by Clare Flynn
Gwen put down the hairbrush and sighed. She had so wanted it to happen. She had positively ached for it to happen. Were he to walk into her bedroom now she would rush into his arms and take him into her bed.
But Jim didn’t appear at her door.
Gwen lay on her back, sleep eluding her, letting herself imagine what it would be like to have Jim with her now. The memory of Pauline and her husband making love came to her and she thought of herself straddling Jim Armstrong. She gave a little gasp and allowed herself to indulge the fantasy, in the knowledge that the reality was never going to happen. Her hands ran over her body, feeling her nipples harden through the satin of her nightgown. She sighed and arched her back, then the voice in her head told her to stop, to pull herself together, to show some self-control, some self-respect. Propping up the pillows behind her, she reached out to switch on the lamp, picked up the book on the bedside table and began to read.
The following morning Gwen parked the WVS van on the seafront, a few yards down from the Wish Tower, the martello tower that had stood guard over the front since the wars against Napoleon, its original defensive purpose pointless now in the face of fighter-bombers. It would probably get hit itself before long, she thought.
The rain-drenched seafront was deserted and drab. The floral displays in the Carpet Gardens between the Wish Tower and the pier had been sacrificed to the war effort, the colourful flowers displaced by onions. Everything looked ugly. Barbed wire snaked along the edge of the promenade, rising about six feet high and preventing entry to the heavily mined beaches. While the fear of invasion had faded since 1940, Gwen could feel the proximity of the enemy. The Channel was such a narrow strip – surely too inconsequential to keep out Hitler’s armies if they decided to cross?
The rain sounded a dull drumbeat on the roof of the van. The sky had been blue when she’d got up this morning, with the sea shining like a pearl. Now, a few hours later, the clouds hung like thick smoke and the little palm trees on the lawns next to the tower looked like bedraggled hedgehogs. She had come so close to letting Jim Armstrong kiss her last night. No – that wasn’t true – it wasn’t right to say she had almost let him kiss her – the truth was that it was she that had wanted to kiss him, to initiate it. In fact, she wanted to kiss him now. Wanted it with a hunger that she’d never known before. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, imagining what his lips would feel like on hers, how she would feel enfolded in his arms. There had been a charge between them. Unmistakeable. So why had he hesitated? What made him behave like an honourable man? Maybe it was a soldiers’ code of honour – not to touch another man’s wife.
Why was she feeling like this? Behaving like this? She didn’t love Jim Armstrong. She was certain of that. At least she didn’t love him the way she loved Roger. But she couldn’t possibly let herself think about Roger right now. It was all too complicated. What had happened between her and Jim was inexplicable. She was like a teenage girl with a crush. Pull yourself together. You’re a happily married woman. You’re more than ten years older than him. He’s a stranger. He’s a soldier. He’s barely more than a boy. He could be dead before long. Hell! We could all be dead before long. What does it matter?
Over and over in her head the thoughts whirled. Rational, buttoned-up Gwen tried to hold the line as this new wanton Gwen ached to break through it. She had never known desire like this. Never let herself know it. On that wet Irish honeymoon she had felt desire for Roger but had shut it away, let the fear take over. So why now was she struggling so badly not to give in to the temptation that was Jim? It was as if her body had taken over her mind, pushed it into subjugation. Desire was making her a stranger to herself.
She thumped her fist into the centre of the steering wheel, jumping with shock as the horn sounded shrilly.
How was she going to face Jim again? How, after the way they had talked, the undeniability of that almost-kiss, could she look him in the eyes?
Gwen’s agonising was interrupted by loud rapping on the passenger window and then the door was wrenched open and Daphne Pringle scrambled inside the van.
‘What on earth are you doing sitting here in the pouring rain, woman? Have you run out of petrol?’
It took a moment for Gwen to reorient herself to the present moment. ‘I – I was on my way into town to take the van back. I had to pick up a collection of cod liver oil. I thought I’d get in the cake queue on the way back.’
‘So what are you doing sitting here on the seafront?’
‘Doing my petrol paperwork while I’m waiting to see if the rain eases off. I didn’t fancy standing in a queue in a downpour. You know what the cake queue can be like.’
Daphne frowned. ‘No, I don’t actually. I send Mrs Elliott. I thought you had that girl?. Shouldn’t she be the one waiting in line for cakes?’
‘The baby isn’t well.’ Gwen was surprised how easily the lies flowed – then asked herself why she was lying at all. What was wrong with telling Daphne she’d stopped here to be alone with her thoughts?
‘But why sit here in the cold? Honestly, Gwen, when I saw you through the window I thought something terrible had happened. You looked as though you’d received bad news. I thought you might have heard something about Roger.’
‘Of course it’s not Roger.’ She realised she sounded snappy, irritated. ‘I mean, it’s nothing. No bad news. Nothing to report. I’m sitting here in the rain minding my own business.’
Daphne reached for the door handle. ‘There’s no need to be like that. I was worried. That’s all. I hope you’d do the same.’
Gwen reached her hand out and stopped Daphne. ‘I’m sorry. There truly is nothing wrong. I was sitting here wishing the damn rain would stop. Now can I drop you anywhere?’
They drove in silence to the Hydro Hotel, where Daphne was meeting Sandy for a drink after he had finished a briefing there. Gwen swung the van through the gateway and Daphne mumbled her thanks, still clearly offended. Once she had disappeared into the building Gwen burst into tears.
The Telegram
A telegraph boy from the post office was standing on the step when Gwen answered the door. Seeing the buff envelope she knew at once what it was and her knees buckled. Slumped in a chair in the hallway she saw it wasn’t addressed to her. Relief rapidly switched to sorrow for Pauline and she went downstairs with the telegram in her shaking hands.
Pauline was sitting beside Brenda's high chair feeding stewed apple to the baby. She was laughing when Gwen entered the kitchen. Sally was sitting on a rug on the floor next to her mother; her teddy, a doll and a stuffed penguin that she had been given for Christmas were lined up in front of her. The child appeared to be telling them all a story. Pauline called out, 'Kettle’s boiled. I’ll make you a cuppa in a jiff.’
Gwen hesitated in the doorway. She didn’t know what to do. It seemed wrong to have Pauline read what could only be bad news in front of her children and risk distressing them, but she could hardly take the children away and leave her alone to absorb the news.
Pauline turned to look at her and her grin vanished when she saw Gwen’s face and the brown envelope in her hands. She put the spoon down, swallowed, and got to her feet. ‘For me, is it?’ she said and stretched out her hand for the telegram. ‘Watch the girls a while, will you?’
Gwen nodded. She sat down in the chair vacated by Pauline and began spooning fruit into Brenda's open mouth while watching Pauline walk to the bottom of the garden.
Sally scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m going to Mummy,’ she said.
‘No, darling. Please. Give Mummy a few minutes on her own. She’ll be back in a moment.’
Sally, evidently sensing something, moved over to Gwen, who pulled her up onto her lap. Stroking Sally’s hair, she suggested they play the aeroplane feeding game with Brenda, hoping to distract Sally, while at the same time trying to look out on the garden.
Pauline was sitting motionless on the wooden bench under the beech tree at the bottom of the garden. The telegra
m was in her hands and her head was lowered over it. She appeared to be reading and rereading it.
Gwen hadn’t known what to expect. Pauline usually wore her heart on her sleeve and was an emotional woman, but she was also a strong one. She was staring at the flimsy beige paper with its strips of white carrying the words every wife most feared and dreaded. Gwen didn’t want to leave her there like that, alone under the tree. She tried to imagine how it would feel if it were she reading the missive from the War Office and what Pauline would have done for her, but her imagination let her down.
Indecision gripped her. Was it better to take the children out to Pauline and hope that she would find comfort in their presence or did that risk causing more distress? Pauline would want some time to prepare herself to break the news to Sally.
The kitchen door opened and Private Armstrong stuck his head around. His face registered surprise and pleasure at seeing Gwen here in the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Mrs Collingwood, I stopped by for a cup of tea. Pauline usually makes a pot around this time. I can come back later.’
‘No. Can you watch the girls for a few minutes,’ she said, giving him a meaningful look. She reached out a hand to Sally and said, ‘Mummy’s had some news and she’s feeling sad. Soon she’s going to want a big cuddle from you. But I need to speak to her first so I’d like you to be a good girl for Mummy and stay here with this nice gentleman and help him take care of Brenda. Can you do that, Sally?’
Sally’s brown eyes fixed on Gwen and the little girl nodded, solemnly. ‘Jimmy can read me a story,’ she said, to Gwen’s surprise. ‘And then I’ll kiss Mummy better.’
Gwen stood, poured the kettle into the teapot, then ran upstairs and returned with a bottle of whisky and added some to the cup before pouring the tea. She smiled in thanks to Private Armstrong, and went out into the garden. She walked round what had once been the lawn but was now given over entirely to vegetables, sat beside Pauline on the bench and reached for her hand.
Pauline turned to face her, her eyes wet with tears. ‘The navy regrets to inform me that Brian Henry Simmonds has been killed in action. I thought they’d say “Missing. Feared dead”. Isn’t that what they’re meant to say? Aren’t they supposed to leave you with a bit of hope? He might have got picked up out of the water. Mightn’t he? It’s possible, isn’t it? Or had time to get in a lifeboat?’
Gwen put an arm around her and held out the cup, holding it for her to drink as though she were a small child.
‘I only had a letter from Brian last week. He was due for a bit of shore leave. I was looking forward to seeing him. Dear God, what am I going to do? How am I going to tell our Sal? What the hell am I going to do without him?’ She kicked at the ground with the heel of her left foot. ‘And what a bloody awful way to die. In the freezing waters of the Atlantic… or blown to smithereens by a torpedo.’
Gwen laid her hand on Pauline’s arm.
‘Do you think he’d have known? Had time to panic? If he’s got to be dead I want it to have been quick. The worst would be if he it was a slow death. Trapped below decks in a burning ship. Drifting in the water and slowly freezing.’
‘Don’t do this, Pauline.’
‘Which do you think’s worse? They say drowning is a good way to die, but I can’t believe that would be true if it’s so bloody cold.’
Her voice broke and she began to sob. Gwen held out a handkerchief but Pauline ignored it. She spun round and faced her, anger now in her voice. ‘It’s not fair. My Brian was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. What’s wrong with this world? I’m so sick of the bloody war. He was only thirty. His whole life in front of him. What have I got left to live for? I loved that man. I really loved him.’ Pauline’s voice was now a wail and she began to keen backwards and forwards on the bench. ‘If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d never have kissed that lad. It were only a bit of fun. It didn’t mean nothing.’
‘Of course it didn’t.’
‘You looked at me like I was a cheap tart.’
Gwen closed her eyes and squeezed Pauline’s hand again. ‘I’d never think that of you, Pauline, and I’m sorry if I looked at you like that. I was tired. I know you loved your husband. It has always been plain to see. And Brian must have known that too.’
They sat in silence, broken only by the sound of Pauline’s sobs. Eventually she said, ‘Give us that hankie.’ She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose and then stood up, smoothed down her dress and walked towards the house.
She turned back to look at Gwen. ‘I’m going to tell Sally about her daddy and then tonight when I’ve put them to bed maybe you and I can share some more of that bottle of whisky.’ She walked into the kitchen, head high.
‘It’s so bloody sad. My Brian barely even knew our Brenda. She was born the day war was declared; 3rd September. Brian left for his ship two weeks later. We used to say she was his goodbye gift to me. Now she’ll never get to know her dad.’ Pauline plucked at the sleeve of her cardigan, gathering up bobbles of wool fluff.
‘How did Sally take the news?’
‘Cried her little eyes out. But ten minutes later she had her head in a book. I don’t think it’s sunk in. She’s got used to him not being around. I think she cried more because she knew I was upset, even though I tried not to show it. Put on a brave face. You’d have been proud of me.’ She gave Gwen a wry smile.
‘I’m beginning to think it’s better not to smother one’s emotions,’ Gwen said. ‘Remember what you told me when you talked to me about losing my baby? Better not to bottle things up, you said.’
‘Oh I did, did I? Giving out advice freely as usual. I’m sorry. And I barely even knew you.’ Pauline sighed. ‘Any chance of another tot of scotch?’ She held out her glass.
When Gwen had replenished their glasses, Pauline sipped her whisky and said, ‘I met him when I was fourteen and had my eye on him right away. He asked me out when I was sixteen. He was an apprentice then – two years older than me. Ever so handsome. Once we started courting neither of us looked at anyone else.
‘Course my old man wasn’t keen on him at first. Thought I’d be better off with an office clerk. Someone who didn’t get his hands dirty in a factory. He wanted me to better myself, what with me working in Bobby’s then.’
‘I didn’t know you worked there,’ said Gwen. ‘You might have served me – which department?’
‘I wasn’t on the counters. I worked in accounts. I was good at arithmetic at school. I think Dad rather hoped I’d catch the eye of one of the managers or accountants there, but once he got to know Brian he came round. Everyone loved my Brian.’ She sighed again. ‘Specially me.’ The emotion sounded in her voice and she turned away, pretending to cough, but Gwen wasn’t fooled.
’How long were you married?’
‘Ten years. We got wed when I was eighteen. A big do. At Our Lady of Ransom. We're both Catholic, though neither of us have been good about going to Mass, apart from getting the girls christened and the big feast days and that. Mostly to keep my mum happy before she and my dad died.’ She got up and walked across the room then came back and flung herself back down on the sofa. ‘I loved him to bits. Brian was special. He was a one-off. There’ll never be anyone else like him. I’ll have to find someone else but I'll never be able to love them like him.’
Gwen looked at her in surprise. ‘Why will you have to remarry?’
‘I can’t have my girls growing up without a father. And how would we manage financially? I don’t mean right now – I can’t even bear to think about another man yet, but in time. Besides, I’m not the type to be a widow. I like to have someone to look after, fuss over. But whoever it is will always be a poor second to my Brian.’
She sipped her whisky and leaned back in the chair looking up at the ceiling. ‘But one thing’s clear. I’m not getting hitched to anyone in the services. I can’t go through this again. I’ll have to wait till the bloody war’s over. We’re never going to win though. Bloody Hitler’s going to ge
t us in the end. And I hope it’s sooner rather than later now. I can’t take much more of this.’
Gwen gasped. ‘You don’t mean that, Pauline. You don’t actually believe we’ll lose the war? Not after all this?’
‘I’m sick and tired of it. I think lots of people are. There’s only so much we can take.’
‘But all the sacrifices we’ve made? All the men like Brian who’ve given up their lives? You can’t want that to be in vain?’
‘My Brenda's never known anything except wartime. I want her to have a normal life. A proper childhood. Not quake in terror when she hears the sirens going. Sally’s old enough to remember what it was like to have her dad sat at the end of the table eating his tea every evening, and what it was like to be able to play in the street without being afraid a German pilot’s going to blow her to bits. No, I want it to be over, even if it does mean we have to be under the rule of Adolf Bloody Hitler. It can’t be worse than this.’
Gwen realised Pauline’s defeatism owed more to bereavement than to a genuine conviction that the war would be lost. ‘I think you should try to get some sleep now, Pauline. You must be shattered.’
‘That’s an understatement. I expect I’ll cry myself to sleep tonight. But then that’s it. Over. Got to get on with it. I’m no different from thousands of others who’ve lost their husbands in this war.
‘It’s my girls that’ll keep me going. You can’t give in to grief when you’ve kiddies to bring up. If it weren’t for them I don’t know what I’d do. I’d probably wait for the next air raid and stand in the middle of Terminus Road and let the blasted Jerries machine gun me.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘Though knowing my luck, they’d miss.’
Gwen stretched out a hand and squeezed Pauline’s. When Pauline had gone, she sat on, nursing her whisky in the gloom and listening to the ticking of the clock.