Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘You mustn’t miss the wedding, Ralph. What would Eva say, eh? She has a new nanny whose mouth turns down. Eva says if it was a bag everything would fall out, crash, bang.’ She paused, for it brought memories of the car crash, and the broken plate, the splinter darting up.

  She gripped his hand. Poor Ralph, poor Sandra. She examined his face – he seemed peaceful. The top of his ear had gone; his bandage was pristine. She looked at her hand resting in her lap. The blood was seeping through her bandage and how she wished it was she, not Joy, who had the job, for then she would get better and easily able to look after Sophia, the bairns, and perhaps Ralph would be home and in need.

  As the others talked quietly amongst themselves, she whispered to Ralph, ‘I haven’t been able to admit that a different job is the only thing that will help the healing, and the pain. But who knows, perhaps Joy might turn into a silk purse and be better than me. Besides, how could I leave the Halls, after all they’ve done?’

  Viola stopped, then went on, her voice louder now, ‘But enough of that. Alfie drove us to the station. Our Ben is doing his homework, but finding time with William to work on crosswords. You remember him doing that, like Davey, eh, but with George? George has moved to Devon with his family to be nearer his mam’s family.’

  She heard Sid’s whisper in her ear: ‘See Ralph’s ear? By, pet, you make two bookends, you do. Must have been the windscreen glass.’

  ‘Aye, I did see it,’ she murmured. ‘You drove off the road to keep us safe. You poor, poor lad.’

  As Viola fell silent, she heard Fran, Beth and Sarah begin to sing, very quietly, on the other side of the bed:

  There’s a long, long trail a-winding

  Into the land of my dreams …

  Viola joined in, singing as softly as they were. The lads almost whispered the words, but contrary to Sister Newsome’s accusations their voices were deep and true.

  The singing grew louder, for the other visitors were joining in, as were the patients, and they moved on to ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. While they sang, Viola leaned close to Ralph. ‘This is for you, Ralph. All for you, bonny lad. You rest now, and wake when you’re ready. There’ll be some of us Massingham folk here every day, so you won’t be alone, and believe me, we won’t let you go, d’you hear? Because we claim you. Do you understand – we claim you.’

  He didn’t respond, or stir, but words didn’t just disappear, she thought. They would reach him, just as her breath had swept his face.

  Ten minutes before the end of visiting, the girls sped along the corridor, leaving the lads chatting to the unresponsive Ralph, not holding his hand, but patting his arm in a way that made the girls laugh. They entered the ward to see Meryl standing beside Sandra’s bed, straightening the sheets. The lass was sitting up against a pile of pillows, and waved. She had a pad over her left eye, secured by bandages wound around her head.

  The girls clustered round, Fran telling Sandra she and Ralph should share a room and gossip about Massingham. The thrill might help them both. Viola smiled, but again there was that twist in her heart. What the hell was the matter with her? She could still feel the weight of Ralph’s hand, its warmth, and again the twist. He had watched her as she played the saxophone at Sarah’s wedding, his smile so kind, and there he was, lying in the bed, so vulnerable.

  Meryl settled back on her chair, and they asked how Sandra was until the girl laughed. ‘I am here, you should ask me how I feel.’

  Viola came to her senses. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘How do you feel? What does the doctor say?’

  Her mam laughed, a deep and throaty laugh. ‘She’s feeling nowt for she’s on painkillers, and the doctors say nowt for they can’t tell yet, beyond they’ve got the little beggar out.’

  ‘Little? Little?’ queried Sandra. ‘It were a bliddy great lump. But how’s the lad?’

  ‘Same as everyone says,’ answered Sarah. ‘Existing. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s thinking? If his brain was outside his skull, we’d slap a few leeches on it and suck the bruise out.’

  They grimaced. Fran said, ‘But we canna do that, that’s the problem.’ Viola could see that she was upset.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Beth, ‘septicaemia and then this. And I felt I were looking at his dead body …’ Her voice broke.

  Suddenly even Sandra was biting her lip. ‘Aye, I slipped along this morning. It broke me heart.’ She pointed at her eye. ‘This is nothing. If I lose me sight in this eye, I can compete with Madge for the best eyepatch. But that lad … What if he doesn’t wake? Well, he saved us all that day.’

  As they left the hospital, they saw Professor Smythe approach with a younger man in tow.

  ‘Visiting Ralph, sir?’ Stan called out. ‘Not sure you’ll be allowed into the ward.’

  Professor Smythe reached them, lifting his homburg to them all. ‘Ah well, I might be allowed to slip past the redoubtable Sister Newsome without too many bites taken out of me. Indeed, Yeland could be my wingman, and suffer the worst of it.’

  They looked after them as the two men swept on. Fran muttered, ‘He must be right fond of Ralph after all.’

  Smythe and Yeland stood either side of Ralph’s bed for the five minutes that Sister Newsome had allowed. Smythe touched Ralph’s hand. ‘You rest easy, lad. Get yourself fit and well, eh? We need you, but you know that.’

  Yeland, on the other side of the bed, gripped Ralph’s hand. ‘Pleasure to shake your hand, lad. Smythe has a point. Up and at ’em, eh.’ He gave Ralph’s hand a shake. ‘Listen now. Up and at ’em. We’ll be in to see you again.’

  As Sister Newsome flapped them out of the ward, Smythe said, ‘You’ll take care of the silly sod.’

  ‘I take care of all my silly sods, Professor,’ Sister Newsome called after them. ‘You behave yourself now.’

  The sound of Yeland’s laughter echoed along the quiet corridor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tuesday, 10 March

  Mr Gaines found his way to the telephone box outside his lodgings at the Rising Sun in Minton. He rammed in the coins as though he and the telephone were at war.

  Plomer at Head Office answered. Gerald Gaines pressed button A. He’d known the bureaucrat would be there, working late, if only to appear indispensable. Well, it wasn’t that idiot who was indispensable, it was the management and workers of this particular munitions site – or any munitions factory – that held that honour. What’s more, he didn’t have time to bloody well waste like this. There was a bloody war on.

  He drew in a breath, trying to sound polite. ‘Mr Plomer, it’s Gaines. I’ve been through the whole site, investigating the break-in, the explosion, any and all mishaps, misadventures, concerns in all sectors. I’ve checked the progress of the erection of the double fence, the patrols, the dogs and—’

  Plomer’s voice was terse as he interrupted. ‘I don’t need to listen to a novel. What’s the verdict?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle, exemplary management all round. In particular, I found Swinton’s supervision and training without fault. The explosion in his sector was bad luck. It has been, quite honestly, a complete waste of my time and energy.’

  Plomer’s voice, when he finally replied, sounded as though he was hanging on to his temper with difficulty. ‘Your tone doesn’t become you, Gaines.’

  ‘Well, let me say, sir, there are places that I do need to be investigating instead of fiddling about here. It was the storm that tore down the fence, and the intrusion was thwarted by the guards and their dogs. I interviewed each guard thoroughly. They reckon, as do the police and the military police, that there were signs of a car but the tracks were covered by the snow. So, there’s nothing further to report on that except they are on alert for another attempt, but as the manager of the whole site told me in no uncertain terms, this is their permanent default position.’

  Plomer seemed to be rustling papers. ‘And the detonator explosion? The accident ratio in comparison to others?’

  ‘The incident rati
o at this site is less than the national average. The figures will be in my report. Swinton in particular has safety down to the nth degree and as I’ve just said, the explosion was an accident, as is factored into this type of factory. The workers understand safety like no others, especially in Bolton’s sector, led by the example set by Swinton. The other sectors are also above par. You asked me to check for loose talk. I must point out that this is something I do as a matter of course. I have witnessed nothing out of turn. Nothing. I did, however, pick out hearsay faults within the administration building and personnel – one person in particular, a low-grade worker. This I will also put in my report as needing some further investigation.’

  There was silence. Finally, Mr Plomer said, ‘If you’ve nothing more to add, Gaines, I will now insist, demand, require – whichever appeals to you – that you remain in post with eyes and ears open, and report here on the sixteenth, Monday, first thing, for your next assignment. Do not forget that there is such a thing as the wool being pulled over one’s eyes. Pay attention to the buildings you mentioned.’

  Gaines wasn’t sure if his grip would break the receiver or his fingers first. ‘With respect, sir, I repeat, there are other factories. And the security officers here are perfectly capable of following through on the administrative staff. Neither do I allow the wool to be pulled over my eyes,’ he shouted. ‘I am a man of experience.’

  But Plomer had already hung up. Gaines slammed down the receiver. ‘Bloody imbecile,’ he said aloud. ‘There’s a bloody war on, we can’t waste—’

  Someone tapped on one of the panes. A woman called out, ‘There’s a queue.’

  He nodded, pushed open the door and held it for her. She smiled. ‘Got to phone me mam. She expects it on a Tuesday at seven thirty.’

  Gaines smiled, and it was a relief to be pleasant. He didn’t agree with Plomer’s directives to shake ’em up, shock ’em. He set off across the road in the gloom of the blacked-out village and pushed open the back door of the Rising Sun, knowing he’d be sitting alone at the bar because he was the big bad wolf. Well, of course – he was an outsider poking his nose into people’s working directives, their performance, their dignity. He was sick of it. He’d underline the wasted time until the sixteenth in his bloody report, and they could damn well put up with it, or shove it where the sun didn’t shine.

  The bar was quiet. Mildred Pertwee, the landlady, asked, ‘Pint before your tea, Mr Gaines?’ He nodded, resting his elbows on the bar. She drew down a tankard from the shelf and began pulling the pint. ‘Then another early night, is it, so you’re up with the birds? Or are you slipping off to keep an eye on the night shift?’

  Gaines just sighed. ‘Yes, might as well, no sleep for the wicked, eh? All right with you if I come in about two, to be up again for the fore shift? A nice line in domestic utensils they make, eh?’

  Mildred nodded. ‘Aye. Just be sure not to lose the key. Canna have people slipping in to get at the booze and then we find ’tis the investigator at the bottom of it all, can we?’

  Though she smiled, her eyes were cold. Well, Gaines thought, sipping his pint, it was the nature of the job to be hated, and he couldn’t tell the landlady that so far he’d found nothing but good at the Factory, more or less. There was still that silly girl from the South who … Well, there was just something loose, and the antipathy between her and the other workers …

  ‘I’ll be leaving Sunday,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, you’re booked in till then, so you’ll get to hear The Factory Girls sing on Saturday. We take a bit of a collection for the widows and the families of them who don’t come back from wherever ’tis they work. We just see their yellow skin, the rashes, the lost limbs, the graves, for them lot making … domestic utensils.’

  There was a pause heavy with resentment before she added, ‘So, you can dig deep in them pockets of yours, eh?’

  He finished his pint, holding her stare, then nodded. ‘Pleased to, Mrs Pertwee.’

  Mildred flushed. ‘Right then, good of you.’ She lifted her head, rallying. ‘Mind, I’ll be keeping me eyes on you when the jug goes round.’

  Gaines made a promise to himself to put in ten bob. ‘I’ll be having spam fritters, if that’s all right with you. Then I must be off.’

  After wiping down the bar, Mildred plunged the cloth into the sink beneath it, shaking her head and smiling. ‘I ’spect you met Mr Swinton. Them workers have done him proud, ’tis said, wherever it is they work, and that’s softened him. They’re right fond of the old bugger, and he of them.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Bliddy miracles happen, eh?’

  She looked up, and obviously remembered who she was talking to as the smile disappeared. ‘I’ll get your tea.’

  Mildred swept through the door into the kitchen and came back with a tray holding his spam fritters, a baked potato and sprouts. Gaines placed his half-finished pint on the tray and carried it to a table by the window. He looked down at his meal, sick of the war, of the dark streets, of the stress and tiredness all around, and most of all – of spam. He picked up his knife and fork. Gone were the days when he had a dab of dripping on his spud.

  He cut right through the potato, eating the skin too. Some didn’t, but his mother had said the goodness was in the skin. He smiled. She was dead now, after the First War. Killed herself when his old man didn’t come back. And now there was another war. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry, for she’d be ashamed of him kowtowing to the bosses and not leaving this lot in peace.

  He poked at the final piece of spam, not wanting it, but no one wasted food these days, so he finished it. He put his knife and fork together and picked up his tankard, hearing the door open. Men entered, laughing. They stopped when they saw him. He finished his beer, deciding that after this night shift and the fore shift tomorrow, he’d only cover one shift each day, and just keep his eyes open. That was enough for him, and the Factory.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday, 14 March

  On Saturday morning, just as they had done for the last few days, the co-op set off to Massingham Hall with their proggy frames in Madge’s cart, leaving those listed on the hospital visiting rota to fulfil their appointed shifts. As they cycled along Main Street, Annie Hall was leading the charge, as Madge liked to put it.

  ‘I know I’m slow,’ Madge called after her, ‘but it’s pulling this cart.’

  Maud Bedley, cycling behind Annie, shouted back, ‘I don’t mind doing a turn next week. We canna have your eyepatch getting splattered with flies now the rain’s finally stopped. By, I thought we’d need to build a bliddy ark.’

  The sun was out, the wind behind them, and at last it was dry enough to burn things, thought Annie, but she put the BUF uniform out of her mind and instead wondered just how much longer Joy would last, because she was hopeless and Reginald must get rid of her, for Sophia was too gentle. What’s more, Viola badly needed to get out of that bliddy Factory and would be wonderful with the bairns, so would slot in right nicely.

  Talking of slotting in, she thought, each day they’d come she’d brought the attic key in her mac pocket, just as she had today, but Reginald Massingham had never been home. She urged herself on, willing him to be there, for she must talk to him, see the truth in his face. It would then be his duty to burn this symbol of all that they were fighting against, or so she’d decided.

  Behind her, Maud Bedley nodded towards Audrey. ‘I know I ask every day, but has she heard from Bob yet?’

  Audrey shook her head. ‘Daft to worry as she does, for these days who knows where any of ’em are, but she’s decided he weren’t himself. I could strangle the beggar, really I could. She’s such dark circles under her eyes, and she’s skin and bones for being off her food, what there is of it, and her itch is right bad, with the yellow making headway.’

  ‘Aye,’ called Annie, ‘Fran’s said much the same, poor lass.’

  ‘At least they’re at the Rising Sun tonight,’ replied Audrey, ‘so that’ll take Beth’s mind off it, and the
rehearsals have helped an’ all. How’s the wedding dress coming along? And the bridesmaids’ frocks too?’

  ‘Tilly Oborne’s on the case,’ said Beatrice Adams. ‘Nips in there at meal break, so the silk’s cut out, slippery beggar though it is, and the cotton for the bridesmaids, and she’s going to see if Mr Swinton will let them have a quick fitting behind Gaines’s back. They feel they owe their foreman that much respect. They did wonder whether to clear it with Gaines himself, for he has calmed down, but didn’t dare in case it caused trouble.’

  They were struggling up an incline now, and Beatrice, hunched over the handlebars, panted, ‘Oh Lordy, I wish our Emily weren’t such a good worker, for if she weren’t I wouldn’t have been on this bliddy bike, getting a sore bum and worn out into the bargain. Instead, I’d be stuck behind the counter sorting out customers and their ration books.’

  Annie laughed, then found herself watching a seagull who was joining its kin on the ploughed field to the right of them. Above, sparrows chattered on the overhanging sycamore branches festooned with buds. On they went, past more fields, until they reached the boundary of the Massingham land. ‘But when you think on it,’ she murmured, ‘’tis all Massingham land. Reginald just rents them other fields to Thompkins.’

  ‘Thinking aloud, Annie?’ Audrey laughed. ‘Thompkins treats them well. Good farmer, and a good walloper. Remember how his da used to whack our bums for scrumping his apples?’

  They were all laughing, even Madge, who had been brought up elsewhere and only came to live in Massingham just before her husband cleared off. A bugger he was, Annie thought; hurt her, he did. Took an evil bully to hit someone hard enough to take their eye. It made her think of Sandra, whose eye had been saved, but whose sight was compromised. She couldn’t work in the danger zone, so had opted for the sewing workshop when she was well enough. If only Viola would give up. But she was too stubborn.