her heart going pitter-patter, she hurried to the door with her usual hope that one day there’d be a letter from John among it, though she told herself it was Harry’s letter she was really awaiting. That way it made her feel better.

  There was no letter from Harry, but there was an envelope of decent quality paper addressed to her personally, typewritten and with the name Duncan, Simpson and Peaking, Solicitors, etched in faded wartime ink across the top.

  Why should unfamiliar solicitors be writing to her? Quickly she ripped it open, thinking as she did so that she should have paused to find the paper knife so as to save the envelope for re-use. Slightly bemused, she opened the single sheet with its heading in the same faded ink and found herself being requested to attend these people’s offices in Leytonstone where she would hear something to her advantage. The letter went on to explain that the writer was acting for the late John Edward Stebbings of a Leytonstone address which she recognised instantly as the house John owned. But it was the single word ‘late’ that leapt out at her, hitting her like a hefty punch between the eyes.

  Hardly able to breathe, she sank down on one of the chairs facing the mirrors, her legs too weak to bear her weight. Her half-focused reflection gazed back, chalk-white.