Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  As he watched, the fire slowly died. He lifted the incinerator lid, wincing at the heat of it through his folded handkerchief, and peered in. Only ash.

  Reginald picked up the can and returned to the yard, seeing Annie and Alfie at the top of the kitchen steps. She was facing the garden, Alfie the house. On seeing Reginald, she grabbed Alfie’s arm, pointing up to the house martin’s nest that was being built in the eaves of the old cold store. As Reginald slipped into the garage with the can, he could hear her saying, ‘I think they’re a sign of good luck.’

  ‘Maybe, but they’re also bliddy messy, with their pooh everywhere.’

  ‘It’ll be new life chattering up there.’ Annie folded her arms as Reginald slipped from the garage to the yard. He was so fond of this woman who was barely older than him, but was so like his mother in the way she always stood her ground.

  Alfie wiped his hands on an oily rag. ‘For you, then, but clear it with the boss – Sophia, I mean.’

  Reginald smiled to himself. He was surrounded by women who were bosses. He came to them. ‘We’ll ask her, shall we, Annie?’

  Annie smiled as Alfie stepped back, grimacing. ‘Oh, I didn’t hear you, Mr Massingham. I didn’t mean nowt disrespectful, I just—’

  Reginald waved him down. ‘It’s true, lad, Sophia is the boss, and we mustn’t forget it.’

  Alfie sniffed. ‘Can anyone else smell petrol?’ They both denied they could.

  They went in for tea, but not until Annie had told Reginald that Viola should take Joy’s job, as a matter of urgency. He agreed that she would be perfect.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was the meal break at the Factory and the excitement around the table was tangible, for it was the night of the concert at the Rising Sun. Beth wished she could feel at least a little of it, but she just couldn’t. She poked at the grey meat, wondering what it was but not caring, because here they were, two weeks on, and still no word from Bob. She didn’t even go up to the telephone box any more, relying instead on Fran to come running if he called.

  Yesterday, Fran had told the table they had finalised the details of the wedding tea: the pheasant promised by Ralph had been confirmed by Mr Massingham, the ingredients for the cake were slowly being collected, and the order for the home-made elderberry wine, and beer, which Ralph had placed with the Rising Sun immediately after Sarah’s wedding, had also been confirmed by Mr Massingham.

  She tried a piece of meat and felt sick. Was Bob at the bottom of the sea? Was his letter lost along the way? Had he fallen out of love? She stopped, thinking instead of the next visit to the hospital, but she couldn’t remember when it would be. At least Sister Newsome had told them that there was a difference in Ralph’s colour, and his breathing, but they could tell that themselves. In spite of the occasional tremor, though, he had still not responded when they squeezed his hand. It seemed to have really upset Viola.

  Beth sat back on her chair, looking from left to right as the chatter whirled around her, a bit like the thoughts in her head. She saw that Viola, sitting next to her, had finished her meal, and as always had placed her knife and fork tidily together. Everything Viola did was tidy, except for the blood that was seeping from her bandage. That wasn’t tidy.

  She looked at Viola’s hand again, and thought of Ralph bleeding in his car, the top of his ear missing, his cuts, his gashed leg, but at least they were still not septic. Sister Newsome had used sphagnum moss. She hadn’t dared not, she’d said, mentioning the co-op by name. Sandra was improving as well, though still in hospital. Viola was still working in the Factory.

  Bob must be on patrol, and she wouldn’t listen to this voice that was saying but … but … For he hadn’t said he loved her. He had said that war was complicated. He had said he was in refit. He’d talked about pretence. And he hadn’t written for two weeks. Nor had he phoned.

  Beth forced herself to find some words as Viola folded both hands in her lap, trying to hide the seeping wound. ‘Viola, you should rest up, you know. Fran’s mam has said you shouldn’t be working, not at something like the sewing bench which rubs it so bad. She says it to you every morning, me mam says, as she pours your cuppa.’

  Viola looked down. There was a smear of blood on her blue overalls. Beth noticed. ‘Oh pet, let’s take you to the toilet. We can go without an escort here, because it opens off the canteen. Come on now, eh.’ The pair of them pushed back their chairs. The tannoy was playing ‘Ten Cents a Dance’. It was Beth’s main solo for this evening, and Bob’s favourite song. She sang along as they walked together.

  Beth sponged Viola’s overalls until only a wet patch remained. She checked Viola’s hand, taking out her handkerchief. It was Bob’s. He’d left it, and she carried it with her because it brought him closer. For a moment she hesitated, wanting to hold it to her face, to smell it, because she was sure that the scent of him remained.

  Viola stretched out her hand. ‘I know it’s Bob’s. Don’t use it on me.’

  ‘Howay.’ Beth smiled. ‘Let’s make another bandage of it on top of that one, for if Gaines sticks his beaky nose into the sewing room, he might create merry hell if there’s blood on the material. Wouldn’t put it past him to make you pay for it, even though it’s his last day.’

  Viola shook her head. ‘He seems to have accepted we’re all right, and just goes through the motions.’

  Opening up the handkerchief, Beth folded it and bound it round Viola’s hand. ‘Aye, but not enough to know we’re working on the wedding dress. I reckon he’d have a fit and charge us with misuse of Factory machinery.’ She should tear the handkerchief, knot it to secure the dressing, but again she hesitated.

  ‘Tuck it in,’ Viola whispered. ‘It’s too fine a weave to tear, eh?’

  Beth smiled and said, ‘Or you could go to the nurse right now and she’d do it proper, but …’

  Viola nodded, and they looked at one another in the mirror. ‘But,’ Viola finished for her, ‘she’d sign me off till it’s healed proper, and I’ve to pay me way at the Halls’. I just have to—’

  ‘You don’t,’ Beth interrupted. ‘It were a terrible injury and no one expects—’

  ‘I do. I’m on my own, and I must make me way, cos there’s no one to fall back on. I canna take charity.’

  ‘With friends it’s not charity, and you’ll make some money this evening.’

  Shaking her head, her shoulders rigid, Viola looked anxiously at her hand. Then she relaxed. ‘It isn’t oozing through,’ she said, just as Fran stuck her head round the door.

  ‘Come on, we’re to have a wedding-frock fitting in the sewing room. We’ve just time. Not just me, bridesmaids an’ all. Mrs Oborne says it’s safe because Gaines hasn’t been sticking his beak in our sector, not for days.’

  She disappeared, and the two girls smiled at one another. Beth pulled Viola through the door. ‘Aye, and we’ll see if there’s some offcuts from the cotton bridesmaids’ dresses, and those can go around the handkerchief as well. I reckon some more of Mrs Hall’s goose grease and lavender would help. But—’

  ‘Oh, hush. Besides, I have the lavender before bed, and Fran has her sphagnum-moss mix on her rash. It’s like our very own hospital, so it is.’

  They hurried back to their table, but their plates had been taken to the trolley for them, and Valerie merely pointed to the door that led to the corridor. ‘Miss Ellington is in the corridor, waiting to escort you to the sewing room. Mrs Oborne says time’s going on and she’s worried the measurements might have changed, especially for you, Beth, for you’ve gone thin as a rake. Be quiet about it, since Swinton doesn’t want to give Gaines a swansong to warble to Head Office.’

  The two girls set off towards the door, weaving round tables and then following Miss Ellington down the corridors. Beth touched each poster until Cyn pushed open the sewing-room door. The new supervisor, Mrs Iris, was helping to pin one of the bridesmaids’ cut-outs on Sarah, but there was no sign of Fran. Mrs Iris nodded towards the storeroom. ‘Mrs Oborne an
d Fran are squashed in there while Tilly fits the dress. A dress no one is to see, of course.’ She raised her voice slightly as she added, ‘Though with Tilly’s bum in there, how they’re managing I can’t imagine.’

  ‘I’m not bliddy deaf,’ shouted Mrs Oborne, ‘so you watch it, Doris Iris.’

  They were all laughing as Mrs Iris stepped back, looking at Sarah, who was wearing cut-outs that had been pinned together. ‘Turn around, let me see.’ She stared, tilting her head to one side. ‘Aye, you’ll do. I’ll unpin you at the back, so ease out of the rest, or you’ll be pricked. Next, please.’

  Beth pushed Viola forward. ‘Here you go, lass.’

  Viola worked her way round the benches, most of which bore sewing machines, whilst others were heaped with material.

  ‘Viola,’ said Mrs Iris, ‘you could have taken off your overalls while you waited, for heaven’s sake. You, Beth, start getting out of yours, for you’re in them trouser ones. You’ll have to show your knickers for you’ve no underslip, so don’t be a violet.’

  Beth grinned as she started to unbutton herself, but then came a sharp rap at the door, and before anyone could speak, it opened. Mr Gaines stood there, eyes darting. As Viola spun round in her underslip and blouse, he said, ‘What’s this, then?’

  Beth pulled her overalls closed, her breath quite gone, while Viola hid behind Mrs Iris.

  Miss Ellington, who had been sitting at a workbench, stood, blanching. ‘Mr Gaines, a month or so ago we were allowed to fit our Sarah’s wedding dress. We don’t use the Factory’s materials, and they are cut and sewn during the meal breaks, admittedly using these sewing machines and thread. We know it’s not procedure, and it’s my fault, no one else’s.’

  Still framed by the doorway, Mr Gaines said, ‘Carry on, then. Can’t stand in the way of romance, eh? Best to say nowt to Bolton. So I haven’t been here, I haven’t seen this. I don’t like paperwork any better than the next man. After all, this is hardly going to affect the running of the war.’ He half saluted as they stood there, stunned. He turned, then swung back. Was he expecting them to have moved? Well, he’d be disappointed, Beth thought, for they were frozen in place.

  ‘And break a leg this evening. That’s what they say in the acting world, isn’t it? It’s my last day, so I fancy a bit of a sing-song. Miss Ellington, you should know that this is a factory like no other. And you’d best tell Swinton, in case I don’t get time. If I do, then there’s nothing wrong with telling a body twice, eh? Ladies, it’s been a pleasure, but I dare say you can’t say the same.’ He left.

  They listened to his footsteps, which stopped after a few yards. They heard him returning. Still no one moved. He re-entered and said, ‘My report will be going in. But tell Swinton I was too hard at the start. You look after him, his training’s kept you safer than many others would have done. You can tell him that as well, if you would be so kind.’

  He left again, and they didn’t stir, not until his footsteps had faded completely, then they looked at one another. ‘Bliddy hell,’ muttered Mrs Oborne, peering out of the storeroom. ‘I thought nowt could surprise me. Best get on.’ She slammed the door behind her. They heard a screech from Fran and Mrs Oborne saying, ‘Stop mithering. It were only a pin, and the good thing is your blood hasn’t gone on the silk.’

  They waited for Fran’s reply. It came: ‘Oh, so that’s all right then.’

  ‘The lass daren’t say more,’ muttered Mrs Iris. ‘Mrs Oborne is too big, the storeroom too small and Fran wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  Still amazed at Gaines, they sprang into action, with Mrs Iris pinning the cut-outs on the other two bridesmaids, adjusting here and there, pins in her mouth. At last, with five minutes to spare, they were out, all except for Viola and Mrs Iris, who would tidy up before the shift returned. The women hurried down the corridor and Beth’s heart was suddenly much lighter – Gaines was being nice, Swinton had kept them safe, and with all this good news some must shake off on her and Bob. Still, though, she touched the posters. Mrs Iris had said she must eat properly, and not mither about things that hadn’t happened.

  Besides, Mrs Iris had said, removing the pins from her mouth, she didn’t want to have to take her dress in again, and what would Bob think of her looking like a skeleton clanking along behind the bride, casting a pall over the proceedings? Beth had smiled. ‘You’re right.’ That was all. She didn’t have the energy to say more.

  Now they followed Miss Ellington back to the canteen, then down the detonator and pellets corridor, all the while talking of the upcoming wedding, the excitement, and this evening’s songs. Mrs Oborne peeled off for the pellets. Beth made for the detonator workbench, and pictured them all standing for the photographs outside St Oswald’s, with the April lambs in the fields and the daffodils along the verges, and she’d look at Sarah and Fran, and their wedding rings and husbands, and know that their bairns would play together, a new gang would form, and their husbands would be friends, and it would all go on and on. If Bob came back for the wedding, of course.

  Fran and Viola hurried home from the bus stop, leaving Beth to head for the corner shop to run an errand for her mam. The girls dashed past the hens, though Fran had second thoughts and stopped, for her da had always spoken to them whenever he entered or left. She lifted the feed lid. Her mam had cut up the outer cabbage leaves and placed them in the old bowl on top of the grain. Fran tore them up and fed them through the chicken wire. ‘There, my precious feathered beings,’ she crooned. ‘Let’s be having a good lot of eggs, and you, Mr Cockerel, you keep ’em in order, eh? And tell ’em how grand Miss Franny Hall looks in her silk wedding dress, eh? Or will when ’tis finished. Oh, it’s a sight, Mr Cockerel. Such a grand sight.’

  She only realised Viola was beside her when the girl said, ‘Aye, and you should ask your ladies to lay a lot of good eggs for the sandwiches at the wedding tea.’

  Fran nudged her, dusting off her hands. ‘Aye, you listen to our Viola, or it’s no more feed.’

  ‘Stan were in earlier, giving them a handful,’ her mam called from the back doorstep, ‘and Ben when he got in from school, and now you. So they should lay like never before.’

  Fran patted the wire. ‘You are bad, bad birds, for you divint tell us you’d already had your tea, and now we’re ready for ours.’

  She grabbed Viola and pulled her towards the back door. They left their boots outside, under the seat of the chair her da had always used. After his death, Stan’s boots had filled the empty space, but now he had an old chair at Sarah’s. For a moment Fran felt that her world was changing too fast, but then her mam called, ‘Howay in, Fran. ’Tis as well you spoke kindly to the hens.’

  Fran shut the door behind them. It was then she saw egg cups on the table and stiffened. Boiled eggs for tea meant news. Good or bad? Which? There was no one to ask, for Viola was already washing in the scullery, alongside her mam, who was holding the towel. Fran joined them, forcing a laugh. ‘Have we been good wee girls, our mam, to have an egg?’

  Her mam shook her head. ‘You’re always good bairns, and don’t let anyone tell you different, and so is our Ben. He’s sold another crossword and is upstairs finishing his homework so he can start “setting” another.’

  Fran sagged with relief and pleasure. Davey would be so proud of the lad, for it was his teaching that had made it possible, and his introduction to the editor of the magazine that took so many of Davey’s crosswords. Stan had told the lads about Ralph saying at the wedding that he’d help find a publisher for the puzzle book Ben and William wanted to produce when they were older. Their next hospital visit was the coming week, and they’d try and sneak in an extra one, so they could take Ben, though he’d already been with their mam.

  She washed, and she and Viola made their way back to the table. Her mam checked that the water was boiling in the pan, then one by one, as though they were the most fragile objects in the world, she lowered the spoon, sliding the eggs into the water. It was the only thing her mam ever timed. �
��Three minutes, lass. Keep your eye on the clock, and, Viola, give our Ben a call. I want you two settled down for a bit of peace and quiet, for you’ve the sing-song tonight and you’ll be tired. I tell you, I’m right glad you’re not heading up to the Hall, and that you have Sunday off.’

  Viola went into the hall to call Ben, who hurtled down the stairs at a run. She held the door wide open, flagging him to slow down. He was wearing socks and slid to a stop at the table, arms outstretched. ‘Did Mam tell you?’ He sat on his chair, receiving a tap on his head with a spoon from his mam.

  ‘Into the scullery and get them clever hands washed.’

  He shot there, full of the energy of success, as Viola and Fran grinned at one another.

  ‘Mam, it’s not me hands that’s clever—’ he called.

  ‘—it’s your brain,’ Fran and Viola shouted in unison, for it was what he had said last time.

  He tore back in again and sat. Fran checked the clock. ‘Three minutes, Mam.’ She loved this, her family all together. Things as they’d always been, even though some were missing. Out came the eggs, the shells drying on the spoon as if by magic. They’d be just soft enough, they always were.

  As they dunked soldiers in the yolks, Ben said, ‘I reckon I should come to the Rising Sun tonight with everyone else cos I’ve done well.’

  Annie, sitting at the head of the table, merely looked at him. ‘Howay, our Ben, getting a crossword taken doesn’t mean you’ve added a few years to your age. Sorry, lad, you’ll stay here with me, and that’s that. I’ve wool that needs winding.’

  ‘Oh Mam—’

  One look from his mam was enough, and Fran hid a grin as he subsided into muttering under his breath about a prophet having no honour in his own home.

  Viola surprised them all. ‘John 4:44. If you’re going to mutter quotes, lad, then best to know where they’re from.’