by Annie Clarke
They both spun round at the crash as the gate banged back against the wall and boots pounded across the yard. Fran leapt for the door, but as she did so it opened and Sid stepped in. ‘Glad you’re up, or I’d have had to dig you out. Get your coat, our Franny, and get biking to the station. Have you money?’
Fran just stared and Sid snapped, ‘Get your bliddy self to the station. Our Beth’s on her way to that bastard husband of hers, who’s written for a divorce because war is complicated or some such rubbish. I’ll give the beggar bliddy complicated. He were never one of us, and he was right off-kilter at Sarah’s wedding. She’s off to see him. She’s been weeping, I could bliddy—’ He stopped himself and just stared at the two women, who were trying to absorb all that he was saying.
‘I’m not the one to go with her,’ he almost shouted. ‘It would make her look weak, or as though she had a lover, something he’d use to get back at her. Besides, I’d bliddy rip his throat right out with me teeth. Best ’tis her marrers. I’m away to get Sarah sorted. She’ll meet you there, at the station, I ’spect. So, have you money, or shall I give you some?’
Fran shook her head. ‘We were paid last night. Go for Sarah.’
The door slammed in his wake. Annie disappeared into the scullery to cut bread and dripping and fill a water bottle. ‘At least you’ve had a cuppa, our Fran.’
Viola burst into the kitchen in her nightdress, her hair awry. ‘What’s up? I heard Sid.’
‘Nowt to worry you, lass,’ Annie said.
Viola put her hands on her hips. ‘Oh aye, then why is Fran rushing around like a blue-arsed fly?’
Fran was stuffing the bottle of water and the bread wrapped in greaseproof paper into her bag, and then her arm in the sleeve of her mac.
Annie went to take the bag from Fran as she struggled. ‘It’s Beth. Something’s amiss. Fran’ll tell us when she gets back, whenever that is.’
‘It’ll be this evening, Mam, has to be, we’ve work tomorrow.’
‘I should be there helping with whatever it is,’ Viola shouted.
Annie held up her hands. ‘Hush. You and I, Viola, have to chat about whether you’ve decided to help at the Hall, so you’re not going anywhere.’ Annie turned to Fran, who was opening the back door. ‘I’ve cash in the tin.’ She pointed to the old biscuit tin on the mantelpiece.
Fran shook her head, already halfway out. ‘No, I’ve the money from the Rising Sun in me mac pocket.’ She hurried into the yard, but her mam had already taken the lid off the tin.
‘You don’t know how much you’ll need,’ Annie shouted. ‘Stay where you are.’
Fran knew better than to move as her mam sent Viola out after her. Viola put the money in Fran’s pocket. ‘I’ll feed the hens. Take care – and of Beth.’
She held open the gate. Fran pushed her bike into the back lane, then pedalled as though the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels, bumping over the cobbles, her mind full of Bob, and divorce, and Beth, the song last night, the drinking, and she knew she should have asked more questions. ‘Oh, Beth.’
She tore up to Main Street, snatched a look either way and crossed, knowing that last night her mind had been too full of wedding arrangements, dresses, love and Davey.
Davey. Her Davey, who had received a letter from Amelia telling him that Fran was having a ‘do’ with Ralph. To begin with he had believed the letter. Then Fran in turn had thought he was involved with Daisy. It was a time of hell for them both, and the memory of it still dried her mouth. Oh, poor Beth. Bob was her husband, for heaven’s sake, they had made promises. Please, she thought as she raced along, let it be something and nothing. Ahead of her, she saw Sarah pedal out of her back lane without looking, cross the road and tear off towards the station.
Fran caught up and Sarah snatched a look at her. ‘I’ll bliddy kill the beggar,’ she seethed. ‘Bliddy Bob. Why the hell didn’t she tell us? Why didn’t I notice? Sid thinks she didn’t want to say as we were so happy, and Viola still so hurt.’ They were cycling at a speed they had not achieved since they were bairns, but it didn’t seem fast enough.
‘Did Sid say what time the train was?’
‘No. But who knows these days anyway? Bliddy war. Complicated, our Bob thinks. Well, I’ll bliddy complicate him.’
‘Where are we going, anyway?’ Fran asked.
‘Oh, I divint know,’ said Sarah. ‘Grimsby?’
‘Sid never said. Just to get there, be with her.’
‘Aye, when haven’t we been together, eh?’
Beth had her ticket. The train was about six thirty, but the stationmaster had said, ‘’Tis difficult to say these days, with troop trains, and freight …’ He’d paused, tapping his nose. Beth had tried to smile, for the freight was probably the ammunition they were filling. She made her way onto the platform, bracing herself.
‘See, Bob, I might be a factory girl, right enough, but it’s war work, and where would you lads be without us, eh?’
She moved down the platform keeping her eye on the stationmaster, who’d said he’d make sure she got on the right train. He’d also said she might or might not have to change trains: ‘Who knows—’
‘—these days,’ she’d finished for him. He’d laughed. She’d smiled, though her head was still splintering into different degrees of headache, and her courage was ebbing.
She sat on the platform bench, not wanting to be in the waiting room. Slowly breathing in and out, she recited, one times two is two. Breathe. Two times two is four. Breathe.
She wouldn’t think of Bob, she wouldn’t worry about him not being there, she wouldn’t worry about him turning from her. She felt in her bag for her eyebrow pencil. She must remember to draw the line down her legs. She had written the note to her mam with it. The pencil had felt so heavy in her hand: Back tonight. I have somewhere to be. I am all right. I love you, Mam.
As the sky lightened and the birds sang, Beth huddled into her mac. The breeze brought the sulphur, the smell of coal, and the horizon looked like a series of giant molehills, though molehills didn’t smoulder. These moles were her people and she realised she was scared to leave them. She shut her eyes. Ten times two is two. She shook her head. Stupid girl, ten times two is twenty. Eleven times two is twenty—
‘Beth,’ someone called. Beth turned, not believing the voice. But it was Sarah, and beside her – Fran. They were running, but their footsteps were drowned by the whistle of an incoming train as it rounded the long bend, its wheels screeching and sparks flying, the engine roaring and wheezing, its stack billowing smoke. Fran was shouting, her hands cupping her mouth, her bag and gas mask bumping against her hip.
‘Grimsby, all aboard for Grimsby,’ yelled the stationmaster.
‘We asked where you were going and bought tickets,’ Fran shouted. ‘The guard said we might have to change trains, but who knows—’
‘—these days,’ interrupted Beth.
She waited for them. The train came to a stop and doors swung open, passengers alighted while others came streaming from the waiting room. The girls reached her, Fran hugged her so tightly that she could barely breathe. But she must breathe.
‘Oh Beth, how could he? How could you go without us? Oh, bonny lass, sweet, bonny lass.’
They were jostled as people with cases clambered on, and Sarah pulled both of them towards the door. ‘We must get on, try to get a seat, and don’t you dare think you are to sort this on your own. Don’t you bliddy dare, Beth Jones, or Smith, or whatever the bliddy hell you choose to be.’
Beth was on to the three times table as Sarah pushed first Beth, then Fran into the crowded corridor. They looked through into the nearest compartment, but there were no spare seats so they stayed where they were, squeezed between two sailors leaning back against the compartment wall. Fran raised her eyebrows at the other two, but Sarah merely shrugged. ‘No point in looking for a seat. It’s enough we’re on the train, eh.’
Standing in the corridor with them were soldiers and airmen, as
well as the sailors, whose tallies around the base of their caps were missing the names of their ships – for all was secret in war, Beth thought. So many secrets. Bob had his secret – he thought he had stopped loving her – but now it wasn’t a secret, was it? It was out in the open. A divorce requested.
The servicemen passed cigarettes between them. The sailor next to Beth asked, ‘How about you, lass?’
Before she could answer, Sarah said, ‘Oh aye, but if you give a cigarette to one, you must give it to all, for we come in a package, don’t we, Beth?’
Beth nodded, but one was married and another soon to be, and she might be divorced. She closed her eyes, the shame of it engulfing her. No one she knew had ever been divorced. Her poor mam, that she should have to bear the stigma.
Sarah nudged her. ‘Here you are, sweet lass. Our new friend has given us each a cigarette and now he’s going to light them.’
The lad grinned. ‘Your wish is my command.’ He struck the match, and the girls inhaled, smiling their thanks. ‘No need to ask where you work,’ he murmured. ‘My mam’s in one o’ them factories an’ all. The itch drives her mad, and her hair’s all colours.’
‘Tell her to try a sphagnum-moss dressing,’ Fran whispered, ‘or mebbe lavender goose grease.’
He nodded, drawing on his own cigarette, turning side on and leaning with his elbow on the window rail, blocking the corridor. ‘The stemming’s the worse, she tells me,’ he whispered. ‘All that yellow powder gushing from the machine into the rubber containers. Gets into her skin, then onto the sheets. She has to have one set of sheets special like for her stemming shifts. I take me ’at off to you girls. ’Tisn’t easy, not at all.’
An airman struggling along was blocked by the sailor. ‘Move aside, old boy. Nature calls.’
‘Fly over him,’ yelled a squaddie.
‘Such a good idea. I might have a bomb on board as well.’ Everyone laughed as the airman squeezed through, nodding to the girls. ‘You headed for Grimsby?’
Fran nodded back. ‘Will it go straight there – have you heard?’
The sailor answered, leaning back now, as they were. ‘Who knows—’
‘—these days,’ apparently everyone in the corridor yelled.
On they travelled, hour after hour, as they pulled into sidings and waited for goods trains to pass. And while they stood, they whispered together and finally Beth passed them Bob’s letter. Sarah read it first, as Fran simply slipped her arm around Beth and held her tightly talking of the countryside they were passing, the dresses they would be trying on tomorrow in their lunch hour, and how wonderfully she, Beth, had sung at the Rising Sun.
Fran paused, accepting another cigarette from the sailor, though Beth shook her head. Fran inhaled, then said, ‘Stan heard someone from the Haywain pub getting our details from Stevie to sort out another booking.’
Beth tried to listen, but had worked her way through the four times table by the time Sarah handed Fran the letter. She read it and handed it back. Beth returned it to her mac pocket. None of the girls spoke, but Sarah pulled out a packet of Player’s. ‘By,’ Fran muttered. ‘You going up in the world, lass? Woodbines and roll-ups not good enough?’
Sarah laughed. ‘Shut up and have one, or not.’ She passed the packet to Beth. ‘Sid gave them to me. Felt all the marrers, the lads as well, should have come, but we could have his Player’s instead, because I said there was no need for a fistful of pitmen. I said they’d be better placed sorting out the digging and raking of our das’ allotments. Time the potatoes were in, for heaven’s sake. Our das’ll be shouting down their orders else.’
Fran shook her head. ‘They should be planted on Good Friday.’
Sarah laughed again. ‘The day after yer wedding, then. But I bet we’re in work, so we’ll have to plant the chittings after shift – or before.’
Fran took a Players, once her Woodbine was finished, as Sarah offered the sailor a cigarette. He refused. ‘Keep them. You’re off to see your husband, are you?’ He pointed to Sarah’s wedding ring.
Beth spoke up. ‘To see mine. He’s on a … well, on a ship.’
He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s the way of it.’
He returned to talking to his mate, and the girls huddled together. ‘Fine, Beth,’ Fran murmured, ‘we’ve read the letter, and I were so angry, then when I turned it over I were more angry.’
‘So you’re going to find him to talk it out?’ Sarah asked. ‘Find out if he’s gone off his bliddy head, or if it’s really what he feels, is that it?’
After a pause, Beth whispered, ‘I wanted him to see me, to see the girl he married, made promises to. I reckon he’s forgotten, got swept away by this new world, and by complications, and every other bliddy stupid thing he’s said.’ She finished on a shout, but no one turned. Aye, well, it’s best, Beth thought, for if anyone said anything, I don’t know whether I’d burst out crying, or beat them over the head.
The other two were quiet, their faces grim. Fran said, ‘I hate this war.’
Beth looked down at her hands. ‘I hate this yellow, I hate the itch, and no bliddy rouge is going to make a halfpenny difference. I’ll still look like a grubby daffodil.’
At that, the sailor turned. ‘I heard you, and don’t ever say that. ’Tis a badge of honour, that colour is, and so too any hurt the work causes. They should give you lasses a bliddy medal, I reckon. And me mam an’ all.’
He turned back to his mate, and the girls looked at one another and smiled, but it didn’t reach Beth’s eyes. How could it, for what if Bob looked at her and didn’t see what this young matelot saw? Well, if that happened, she must be strong, for it was her marrers’ happy time just as it had once been hers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They had to change trains, and then again as they finally neared Grimsby, which the sailor recognised. At this point Fran dragged Beth along to the toilet to put on make-up, treading on feet and apologising with a smile. Sarah waited until they were out of earshot, then explained to the sailor why Beth was to be in Grimsby. ‘I want whistles, I want praise for her when she comes back, but I don’t want a word to be said about “Hope it works out.”’
The lad looked offended. ‘Give us a bit of credit. Though I’d like to deck the bastard. It’s no way to behave.’
The whisper went down the corridor to the right and to the left. The train was slowing and Sarah saw that the sky was lighter towards the sea, or that’s what Clive, the sailor, had said. The sunlight was glistening on the roofs of the town and the gulls were circling as Beth, followed by Fran, edged along, past the men, to the accompaniment of whistles. She was scarlet when she reached Sarah and whispered, ‘Do I really look all right?’
Clive leaned forward. ‘By, someone’s going to be right pleased to see you, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Or if you’re not meeting anyone, I’m free.’
‘Stand aside, sailor boy,’ called the airman, ‘let the grown-ups get in first.’
‘Give the pongos a chance, lad.’ This from a red-haired soldier. ‘We match, you and I, miss. So, look no further.’
Beth was smiling as they pulled into the station and joined the rush to leave the train, queuing to hand in their tickets. The ticket collector tipped his cap and gave them directions to the street where Bob had his lodgings. Clive wasn’t far behind, his kitbag over his shoulder. ‘Be safe,’ Sarah called after him.
He swung round. ‘You an’ all, lasses. Be safe, be lucky.’ He flicked a salute and his eyes were on Sarah, who mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ He grinned in response and hurried off.
Beth watched him go. ‘He’s only a lad.’
Fran shook her head. ‘Oh no, he’s a man, an ordinary man doing extraordinary things, so he’s a hero. Now, come on, fancy pants, let’s try and remember the directions.’
There was a harsh sea breeze tugging as they neared Bob’s lodgings and Beth shivered, pulling her hat down. She read out the address to a man who was waiting at a bus stop. He reaffirmed the direction
s they had been given. They kept on walking, and though they passed no bomb damage on this route, they knew there had been raids, of course there had, it was a busy port, and what’s more, served trawlers converted into minesweepers. It was on these that Bob served. Her Bob.
On they hurried, taking the second road on the left, then the first on the right into a street of terraced houses, and now they merely had to find number 12. They past windows taped against bomb blast, the same tape on the panes of a telephone box. Was this the one that Bob used to telephone her? Or was that nearer the port?
Fran stopped, and pointed ahead. ‘There’s number twelve.’
Sarah gripped Beth’s arm. ‘We’ll hang back. This is between the two of you, but we will be within hearing distance. You are not alone, lass, and are quite the bonniest of girls.’
She kissed her, while Fran squeezed her hand, whispering, ‘He’s your husband. He’s just got muddled. On you go.’
They waited by a lamp post on which a rope swung. They pulled their macs tightly around them, turning up the collars. ‘This wind’s bliddy freezing,’ muttered Sarah.
‘Breathe in the sea air, dodge the gulls’ droppings and stop your mithering,’ grunted Fran.
They were watching Beth all the time, and she was drawing closer, now passing number 10. They edged out to the kerb so they had a clear view, ready to rush over if they were needed. Eventually, Sarah replied, ‘Bird droppings are good luck.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Fran muttered.
Beth turned, checking to see that they were there. ‘I canna bear it for her,’ Sarah said.
Fran swallowed, seeing Beth’s hand lift as she sought the doorbell to number 12. When she was in control of her voice, she said, ‘Aye, no more can I, but you’re right, we canna bear it for her, we can only help her to carry it, and we’ll all do that, the lads and us.’
Beth saw no doorbell. She snatched off her woollen hat and put it in her pocket, fluffing her hair, feeling its dryness, knowing that the auburn was streaked almost green in places.