by Pamela Evans
A less charitable side of May’s nature made her feel spiteful towards Betty for stealing the boy she had known May loved. They had told each other everything, so Betty had been very well aware of May’s feelings. Still, that was the stuff of childhood and May felt very grown up suddenly. Of course she wanted to stay friends with George and she would reply to his letter. But not now, not yet. She needed time for the pain to subside.
It was Sunday morning and George was standing at his father’s graveside in the autumn sunshine. He often came here when he was confused or miserable, both of which he felt overwhelmingly at the moment.
Whereas his mother was worried by the scandal of his predicament, his dad would have been more likely to understand. He wouldn’t have been pleased about George’s misdemeanour – in fact he would have given him a thorough trouncing – but he would have listened to what he had to say and somehow helped him through it man to man. As it was, George was living in a house full of women – three now that Betty had moved in – and had no one to talk to about his turmoil. His mates, while intrigued about the act that had led to his current situation, thought he should do a bunk rather than tie himself down at such a young age. Being extremely immature, they were of the view that he shouldn’t have sown his wild oats so close to home, but that as he had, he should disappear pronto.
Unfortunately, George didn’t have it in him to do such a cowardly thing, as much as he hated the situation he was in. He was sixteen and not ready for marriage to anyone, least of all Betty, who was even less mature than he was and to whom he had never felt even remotely drawn. All of this because of something he could barely remember and that had only happened because he was drunk. He was still reeling from the shock, having not seen Betty since the coronation party until she’d turned up at his door a couple of weeks ago to tell him that she was pregnant and her parents had disowned her.
He felt as though his life was over, which was probably a huge exaggeration, but things were certainly going to change with a wife and child to support. Fortunately his sister had left school and was working at a local greengrocer’s now, so that was one fewer financial burden, but he still had to help Mum out when he could. Betty had her job at Bright Brothers, but she would have to stop working after the wedding, as they didn’t employ married women.
He didn’t earn bad money at the factory, and there was often the chance of overtime. If he was desperate for cash, there was always bare-knuckle fighting to fall back on. It was a last resort but it paid well and he would do it if he had to, strictly on the quiet, of course, as it was illegal and dangerous. His father would turn in his grave if he knew he was even considering it. Dad had been a stickler for the straight and narrow, sadly as it happened, as it had brought about his early death.
As usual when he thought of his father’s demise, his murderer came into his mind with blinding fury. In his imagination he saw the inscription on Dad’s headstone. Murdered aged forty by Bill Bikerley, a thug and a bully. But no . . . he wouldn’t tarnish his father’s memory with thoughts of that man. It was a waste of energy. Justice had been done, leave it at that, George. You’ve enough on your plate. Let it go. But he knew he wasn’t able to do that. The anger would torture him for the rest of his life.
He turned away from the grave and began to walk home, half dreading getting there. Betty’s endless prattle was very irritating to him now that he was with her so much. His heart twisted as he thought of May. She would have received his letter by now and he knew she would be disappointed in him, both for getting her friend into trouble and also for betraying her.
There had never been anything definite between them, but they had loved each other and he had thought they would be together one day after the growing-up process was complete. He still loved her and always would, but it could never be any other way than as a friend now, and all because of his damned recklessness. He’d been careful not to even hint at his dismay at marrying Betty in his letter to May. It wouldn’t be fair and it was best she didn’t know. The girls were friends so May would be loyal to her, which was more than Betty had been to May.
One thing he was certain his father would have said to him was to do right by the woman he must now be committed to and make her a good husband. He felt completely inadequate to the task but knew he must do his best and try to be a decent husband and father as his own dad had been.
As he walked home past the pub he saw a group of men going in for the midday session. The pub was sometimes known as the married men’s haven. He smiled to himself. He was soon to be a husband and father, yet he wasn’t even old enough to have a pint in a pub.
Walking home from work across Haven Green carpeted in fallen leaves, Betty decided it was time she wrote to May about what had happened. Her conscience was trying to bother her but she wasn’t going to allow it to spoil things. She hoped May didn’t mind about the turn in events. After all, she had no actual claim on George and she couldn’t expect other people to stay away from him when she wasn’t around. If it hadn’t been me it would have been some other girl, Betty told herself, so I’m blowed if I’m going to feel guilty.
She had to admit that she wasn’t keen on the pregnancy side of things; she hadn’t bargained on that. She had thought it would be all right as it had been the first time for them both and neither had really known what they were doing. It wasn’t much fun feeling sick and below par all the time. On the other hand, she had well and truly got her man, which meant she didn’t need a girlfriend to go about with and she wouldn’t have to work in that dreary store any more after the wedding. In fact she wouldn’t have to work anywhere, because George would be keeping her in future. As a married woman she’d have status and people would stop bossing her around.
So pregnancy was a small price to pay for all the benefits. As for the baby, she couldn’t even begin to imagine herself as a mother. But that was ages away yet, so there was no need even to think about it. For now, she was going to enjoy her role as George’s soon-to-be wife.
Admittedly he hadn’t seemed very happy about the prospect, but he was going to do the decent thing, as she’d known he would, so it didn’t matter. They hardly knew each other at a personal level, but that would change now that they were living together, and getting better acquainted would be fun.
There was a strong sense of victory in having bagged the best-looking bloke around, though annoyingly, this was coloured slightly by a persistent niggle of conscience about May. But her friend was like a distant memory now, having been away for so long with no talk of her coming back. Betty was determined to forget all about her and enjoy herself.
‘Well, George, it’s very good of you to come and tell us, but I can’t pretend not to be disappointed in you,’ said Flo shakily when he visited the Pavilion to tell May’s parents what had happened. ‘In fact, I really am very shocked indeed.’
‘I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else and it’ll be all round the neighbourhood soon,’ he said, feeling embarrassed and guilty as hell.
‘Does May know?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve written to her about it.’
‘She’ll be, er . . . surprised at the very least,’ said Flo. ‘I always hoped that you and May might one day . . .’
‘It isn’t going to happen now, is it,’ said Dick quickly, waving a tea towel at a wasp that was hovering near the toffee apples on the counter. ‘You’ve been and gone and done it now, boy. Pleasure usually comes at a price.’
‘Dick,’ said Flo in a tone of admonition. ‘Don’t be so crude.’
‘All I said was—’
‘I know what you said and I want no more of that sort of talk, if you please,’ she instructed.
‘Look, these things sometimes happen,’ Dick pointed out. ‘Nature is a very powerful force.’
‘You wouldn’t be saying that if it was your daughter who is in trouble,’ said Flo.
He gave his wife a close look and George could almost feel his pain. ‘I’d rather our daughter was in that so
rt of trouble than the sort she is in; seriously ill and shut away from her family and friends,’ said Dick.
George saw his words hit home as Flo’s expression saddened and her eyes filled with tears.
‘When you look at it like that,’ she said thickly, ‘I suppose it does put it into perspective.’
‘Anyway,’ began George quickly, hoping to ease the tension, ‘now that you know what a degenerate I am, am I banned from the Pavilion?’
Dick looked at his wife in that way people have when they are very close. George had seen it in his own parents. Then he said, ‘Don’t be so daft, lad.’ He thought George would pay for his misdemeanour many times over in marrying so young and having a wife and child to support when he was just a lad himself. ‘What you get up to is none of our business.’
George looked at Flo with a raised eyebrow.
‘Of course you’re not banned,’ she confirmed. ‘What sort of snobs do you think we are?’
‘It takes two to make a baby,’ added Dick.
‘Shush,’ said Flo as a customer approached the counter.
‘In that case, can I have a toffee apple and a Daily Mirror please,’ said George.
‘You big kid,’ said Dick, handing him a toffee apple.
‘Autumn wouldn’t be the same without one of your specials, Mrs Stubbs.’
‘Mr Stubbs made these as it happens,’ Flo told him.
George nodded approvingly towards the older man, then went to a table on the veranda with the newspaper and the fruity confection. He was glad to have made his peace with the Stubbses. They meant a lot him.
As he sat there in the sunshine, the smoky chill of autumn in the air, he felt as though May was everywhere here, in the breeze that rustled through the trees and in every creak and squeak of the swings in the playground. Even before the Pavilion had opened, they had spent a lot of their time here as children. Happy days.
But all that was well and truly over, and he felt overwhelmed by adulthood. Oh well, enough of nostalgia; onwards and upwards, he said to himself. Glancing through the newspaper, he noticed a face that was becoming increasingly familiar. It was a picture of Adolf Hitler at some demonstration or other in Berlin. That bloke was always in the papers lately spouting his politics, thought George casually, turning to the sports page.
It took May quite a while to get over the shock of George’s news, but as soon as she felt able she decided it was time she snapped out of it. She wrote to both George and Betty individually wishing them well. Then she immersed herself in life at Ashburn. Some days she felt reasonably well; others she was tired and listless.
With perseverance she did improve a little at the art class. While knowing that she would never excel at drawing because she wasn’t gifted that way, she did seem to have an eye for colour, and Doug encouraged her to use it to interpret her own thoughts and the things she saw around her. The other patients teased her about her efforts.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’ asked Connie one day in late October when May had produced a colourful piece. ‘It looks like nothing on earth.’
‘It’s Guy Fawkes night,’ explained May. ‘Can’t you see the bonfire and the guy?’
‘Not really. It looks more like an accident with a few pots of paint to me,’ laughed Connie, who was very outspoken but never in a malicious way.
‘It’s surreal art,’ Doug explained. ‘Not everyone expresses what they see in the same way.’
‘It’s kind of you to make it seem significant, Doug, but I wouldn’t know surreal art if it jumped out of the paint pot and landed on my nose,’ said May. ‘It’s just me doing the best I can and having fun with a few colours. I haven’t got a clue.’
‘At least you’re enjoying it,’ he said. ‘That’s the whole idea.’
‘You need sunglasses to look at that,’ joked Connie, because May had used a lot of red and yellow.
‘Let’s see what you’ve done then, clever clogs,’ said May. She had to admit that her friend’s picture of the view from the window was recognisable.
‘I was always pretty good at drawing at school,’ Connie said breezily.
‘Didn’t anyone ever suggest that you take it up?’ May enquired.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said. ‘I’m one of six kids and I needed to be earning. I went straight into domestic service, cleaning up other people’s mess. Being in here is like a holiday for me.’
‘Anyway, that’s it for this week, ladies, so if you could start clearing up please,’ asked Doug.
They did as he said and May was about to follow the others back to the ward when Doug came over to her.
‘I hope you’ll still come to class despite your friend’s derogatory attitude towards your work,’ he said.
‘Take no notice of Connie. She’s only joking, even though I know I’m rubbish at drawing. But of course I’ll still come to your class,’ she assured him casually. ‘I enjoy it. It’s better than embroidery or basket-making and the nurses will make me go to one of those if I don’t come to your class. They like us to do something.’
‘So I’m the lesser of the evils then, am I?’ he said with a half smile.
She gave him a look. ‘In the nicest possible way, yes you are,’ she replied.
Having spotted what could be construed as fraternisation, a nurse swept on to the scene. ‘Come along, Mr Sands, back to your own neck of the woods, if you please.’
‘Righto, nurse,’ he said, giving her a salute.
‘Enough of your cheek,’ she came back at him.
Although the discipline here was very strict, the nurses weren’t without humour and long-term patients like May got to know them quite well. She thought they did a magnificent job for little pay and she respected every one of them, even the few who overdid the authority of their position. It wasn’t an easy job and it took dedication as well as a lot of hard work. She took her hat off to them all.
‘What was all that about with Doug just now?’ Connie wanted to know when May got back to the ward, a long, sparsely furnished room containing thirty closely spaced beds with a locker beside each one.
‘He was asking me if I would be going to his class again,’ May told her.
‘Well well,’ said Connie. ‘He didn’t ask me or anyone else for that matter. Do I detect a spark?’
‘Of course not,’ denied May. ‘He’s too old for me. He only wondered if I would be going again because I’m so hopeless at drawing.’
‘What was all that about you being a genius with colour?’ asked Connie.
‘To make me feel better at being so bad at art, I should think.’
‘That isn’t what they call it where I come from,’ said Connie. ‘We call it lust.’
‘You would,’ said one of the other women, whose name was Vi. ‘He was just being nice to make May feel better. She’s only sixteen. He must be well into his twenties.’
‘Just right for me, then,’ said Connie.
‘You’re only sixteen too.’
‘Yes, but I’m very mature for my age.’
‘You’re man-mad.’
‘Of course I am. We all are, being shut away from them like this,’ said Connie. ‘It isn’t natural.’
‘Some people don’t let the rules stop them,’ said Vi. ‘Maybe you should arrange to meet our art teacher after dark.’
‘I would do if it was me he was interested in,’ she said, turning her gaze on May. ‘But it isn’t.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ May objected mildly. ‘I haven’t even had a proper boyfriend yet. Don’t start trying to pair me off with an older man.’
‘Older man my foot, he can’t be more than about twenty-four or-five,’ said Connie.
‘And I’m only sixteen. Anyway, he’s a different type to us altogether,’ said May. ‘He seems quite classy.’
‘And we’re rough, I suppose.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said May. ‘He’s got a posh accent and he seems sort of, er . . . cultured.’
‘Mm, he doe
s,’ Connie agreed, ‘but I find that really attractive in a man.’
‘He’s an interesting type, I agree,’ said May.
‘He’s different to run-of-the-mill blokes, that’s for sure,’ stated Connie. ‘But he can’t be rich or he’d be in a sanatorium in Switzerland, not a council-funded one in Surrey.’
‘Yeah, there is that,’ May agreed. ‘He’s obviously well educated, though, even if he isn’t rolling in dough.’
‘We’ll have to try to find out some more about him,’ suggested Connie.
‘If you like,’ agreed May. ‘But now it’s time for dinner, so let’s head for the canteen.’ She looked at Connie. ‘And don’t embarrass us by making eyes at him all through the meal. If too much of that sort of thing goes on, they might start making men and women eat at different times.’
‘And we can’t have that, can we,’ laughed Connie.
‘Come on, Betty, get off your fat arse and help Mum with the washing-up,’ demanded Sheila of her sister-in-law one evening in late November when they had finished their evening meal.
‘I’m tired,’ said Betty.
‘God knows why, since you do nothing all day except sit around,’ said Sheila.
‘I’m pregnant,’ said Betty.
‘I don’t think any of us is in any doubt about that since you remind us every time you might be in danger of lifting a finger,’ said Sheila. ‘It isn’t an illness, so you ought to do your share around here.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’ asked Betty.
‘Because I’m going to the pictures and I do it every night as well as being at work all day,’ said Sheila. ‘But that isn’t the point. You’re living here so you must start to pull your weight.’