The Chalky Sea

by Clare Flynn

  ‘When did you sort all this out?’ Jim was astounded.

  ‘While you were eating the face off Joanie, you bad boy.’

  Jim was grateful for the blackout so his friend couldn’t see his embarrassment.

  The New Housekeeper

  Eastbourne

  The Simmondses were waiting for Gwen outside the Rest Centre. Sally was sucking her thumb, her teddy bear dangling from the other hand, and the baby was asleep in her mother’s arms. Their sparse belongings were on the pavement: a small battered suitcase containing a few pieces of clothing provided by the WVS and a straw bag with items for baby Brenda. Sally, excited to be inside a motor car for the first time, scrambled onto the back seat and arranged her teddy beside her. Mrs Simmonds sat in the front with the baby in her arms.

  ‘You don’t have a lot of things,’ said Gwen when they arrived back at the house. ‘Will you be able to manage?’

  ‘I’ve only got four nappies for the baby. There’s no time to get them washed and dry before I need to change her again. I had to borrow an iron this morning and run that over them to dry them out.’

  Gwen swallowed. A painful memory surfaced. A short period of joy in late September 1933 when she had rushed around the shops buying layette for a baby that a few weeks later was no longer there. A memory of pain and blood and tears and shock. Another loss she had buried deep inside her, never to be mentioned. Roger had been away in Geneva, working behind the scenes at the World Disarmament Conference. On his return when the conference fell apart in October, she kept what had happened to herself, so he neither knew she had been pregnant nor that they had lost the baby. She had meant to tell him but he was so dispirited about the failed conference, full of frustration about the intransigence of both France and Germany, the deep-rooted self-interest that appeared to govern all the parties and fear about the potential threat of Adolf Hitler, who had ordered Dr Goebbels to withdraw Germany from the discussions. Gwen had sat, legs drawn up under her and hands around her knees, listening as her husband talked, behaving in a way she had seen her mother behave before. Grief was something to be buried, locked away. It was not to be acknowledged.

  She turned to Mrs Simmonds. ‘I can help you with that.’ She gestured towards the drawing room. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.’ She ran up to a box room on the top floor. It was kept locked and was used to store unwanted furniture. There, inside a dusty trunk, she found a neatly folded pile of nappies, as well as a small collection of baby’s clothes, unworn but too small for Brenda. She stifled her pain.

  Mrs Simmonds was waiting in the hallway, holding the baby over one arm and clutching Sally’s hand.

  ‘Here. Nappies, a shawl and a cot blanket,’ Gwen said. ‘All brand new.’

  Mrs Simmonds looked at her with curiosity, but evidently thought better than to ask how Gwen had acquired them.

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room,’ said Gwen. ‘I thought you’d all prefer being in one room together since the surroundings will be strange to Sally. But if she’d like her own room we can sort that out.’

  ‘In together’s perfect.’

  The room was large and on the lower ground floor of the house, with French windows opening onto a paved terrace at the side of the building.

  ’My housekeeper used to live down here. I thought it would suit you as there’s a little sitting room next door and the kitchen beyond. There’s a terrace through here which is a safe place for Sally to play and you can see what’s she’s up to from the kitchen.’

  ‘Mrs Collingwood, you’ve done us proud. I can’t thank you enough. It’s like a dream.’ Pauline Simmonds ran her hand along the rail of the cot that was beside the bed and threw another glance at Gwen.

  Anticipating the question, Gwen said, ‘My friend Daphne found the cot for you in her attic. Her children are all grown up and gone away now. It’s old but it should serve the purpose. And the single bed should do Sally. The double is quite springy.’ She pushed at the mattress with her open palms. ‘My housekeeper, Mrs Woods, always said she got a good night’s sleep here.’

  Mrs Simmonds grinned and placed the baby down on the bed so she could fling her arms around an astonished Gwen. ‘Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. To do all this for us. Opening up your beautiful home like this.’ Her eyes glistened with tears.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Gwen, uncertain what to do as the woman hugged her. ‘Anyone would have done the same. And I’m glad of the company. This house is far too big for me.’

  ‘Your husband away fighting?’

  Gwen nodded.

  ‘Which service?’

  ‘Army.’ She decided not to say that she didn't actually know. She didn’t want to use the term Roger himself used – The Inter-Services Bureau – whatever that was supposed to mean.

  ‘My Brian is on the convoys,’ said Pauline. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? Them being away, ’specially at night. No one to snuggle up to in bed!’ She winked.

  Gwen, embarrassed, gave her a weak smile. ‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ she said, moving out of the room and cutting off the conversation.

  Pauline Simmonds was standing at the drawing room window when Gwen came into the room.

  ‘You’re so lucky living up here, Mrs Collingwood. I’d love to be able to see the sea from my house. It’s only ten minutes’ walk away but all we look onto is other houses.’ Her voice trembled and she added, ‘I mean that was all we used to see. Past tense.’

  Gwen felt a rush of pity for the woman. Pauline had never complained. To lose her grandfather as well as her home and everything in it must be a terrible cross to bear, yet she was perennially cheerful.

  Pauline nodded towards the paved area below them. ‘We seem to have made our mark already.’ She indicated the chalked numbers on the flagstones. ‘Sally loves her hopscotch. She usually does it on the pavement in the street but it’s all fancy brickwork up this end of town. I’ll scrub it off tomorrow.’

  ‘No, don’t. She’s not done any harm. Let her have her fun.’

  They were side-be-side at the window. ‘The sea looks beautiful today,’ said Pauline. ‘It looks like there’s a light under the water, shining up from the deep.’ Her voice was soft. ‘From a secret shining place.’

  Gwen looked at her, surprised.

  ‘I wonder how many poor souls are down there,’ said Pauline, her voice quiet and dreamlike. ‘Sucked under the waves over all the centuries, lying there on the bottom. Maybe that’s where heaven is. Not up in the sky but under the sea. My Brian’s out there somewhere on his ship.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he is?’

  Pauline shook her head. ‘Probably crossing the Atlantic, but it could be anywhere. Every day I used to go in the library to check the newspapers to make sure his ship wasn’t mentioned. Then I stopped. If it’s bad news I’d rather read it in a telegram than find out in the middle of the public library. And reading about all those lads like him, blasted into pieces by torpedoes, made me feel low. I know one day it could be Brian but I’m not going to think about it. Better to hope for the best.’

  Gwen laid a hand on Pauline’s arm then, surprised at herself, drew it back quickly. ‘It’s awful. The not knowing. I don’t know where my husband is either. I have no idea what he’s doing or where he’s gone. You’re right, Mrs Simmonds, there’s no point thinking about it. We only imagine the worst. Much better to hope for the best and get on with it.’

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, can I play outside?’ Sally ran into the room, her plaits flying out behind her.

  Pauline threw a look of resignation at Gwen and took hold of her child’s hand. ‘Come on then, Sal. I’ll throw a ball to you.’ She got as far as the door then turned back to Gwen. ‘And I’ve told you before, Mrs C. Please call me Pauline.’

  Gwen remained at the window watching mother and daughter playing in the garden, Sally’s shrieks of delight rising up to her on the afternoon air. Her own child would have been six now. Gwen would never kno
w if it had been a boy or a girl. Funny that. She’d thought as an expectant mother, no matter for how briefly, she would have been able to tell. Even though her baby had never been bigger than a prawn she thought she ought to have been able to tell its gender – that some innate sense would have given her the certainty of who the person was whom she had lost.

  Most of the time she didn’t allow herself the luxury and pain of thinking of her or him but occasionally she found herself choosing a name or picturing a face, working out how old the child would be now. How might motherhood have changed her? Would it have softened her or dulled her? Would she have been caught up in a round of mindless tasks and daily planning that centred around her child? Choosing a school, buying clothes, picking up toys from the bedroom floor, brushing hair, checking that teeth were cleaned and shoes polished. And how might having a child have changed Roger? Would he have been prepared to risk life and limb on whatever foolhardy mission he was undertaking now if there was a child waiting here at home for him instead of only her?

  Outside in the garden, Sally had tripped on an uneven paving stone and grazed her knee. Pauline was holding her close, stroking her hair to comfort the little girl. Gwen felt a stab of envy. As the tears pricked at her eyes, she pulled away from the window. It was already nearly ten o’clock. She had to walk down to the village and get to the butchers. Then there was a huge pile of clothing waiting in the church hall for her to sort through for the WVS.

  She thought again of Pauline. Her intent in bringing her here was as a replacement for Mrs Woods, but she struggled to think of Pauline as a servant. The woman had already got under her skin and Gwen was drawn to her. She'd never known anyone like her before and found her refreshing, full of life and energy.

  One morning when Pauline offered to style her hair for her, Gwen was reluctant, but Pauline insisted and Gwen had to admit the results were flattering. It was some time since she had taken the trouble to experiment and she acknowledged that she had perhaps become stuck in her ways.

  The Tea Party

  Aldershot

  The air in the barracks was stale and fuggy. No one ever opened a window.

  Greg was impatient. ‘Come on, Jimbo,’ he said with a groan. ‘There’ll be cake. And it’ll be good to be inside a proper home for once after this dump, eh?’

  Jim had to acknowledge that anywhere would be a pleasant change after being holed up in the garrison. It was Sunday and he knew it was time to face up to the task he had been putting off for days – writing to his mother.

  Greg wasn’t having it. ‘You can write home any time.’ He stretched his foot out and tapped with his boot against Jim’s knee. ‘Please. Do it for me, pal. You know I can’t wait to see Ethel again. She told me I have to bring you. She doesn’t want her mother to know we’re going out together yet.’

  ‘You’ve only met her once, Grass. I’d hardly call that going out.’

  ‘I’ve told you. She’s the one. I’m deadly serious about her.’

  Jim sighed. He might as well resign himself to his fate, so he swung his legs off the bed, got to his feet and was rewarded with a thump on the back from a jubilant Greg.

  When they arrived at Ethel’s house, a narrow redbrick terrace, they were not the only guests. Apparently Mrs Underwood had a habit of throwing her doors open to servicemen for a bit of home comfort once a month on a Sunday afternoon, saving up her rations.

  ‘We have to do our bit for all you boys. Especially those like you so far from home.’

  Jim threw a look at Greg who shrugged.

  There were six or seven soldiers already crammed into the tiny parlour, sitting on the arms as well as the seats of the chairs, and a couple were cross-legged on the floor. Jim looked around. He didn’t know any of them and felt a moment of relief that Walt wasn’t one of them. He seemed to spend his life trying to keep out of sight of his brother. But he rather suspected Walt was doing the same with him.

  So this was a typical British home? Small. Apart from the seating, the only furniture was a side table displaying a large wooden crystal radio set – or wireless as the Brits insisted on calling them. Above an ugly tiled fireplace, a mirror hung on a chain from the picture rail, evidently placed for decorative purposes only, as it was too high for any of the women of the house to have a chance of using it – Jim would have needed to stand on his toes and he wasn’t short. Maybe Ethel’s late father had been as tall as Grass.

  Jim squeezed into a space under the window, sitting on the linoleum floor, his back against the wall. Grass had disappeared, presumably in search of his sweetheart.

  The air in the room was heavy with smoke and Jim’s eyes stung. He had never got the hang of smoking. Never had time for it on the farm. Since joining up he’d been obliged to have the odd cigarette but he hadn’t enjoyed them and always passed his ration on to others in the platoon.

  ‘Legs out of the way, lads! Tea’s up!’ A plump woman came into the room bearing a tray. She was wearing a frilly blouse that was probably her Sunday best, under an apron. Ethel was standing behind her in the doorway. Two of the men jumped to their feet and took the tray from Mrs Underwood and another vacated his seat.

  ‘Not for me, boys. I’ll let you young ones enjoy yourselves. I’m off to see to the old fellow next door. Nearly ninety he is and I always pop in and get him his supper ready. Make yourselves at home, boys. No nonsense though or I’ll be back here, quick as a flash. These walls are thin as paper!’

  The woman left. Jim was touched by her generosity in opening her doors to strangers and using up her precious rations to bake for them. He took a mouthful of the tiny slice of ginger sponge cake which Mrs Underwood had proudly told them was made without eggs and sandwiched with something she described as mock cream. He wouldn’t be longing for a second helping, but at least it was edible, even though the cream had a weird crunchy texture and the sponge was dense and solid. The other men polished their portions off with gusto and copious quantities of tea were consumed.

  Ethel had taken up the offer of a chair and Greg perched on the arm beside her, already deep in conversation. His eyes smarting, Jim got up, intending to stand outside for a while and get some air. He didn’t want to wait in the street and risk being seen by his hostess and thought ungrateful, so he went down the narrow hallway to what he supposed must be the kitchen, guessing that it would lead on to a backyard.

  He didn’t see Joan at first. She was standing looking through the glass panel of the back door, her slender body partly concealed by the blackout curtain that hung over the doorway. She turned round and gave him a sly smile.

  ‘You following me, soldier? After another kiss?’

  Jim felt the blood rush to his face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone in here. I wanted a bit of air. It’s thick with smoke in there.’ He jerked his head towards the front of the house.

  She turned around to face him, a cigarette in her hand. Putting it to her lips, she inhaled then blew a slow curl of smoke into his face.

  Jim tried not to cough, and felt himself blushing again. Joan took hold of his arm. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you, Armstrong?’

  Her ATS uniform had been replaced by a dress, a floral print, cinched tightly at the waist. Her dark hair was scooped back at one side in a tortoiseshell clip. She held out her cigarette to him. ‘Have a puff. It might relax you a bit.’

  There was a red circle of lipstick around the end of the cigarette and Jim felt a sudden desire to kiss her. He pushed the thought away. She was another guy’s girl. Anyway she wasn’t his type. Too forward. Too sure of herself. She made him nervous.

  Without waiting for him to accept or refuse the offer of a smoke, she turned away and looked through the glass panel again. It was criss-crossed with tape to stop the glass shattering in a bomb blast. Over her shoulder, Jim could see a gloomy yard, with a brick shed, its door open revealing an outside toilet. A pair of bicycles leaned against one of the walls, which was draped with blackened twine, evidence of an abandoned atte
mpt to grow something there. The paint on the back gate was peeling. It had started to drizzle again.

  ‘You don’t have much to say, do you?’ Joan said. ‘I like that though. Most fellows never shut up. I wouldn’t mind if they had something interesting to talk about. I think you might have something interesting to say. I get the sense there might be hidden depths to you.’

  ‘This is it. Take it or leave it,’ he said, lifting his hands, palms up.

  ‘You propositioning me?’ She gave him another sly smile.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  He swallowed. She was standing so close he could smell her perfume. The urge to take her in his arms and kiss her swept through him but she moved before he could act on the instinct, opening the kitchen door and dropping her cigarette onto the concrete of the yard. She stubbed it out with her shoe then bent down and retrieved the butt which she dropped into an empty flowerpot and closed the door quickly against the rain.

  ‘You and Ethel are good friends then?’ he said, nerves still on edge and anxious to steer himself onto safer ground.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘She’s my cousin. We’re practically sisters. I live three doors away. We’re the same age and grew up together.’

  Jim paused. ’You seem different.’

  ‘How so?’ Her eyes narrowed.

  Jim was nervous again. Talking to Joan was like walking through a minefield. He didn’t know where he was safe – everything he said seemed open to interpretation.

  ‘I didn’t mean different from Ethel. I meant different from the other night. You talked a lot then. You’re much quieter now.’

  She frowned. ‘I had to talk to fill the silence. I could tell Ethel liked your friend and I wanted to give them a chance to get to know each other. You were hard work and made no effort at all. If you and I had sat there in total silence they’d have felt obliged to talk to us rather than each other. I was doing Ethel a favour.’