War Babies

by Annie Murray

  ‘No, she’s made sure of that,’ Rachel said bitterly.

  ‘None of it’s his fault,’ Gladys went on. Her voice was low, as if she was struggling with her emotions. ‘Or anyone’s. It’s no good getting in a state about things when you don’t even know how it’s going to be. We’ll just have to take each day as it comes. That’s all there is to do – keep going and see. He’s your son, Rach. For God’s sake, let’s look on him as a blessing. He belongs with us.’

  With tears running down her cheeks, Rachel looked at Danny’s aunt beside her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you – for being so kind.’

  ‘We’re family, wench,’ she said. ‘That’s how it is. You never know how precious it is until you’ve lost it.’ Her eyes filled and for a second she reached across for Rachel’s hand, gave it a rough squeeze, then got up and left the room.

  Thirty-Six

  7 May 1945

  They were drawn back to the wireless to listen to every bulletin. All weekend the excitement grew and grew. Hitler was dead! William Joyce, Lord Haw-Haw, whose sinister voice had oozed propaganda through the airwaves all through the war, had signed off a few nights ago.

  ‘You may not hear from me again for a few months,’ he slurred.

  ‘He’s drunk!’ Rachel said. ‘Hark at that!’

  He finished in a low voice: ‘Heil Hitler. And farewell.’

  ‘He’ll need to be more than drunk,’ Gladys said with satisfaction.

  German forces had already surrendered and, this Monday dinner time, the sound of wireless broadcasts sounded out of the windows into the yard and along every street. Waiting in silent suspense, at long last they heard it: the German Supreme Command had surrendered at Rheims. The war in Europe was over!

  Dolly erupted through the door almost before the newsreader had got it out of his mouth. The yard was filling with the neighbours, cheering.

  ‘Did you hear? Oh, I can’t believe it – it’s over!’ She flung her arms around Gladys, then Rachel. ‘Oh, I wonder if Mo’s heard – I feel like running over and telling him!’

  ‘They’ll have the wireless on, won’t they?’ Gladys said.

  ‘Oh – it’s over!’ Dolly repeated, jumping up and down. Then she caught sight of Rachel’s face. ‘Oh, bab – no, it’s not, is it. Your Danny’s out East . . .’

  Rachel hardly knew what it meant. She was elated but it was hard to take anything in yet.

  ‘And poor Ma and Pa Jackman . . .’

  Their faces sobered. The Jackmans had received word earlier in the year that Edwin had been killed during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes.

  ‘There’s some won’t be celebrating,’ Dolly said. ‘But there’ll be no stopping some of ’em! Not after all this! Ooh – what a day to remember!’

  Rachel slipped back into the house as the others stayed in the yard, chattering with excitement.

  The factory at the back had gone quiet, as if everyone had downed tools. Lil Gittins had taken their wireless outside and put some band music on. There she was, out there in one of her low-cut dresses, teetering on her heels and calling to everyone to join in.

  ‘My Stanley’s coming home! He’s coming back to me!’

  Irene had come out and danced about with her. She was like a different woman now, no longer pregnant, dressed to kill in a shimmery, copper-coloured frock, hair dyed white blonde. Rachel felt like a bag of bones, a mousey frump in comparison. And she found Irene hard to put up with, especially since she had had Evie and the way she treated the child.

  She went to check on Tommy. Dolly had said they could hang onto the old pram for as long as necessary and she had Tommy propped in it, on a pillow, a strap round his body to keep him upright and safe. At twenty months old, he ought to have been up and running about like Evie and Netta’s Patrick, a pale, round-faced little lad like his father who Netta doted on. As she walked inside, she saw Tommy’s eyes register her arrival and he made one of his spasmodic movements of pleasure, his left arm clenched close to his body. His right arm worked quite well and in that hand he was holding his favourite toy, a little wooden rattle with bells on the end. Whenever she found time she did massage his stiff limbs as the doctor had suggested. She had no idea whether it was doing any good but at least it was something she could do.

  ‘All right, babby?’ She sat down beside him, looking into his sweet, round face, his head covered now by a cap of mouse-brown hair like her own. He made a lot of sounds – no actual words yet, but he was trying. His mouth didn’t work quite normally. His tongue had a tendency to pop out without him being able to control it. She still had to feed him, though his right arm was strong and she thought maybe one day he might be able to do it himself. But when the food went into his mouth, his wayward tongue pushed a lot of it out again. He had a permanent trail of drool from his lips which made his chin red and sore.

  ‘So you’re saying he’s not . . . right?’ Peggy said, when Rachel first got round to telling her about Tommy. He was about eight months old by then and clearly not doing the things you would expect from a child that age: rolling over, sitting up, perhaps even starting to try and get onto his hands and knees. Although he was still light for his age, in her overwrought, weak state, Rachel found it exhausting getting over to the Coventry Road with Melly walking and Tommy in her arms. It was especially tiring when there was no prospect of support or affection at the other end.

  At least it had been a warm spring day and not raining, but she was already at the end of her tether by the time they got to the flat. She waited until Peggy had reluctantly stirred herself to make some tea and they were all in the upstairs sitting room, a faint breeze coming in through the window, before she broached the subject.

  ‘You mean, he’s some sort of cripple?’ An expression of horror came over Peggy’s dainty features.

  ‘Steady on,’ Fred Horton said. He happened to be around that afternoon. ‘He looks a happy little chappy despite it . . .’

  Rachel warmed towards her stepfather in that moment. After all her years of trying to get on the right side of her mother, however mean and selfish she could be, today she felt an immense, bursting rage on Tommy’s behalf. She’d had more than enough of it. Mom could be nasty to her but she wasn’t having it with her son! She clenched her hands, waiting to see what else Peggy would come out with.

  ‘Well, he may be cheerful enough,’ Peggy said. ‘But what use is he going to be if he can’t walk, as Rachel seems to be saying?’

  ‘Use to who?’ Rachel flared up. ‘Is that all anyone is – useful?’

  She could see Melly listening in hard to this conversation, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  ‘He may not be useful to you, Mother, but he’s my son.’ She was so overwrought that her voice had sunk almost to a snarl. There was so much more she wanted to say: You never loved me, all you ever think about is yourself – don’t you dare ever let your stupid, selfish attitudes near my little boy . . . All her rage and tension were ready to pour out, as if from a bursting boil, on the person who most seemed to deserve them.

  ‘Eh now, steady on,’ Fred intervened. He stepped over and closed the window, as if he was worried that someone might overhear.

  ‘Oh – I suppose having a cripple in the family might be bad for business as well!’ Rachel said.

  ‘Rachel, for goodness’ sake!’ Peggy said. ‘All I said was . . . I just asked what the state of things is.’

  ‘Things? What d’you mean, “things”?’ Rachel sat on the very edge of the chair, her arms waving as she spoke. ‘Tommy has a . . . a condition where his legs don’t work and his left arm as well and his tongue. There – that’s the state of things. You may not like it – I don’t like it. But that’s how it is. That’s Tommy.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Peggy said again. ‘There’s no need to be so unpleasant—’

  ‘Unpleasant!’ Rachel heard her own caustic tone. ‘Unpleasant for you? Oh, poor you.’

  As she snapped at her mothe
r she saw Melly move over to her little brother and tweak his nose playfully. Then she put her arm around him where he lay, half-propped on a cushion. Cissy followed her and sat on the other side of Tommy and tried to make Melly laugh. But Melly was staring very solemnly at her grandmother, as if protecting Tommy from her.

  ‘But . . .’ Peggy seemed abashed by this outburst, but also confused. ‘I can see, Rachel. I’m not blind. We’ve noticed there’s something amiss with him compared to a normal baby. It’s going to make your life very difficult, I can see that. So what are you going to do?’

  Rachel felt the rage swelling large in her again but she pressed it down. She was afraid of what she might do if she let it all come boiling out. In an icy voice she said, ‘Do? What d’you mean, do?’

  ‘Well – you know. There must be something they can do. Treatments and things.’

  Rachel was shaking her head. ‘No. Not much. They’ve said – the doctor and the health visitor. You can’t cure it. It’s just how he is.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to put him in a home then, eventually,’ Peggy said.

  It was not so much that Peggy had said this but her casual tone which made Rachel feel as if she was turning to stone. She simply could not speak. Melanie could not understand exactly what was being said, but she read something of the tone of it and a fierce expression of dismay came over her face. She leaned forward and made a loud noise at her grandmother, a loud snarl, as if protecting Tommy from her.

  Rachel thought she had never loved her little girl so much as at that moment. Tears filled her eyes and she looked down, swallowing, her rage redirected into a fierce pride in her children.

  ‘If you don’t want to see him,’ she said bitterly to Peggy, ‘I shan’t bring him. But you won’t see Melly either.’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk so silly,’ Peggy said, laughing. ‘I was only asking. I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about. You always did get in too much of a state about things. I’m only worried for you, that’s all, having to bring up a cripple.’

  Sitting here now, on this day of celebration, she felt tired to her very core. Even the thought of her mother made her feel drained. Peggy had said that of course she could bring the children over, when she could. After all, it didn’t involve her in any effort and they were company for Cissy. But it was becoming more and more tiring. She would have to keep trying though, at least for Melly and Cissy’s sakes.

  Melly was out running about with little Shirley Sutton. Rita was at school but Shirley was, as usual, having to watch baby Evie. Irene let Evie crawl around in the dirt – anything so long as she didn’t have to bother with her. Several times she had toddled right out of the yard and been found sitting in the road. Dolly brought her back once from the bottom of the street. But Irene didn’t seem to care what anyone said. Rachel thought bitterly about blonde, big-eyed little Evie. At least she could get about, not like Tommy.

  She poured a cup of tea and slumped in the chair, hearing the music drifting in from outside and the sounds of the women’s laughter. I’m not even twenty yet, she thought, and I feel like an old lady. It was as if all her energy had burned itself out in her fierce protectiveness towards Tommy. She wanted to be young, full of joy and energy. She wanted to long for Danny, to miss him. It felt like a hundred years since she had seen him. In fact she wanted just to feel anything at all. For now, she was numb and worn out.

  Like everyone, she could hardly begin to take in that the war had really ended for them. The blackout was gone already, from last autumn. Mo had been stood down with the rest of the Home Guard. They had seen all the changes, the progress, but even so, after nearly six years, how could they really believe it was over . . .?

  All through the early part of last year there had been talk of the Second Front. Everyone knew there was a buildup to something – all those Americans and Canadians over here, as well as Poles and Czechs. And in April, Mr Jackman was called down south along with hundreds of other firemen, to guard ammunition dumps. Once the invasion in early June – D-Day as it became known – was over, Mr Jackman had returned, saying that the south had been one ‘blooming great army camp’ in the build-up before 6 June. He came home via London and had heard one of the flying bombs come down.

  ‘Terrifying,’ he said. ‘Like a cowing motorbike going across the sky, and then they cut out – and God alone knows where it’s going to come down. I don’t envy those buggers down London one bit being under that lot.’

  The atmosphere changed. There was a lightness: hope, after all the bad news. The Italian campaign was pushing the Germans north. The invasion of France had begun. She had little news of Danny except, now and then, to say that he was alive and that where he was stationed was still a dump and that he loved her and hoped she and the children were all right. He wasn’t allowed to say anything much about where he was or what he was doing. He had stopped sending his little drawings and she wondered if he was doing them in his notebook. Sometimes she wondered if he still really existed. It was as if she had dreamt him, her blue-eyed husband. She wondered if she felt real to Danny. She had written to him and told him about Tommy, but she realized he had probably not really taken in what she said. How could he? He was thousands of miles away, in a place she could barely even imagine.

  As the freezing winter passed and 1945 arrived, there was still terrible fighting across Europe. And there were further shocks for which they had been unprepared. Only last month, Gladys had been out for one of her trips to the pictures, but she had come home early. Rachel, settled by the fire once she had got the children to sleep, looked up in surprise as she appeared through the door on a gust of icy air.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ she said, yawning.

  ‘I didn’t stay in the end.’ Silently, Gladys took off her coat and hat. She seemed preoccupied and heavy in herself. As she sat down at the table she clasped her hands together and just sat, a haunted expression on her face.

  ‘D’you want a cup of tea, Auntie?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘If we’ve got nothing stronger, that’ll have to do,’ Gladys said.

  Rachel filled the kettle from their pan of water, set it to boil and came back to the table. Carefully, she said, ‘What’s happened?’

  Gladys shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘I couldn’t face it – not after the news . . . Those German camps they’ve found. I’ve never seen anything like it . . .’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel sat down. She had never seen Gladys look like this before.

  Gladys glanced at Melly, but she was on the mat by the fire, humming to herself – a habit she had caught from her aunt – and in a world of her own.

  ‘They’ve had all these people kept in great big camps . . .’

  ‘POWs?’

  ‘Yes – but not soldiers. Just all these people, Jews and others – thousands, by the look of it. It was called Booken . . . something. My God . . .’ She could not seem to meet Rachel’s eye as she spoke, and when she did look up, she seemed somehow shamed. ‘I knew there were bombs and guns – that’s the war. All sorts of terrible things. But this was different. It was . . .’ She trailed off again, looking for words. ‘I mean, that wasn’t war – it was summat else . . .’

  There was more to come. As well as Buchenwald, camp after camp was liberated as the Allies pushed across Europe. The even darker horrors that had gone on under the black cover of war were brought to light. Piles of shoes, spectacles, corpses. Rachel never did see the images for herself – hearing them described was bad enough to make them hover in the mind.

  The war was ending. With it came enormous relief and jubilation, along with grief, loss and a deep human disgust. It was over.

  But for the next two days they were celebrating! Amid all the dancing and drinking of VE Day, the bonfires and parties, the pianos wheeled into the street, mouth organs and songs and flags, there was one other cause for celebration.

  The next morning they heard the familiar roar of an engine in the yard and Mo Morrison shot
in along the entry on a Norton, a huge grin on his face. The noise of it bounced off the brickwork, immensely loud until he cut the engine. He was immediately surrounded by children.

  ‘I’ve got a sidecar out there!’ He pointed back down the entry. ‘Who’s coming for a victory lap?’

  The younger Morrisons and Shirley and Melanie were all yelling for a turn.

  ‘Can I go, Mom?’ Melly ran to Rachel as she came outside. ‘Can I have a go?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Can Tommy?’

  ‘Tommy’s a bit small – you go, and Shirley.’

  ‘What’re you up to, Mo?’ Gladys called to him. Rachel found a smile spreading across her face at the sight of Mo’s exuberance.

  ‘You lot go and wait out there,’ he ordered the excited children. ‘Make sure no one goes off with it.’ They all dashed to the entry to be the first in the sidecar.

  Mo was pulling a newspaper out from under his jacket and looking mighty pleased with himself. ‘Now I’ve got shot of the kids – the moment we’ve all been waiting for!’

  ‘Mo?’ Dolly advanced towards him. ‘What’re you on about?’ The other women were gathering round.

  ‘Well – I don’t know if I should say,’ he teased, his pink face fit to erupt with laughter. ‘Not among all you womenfolk.’

  There was an outcry. ‘Come on, Mo – stop teasing us!’ Lil called to him. Rachel wandered over out of curiosity.

  Mo held up the paper and proclaimed, ‘That wench’s done it at last!’