Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Geoffrey?’

  There was no reply so she took a look in the hall cupboard. She sighed once she’d worked out which coat was missing and to whom it belonged.

  ‘Geoffrey!’

  She closed the door and went back into the kitchen where Mrs Grey, a woman with a jolly red face caused by acne rather than accident, was putting the kettle on and sorting out breakfast.

  ‘I saw ’im go out,’ she said. ‘Said he had something to sort out.’

  ‘I see.’ Boys always had something to sort out – conkers, cricket, swapping cigarette cards with one of the other boys in the Crescent.

  She went back into the kitchen. There was enough to think about without worrying about her son. In the hope of easing her anxiety, she began checking Mrs Grey’s shopping list for the week but her mind wasn’t really on it. How could it be after last night? Although she looked good, she certainly didn’t feel it. She ached all over and already purple blotches were rising on her inner thighs and on her back.

  The items on the shopping list jigged up and down like a conga of madly dancing matchstick men. And all waiting in queues, she thought with worn amusement. One thought above all others predominated. What David had done and why he had done it. Had she done or said anything to deserve it? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t have!

  Wrapped up in her own confusion, she didn’t hear Mrs Grey asking her a question until she repeated it.

  ‘I said, how’s Doctor Hennessey-White? Glad to be home, is he?’

  Charlotte put down the pencil she had been chewing, forced a weak smile and nodded, her chin dropping a little lower each time she did it. ‘He’ll be fine given time. It takes a while to get over a war.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Mrs Grey exclaimed knowledgeably. ‘When my George came back he didn’t speak to me for three months. Just stared out the window he did. Stared and stared and stared. What he was seeing, I just don’t know. And when he finally snapped out of it and I asked him what he’d been thinking about, he looked at me as though I was mad. “What you talking about?” he said. Didn’t remember a thing you see. Didn’t want to remember!’

  Funnily enough, what Mrs Grey said did make Charlotte feel better. Give David three months and he’d be right as rain and she’d be fine too. Of course, there was still the small matter of her intended career, but she convinced herself that things would be fine. She imagined the scenario in her mind, he taking her out to dinner to make up for his extraordinary behaviour, and she taking advantage of the opportunity to outline her plans for the future – her future. Again she became aware that Mrs Grey had said something and had had to repeat it.

  ‘I said I thought I heard someone going up the stairs.’

  ‘Geoffrey!’ Charlotte marched towards the kitchen door and reached for the handle. Before her fingers had touched it there was a bellowing cry from upstairs then a scampering of feet.

  She opened the door in time to see half a dozen of Geoffrey’s friends running down the stairs, sprinting past her and out of the door. Geoffrey brought up the rear. Charlotte grabbed him.

  ‘And what have you been up to?’

  His face was flushed and his eyes were wide with fear. ‘I wanted to show them that I had a dad too.’

  Charlotte, aware that a curious Mrs Grey was loitering behind her, looked at him in disbelief. ‘You showed them?’

  He nodded.

  Mrs Grey began to laugh. ‘Imagine! The doctor waking up and seeing all them eyes looking down at him.’

  Charlotte had to control her amusement until after she’d given Geoffrey a shake. ‘Don’t you dare do it again. And you’d better apologise when your father gets up.’

  Only after he’d been told to get into the bathroom and wash his face did she allow herself to laugh.

  ‘That’ll cheer Doctor Hennessey-White up,’ said Mrs Grey as, still chortling, she turned back towards the kitchen and the precious egg she’d just cracked into a cup.

  Charlotte decided to brave taking her husband’s breakfast up on a tray. What Mrs Grey had said made sense. His son’s pranks had made David laugh before the war and there was no reason why they shouldn’t now.

  She went up the stairs, opened the bedroom door, then stopped dead in her tracks.

  ‘David! No!’ Her hands shook and the crockery on the breakfast tray rattled. Her heart didn’t want to believe it, yet her eyes took in the set of his jaw and the unearthly gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Where is that little swine?’ David growled, his brows knitted in a deep, dark frown. ‘It’s time the little bugger got some discipline. I’ve been away too long and you’ve been too soft with him.’

  ‘David, you can’t!’ With sinking hope for what might have been, Charlotte froze as David slowly wound the end of a leather belt around his fist.

  Chapter Five

  GAVIN HADN’T COME home and Polly was not going to put a hold on her life because of that.

  She was not tall but jutting out her chin like an aggressive prizefighter gave her a determined look. And that was certainly how she was feeling as a few days later she marched towards the bus stop, the rabbit-skin collar of her black coat turned up against the chill evening air.

  Gavin had not been on the train and her mind was made up. She had given both him and God this last chance and both of them had let her down. Now it was up to her to take care of her future. If he couldn’t take care of her and Carol, then she had to find someone who could. But the chances of fulfilling her dream were lessening. She had to act quickly.

  Time was ticking away. The war in Europe was over and the American and Canadian troops were going home as fast as the job could be done.

  ‘And what good is that to me!’ she muttered as she marched along. Soon there would be no more GIs left in Britain and her chance to escape to something better would be gone.

  After some persuading Aunty Meg had agreed to look after Carol even though she had taken care of her for most of the day. But Polly had been resolute.

  ‘I’m too young to be stuck in with a kid for the rest of my life!’

  ‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ said Meg.

  Polly had avoided her aunt’s eyes and bolted upstairs where she slid into her favourite dress, a long-sleeved black number with a white satin collar and matching cuffs.

  Her friend Mavis was waiting for her at the bus stop. Mavis was at least five inches taller than Polly, dark-haired and slim enough to fit into Polly’s clothes if it wasn’t for the fact that they’d be far too short on her to be decent.

  ‘Brass monkeys tonight, innit,’ Mavis stated, shrugging her shoulders and nestling her chin further inside the old fox fur whose rigid claws rattled like dry bones each time she shivered.

  Polly grinned and nodded at the glazed eyes and black nose of the dead fox. ‘Must be. Killed ’im dead for a start.’

  They laughed. A bit more gossip and a bit more banter and Polly’s thoughts about Gavin were forgotten. Her determination to find a suitable replacement was not.

  There were about twenty people waiting at the stop by the time the bus came. Cigarette smoke mixed with steamy breath, a few coughs, and raucous laughter from single men just returned home and intent on getting drunk to celebrate the occasion.

  Mavis nudged Polly. ‘They’re looking at us. I quite fancy ’im in the grey suit.’

  Polly glanced quickly then just as quickly looked away. ‘They all got grey suits, stupid. Demobs! What the bloody ’ell do we want with them?’

  Smirking, Mavis continued to give them the eye.

  ‘Control yerself,’ said Polly, grabbing Mavis by the sleeve and pulling her onto the bus.

  ‘Goin’ to take us out then, girls?’ one of the men shouted as they got on behind them.

  Mavis looked over her shoulder and giggled.

  Polly grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her inside the bus rather than going upstairs where they usually sat.

  ‘Polly!’ Mavis protested. ‘I wanted a fag. And I ain’t got a light
and they …’

  But Polly was adamant.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody common!’ She plumped herself down on a side seat and averted her eyes from the lecherous crew of ex-soldiers who had to go upstairs with their half-finished Woodbines.

  ‘I ain’t common. It’s just that I don’t want to be left on the shelf.’

  ‘And them upstairs suit you, do they? Well you’re easily pleased. Now me, I want something better I do, somebody that talks nice and got clean fingernails.’

  ‘You’ve ’ad it! Gavin ain’t come back.’

  Polly pouted her full red lips. Mavis was exasperating because she was telling the truth. ‘Then I’ll find someone else.’

  ‘They’ll all be gone ’ome before long. Then what?’

  ‘Then I’ll hitch up with a decent sort in this country, one that can give me a bit of class in the world.’ Before Mavis had a chance to interject that she wasn’t likely to find one with Carol in tow, she said, ‘Now let me tell you about these posh people from Clifton that I met down at Temple Meads. A doctor ’e was. Even gave me a private appointment so he could examine my ankle.’

  Mavis giggled. ‘Just your ankle?’

  Polly threw her a superior expression and batted her eyelids. ‘My ankle got hurt, and ’e reckoned it was his fault for pushin’ the door of the railway carriage open too quick.’ She went on to explain about Dr Hennessey-White, his wife, the children, and the poor soul named Edna meeting her disabled sweetheart from the train.

  ‘I don’t think I could marry ’im,’ said Mavis, sheer horror written all over her face.

  Polly shrugged. ‘Depends on the injuries I suppose.’ She smirked suggestively. ‘Can still ’ave children, can’t they? Ain’t as though anythin’ too vital got shot off!’

  The Cat and Wheel, conveniently situated next door to the Bear and Rugged Staff near the spot where Bristol Castle used to be, dated from a time when no one grew much above five feet two judging by the ceiling height. Already crowded with off-duty servicemen and girls like Mavis and Polly, all out to celebrate peace in Europe and in the Far East, too. What walls could be seen were the colour of milk chocolate and the ceiling was stained dark ochre by years of cigarette smoke. Dark eyes scrutinised them as they entered. Polly paused then stepped forward.

  ‘GIs!’ Polly exclaimed.

  Mavis nudged Polly. ‘They’re all Negroes.’

  ‘They’re all that’s left. Must be their turn tonight. Still GIs ain’t they?’

  Anyone, thought Polly, as long as they were from the other side of the Atlantic. The colour of their skin was of no consequence.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ said one.

  The two girls nudged and smiled at each other.

  ‘You or me?’ said Polly

  ‘Me of course,’ said Mavis and dug her friend in the chest.

  It was a nice feeling being surrounded by a horde of uniforms again.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, honey?’

  The black GI who had asked the question was broad shouldered and bull necked. He had little hair and deep eyebrows and narrow lips set in a sombre straight line. Surprisingly, it was Mavis he seemed to be interested in. The attraction of opposites, thought Polly, who accepted half a shandy from him. Mavis, being Mavis, angled for a gin and orange.

  ‘So why ain’t you gone home?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Cleaning up to do in Europe,’ he replied. ‘Most of us belong to the Field Hygiene Unit.’ He saw Polly’s puzzled expression and explained. ‘Dead bodies. We go along and clear up after the fighting’s moved on or after the death camps have been cleared. This is our last party before going home. Hallelujah!’ he finally exclaimed, raising his drink as high as he dared. His head was already buckled up to the ceiling.

  She didn’t press the point. Just the thought of the things she’d seen on Pathé News was enough to turn her stomach.

  The tobacco smoke that hung like a pall between people’s heads and the ceiling suddenly whirled as a current of fresh air swept in through the opening door. Like a lot of others, Polly looked to see who had come in and instantly felt a tightening in her stomach. The grey pinstripe suits, the Woodbines held at the corner of thin, grim mouths. She recognised the men from the bus and sensed immediately there was going to be trouble.

  With unconcealed arrogance, they pushed their way through the crowd of American uniforms, disdainfully slapping shoulders, glaring their intentions rather than asking if they could be allowed to get to the bar.

  Polly nudged Mavis. ‘Looks like trouble.’

  Mavis eyed the blokes from the bus. To Polly’s disgust she smiled, patted her hair, and made it obvious to a weak-chinned individual with pale blue eyes that she had appreciated his earlier attention – definitely more so than that of the man she was with.

  ‘I think I was here first,’ said the pale-eyed young man, the shoulder pads of his demob suit moving independently of his flesh due to the fact that it was at least two sizes too big.

  Polly swallowed nervously, put her drink down on the counter, and grasped Mavis’s arm.

  ‘Time to go, Mav.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ simpered Mavis, her gaze firmly fixed on the scrawny specimen who squeezed himself purposefully between her and the GI who had bought their drinks.

  Strong brown fingers and a broad palm folded over the other man’s shoulders and for a moment Polly imagined she was seeing bones being crushed. Yet she couldn’t hear anything breaking. Then she almost laughed when she realised why. The shoulder pads again. But her amusement was stifled by the fear of imminent violence.

  She nudged a knee into Mavis’s shin. ‘Let’s go.’ There was no response.

  ‘I think I was here first, buddy,’ said the GI, his twang typical of the American voices she’d heard since a few months after Pearl Harbor.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said the guy with the big suit, his back to the American.

  ‘No way, man,’ said the black man in a thoughtful and meaningful way. ‘I can prove I was first here ’cause I bought that drink there.’ He indicated the gin and orange sitting in front of Mavis.

  The man in the demob suit reached nonchalantly for the drink. ‘Well, it’s gone, ain’t it?’ With that he flung the contents of the glass into the GI’s face. Droplets flecked the black man’s forehead and trickled down his cheeks. His mouth straightened into a grim line. A breathless hush fell over the packed bar as all eyes turned to the trouble spot.

  Polly could almost smell the blood lust, young men aching to prove who was Cock of the Walk.

  ‘Cool it!’ someone said. Another brown hand stayed the arm of the man with the liquid running down over his face.

  It won’t last, thought Polly. She’d seen it before all too often, one man supposedly backing down, then turning back, lashing out with a fist or a broken bottle, and all hell letting loose.

  She grabbed Mavis’s arm. ‘Come on! Let’s split.’ Her exclamation, borrowed from the friendly invaders, had no impact whatsoever on moony-faced Mavis.

  ‘No! I wanna stay,’ and, to Polly’s disgust, like an oversized eel Mavis wriggled out of her grasp, her eyes shining with expectation.

  ‘You bitch,’ Polly said under her breath. ‘Opening them wide for the bloke that gets bashed the most are you! And I don’t mean yer bloody eyes!’

  For a moment Mavis looked hurt, but it didn’t last long. She was positively beaming because two men looked about to fight over her. Well, Polly was having none of that. All right, she had her own dreams, perhaps even mercenary intentions, because she wanted to live in North America or at least get a bloke who could give her something better than she had. And loose morals were something she’d acquired herself during the war. But she didn’t hold with setting one man against another and she certainly had no intention of being the centre of a brawl.

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ she snapped indignantly. She paused to give Mavis a chance to change her mind, but her friend’s attention was elsewhere.

  Polly slid away
from the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing her way through the crowd who were slowly pressing forward, sensing that there was more to come.

  ‘Calm it down, lads, or I call the MPs!’ shouted the landlord from behind the safe confines of the mahogany counter.

  There was no doubt in Polly’s mind that things were not going to calm down. One war was over but another war was brewing, only this time it was between individuals, one black and one white.

  Although she loved uniforms, she hated fighting. Small as she was, she pushed the door with one hefty swing of her right arm and sent it crashing back against the wall outside.

  ‘Hey!’

  The door rebounded and to her embarrassment, she realised someone was standing immediately outside it and she’d hit him.

  ‘Oh, sorry, chum,’ she apologised, and was going to rush on when she thought of her own accident at the station and the Samaritan who helped her earlier that day. She turned to see a tall figure with dark eyes and coffee-coloured skin.

  ‘Are you all right? Have I hurt you? I didn’t mean to. Really I didn’t, it was just that there’s a fight about to start in there and I hate blokes fighting. I just can’t …’

  She narrowed her eyes against tears of anguish that threatened and pushed her shoulder-length hair into a confused mass on top of her head. The man stayed oddly silent. His hand covered the lower part of his face.

  ‘You’ve squashed my nose,’ he said.

  Frowning, she craned her head forward in order to see better.

  She immediately felt contrite. ‘Oh no,’ she said, her own hand covering her mouth in embarrassment.

  Above the dark hand a pair of velvet eyes looked down at her. ‘I don’t think my nose will ever be the same again. Look,’ he said as he took his hand away. ‘See? Have you ever seen such a flat, fat nose?’

  For a moment the sound of his voice took her by surprise. His accent was subdued, his tonal inflections incredibly refined, especially for a black GI. She’d only heard white officers from well-heeled backgrounds talking like he did. Most of the blacks talked like the slaves in Gone With The Wind, or at least, that was the way it sounded to her.