Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  A serious expression came to Aaron’s face. ‘Moral victories can be used to jog consciences and there sure are a lot of them need jogging back home.’

  Feeling suddenly uncomfortable she looked down into her tea. ‘I hope you’re right. You sound as if you’re going to be a lawyer when you get back home.’

  He shook his head and his face softened. ‘A musician. I want to be a musician.’

  ‘Have you a family back home?’

  ‘If you mean am I married, then no. But I do have parents and two sisters. And before you ask, there’s no lonely girl back there waiting for me. If there had been, thanks to Uncle Sam and Adolf Hitler and the length of this war, she’d probably have given up by now.’

  ‘Lonely for you too, so far from home. Have you met anyone here?’

  His whole face tensed. ‘What’s the point?’

  He has met someone, she decided. No one could sound so bitterly frustrated unless something like that had happened.

  She checked the details of the next prisoner: Josef Schumann, place of birth, Hamburg, date of birth, 12 March, 1910. She heard him enter.

  ‘Are you the woman from the Red Cross?’ His English had only a slight accent. Charlotte looked up in surprise. He had broad shoulders, a lean frame. Blue eyes looked boldly into hers and he held himself ramrod straight, the epitome of what a German officer was supposed to be. His service record stated that he used to be a U-boat commander.

  Aaron got to his feet. ‘This is Mrs Hennessey-White,’ he said to the German. He turned back to Charlotte. ‘You won’t be needing my services with Joe, so if you don’t mind …’ He held up a pack of Lucky Strikes. Charlotte nodded and, as the door closed behind him, the tall German with the lantern jaw and the dark blond hair sat down. His smile was sardonic. As if we’re all fools, thought Charlotte. She decided not to like him.

  ‘Our corporal gets a bad time,’ said Josef before she had asked him her first question.

  ‘He’s a well-educated man.’ She knew she sounded defensive.

  ‘I have watched them. They give him a bad time.’ He tapped at his eye and cheekbone. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  She knew what he meant all right. But his attitude intrigued her. Was he merely playing a game or was he genuinely concerned at the way Corporal Grant was being treated?

  A laconic grin seemed to drift over Schumann’s lips. It was as though he had seen most of what the world had to offer and didn’t think much of it. He didn’t stare, but she got the impression he missed nothing.

  She asked him to confirm his name, date of birth and his address.

  ‘If it’s still there,’ he added with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘I hear not much is left of Hamburg.’

  Charlotte willed herself not to show any remorse for what her country had done to his. ‘Nor Coventry.’ It was out before she could stop it.

  He seemed to ignore her comment. ‘My parents used to have a bakery. I remember the smell of the bread drifting up into my bedroom around five o’clock in the morning and the bustling and banging from down below. I doubt if it’s still there now.’

  ‘Are you married?’ she asked quickly, in an effort to quell the guilt she felt at his loss.

  ‘I was. She’s dead.’ He stated it in a matter-of-fact manner as if no emotion was attached to the event.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She stopped herself from asking how she died. It was irrelevant. All she was supposed to do for the Red Cross was to collect particulars and fill in the forms. They would do the rest over in Germany. But he made her feel uncomfortable. His eyes seemed to look straight through her.

  ‘Before the war. Typhoid. And you?’

  ‘Me?’ His sudden question surprised her.

  ‘Did your husband come home?’

  She looked down at the forms as she nodded, pen in hand. ‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

  ‘He’s not the same, is he? He never will be, you know. None of us ever will.’

  Suddenly she felt an angry flush spread over her face. What right did he have to pry into her private life?

  She gripped her pen with both hands and got to her feet. ‘We’re here to deal with your life, not mine!’

  He was slower getting to his feet and when he did he towered over her by at least five inches. ‘Have some more tea.’ He nodded at the pot. ‘Tea cures everything, doesn’t it?’

  He was mocking her. She felt her cheeks reddening and clasped them with both hands. Angry tears pricked her eyes. Her problems with David, especially when she was alone with him at night, suddenly seemed too much to bear. She took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. As she raised her arms the silk scarf she wore around her neck dislodged and slid to the floor. Josef picked it up.

  He said nothing as he handed it to her but his gaze dropped to the latest bruise on her neck. The hostility left his face. Her eyes met his. Her voice was low, as official as she could make it. ‘I have all the information I need. You can go now.’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  This was just too embarrassing. She was here to help him! He was the one with problems, not her. At least, that was what she told herself.

  She felt sure he would have lingered if it hadn’t been for the return of Corporal Grant.

  Josef left. Grant was perceptive. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hennessey-White?’

  ‘Of course.’ She swiftly retied the scarf around her neck. ‘Let’s get on, shall we?’

  It was getting dark when she left, far later than she’d meant to. Luckily, she’d arranged a taxi for the children and Mrs Grey had promised to put in an appearance. But she had to get home before David.

  Shadows fell across the uneven concrete surface where she’d left her car. The trees stirred slightly, their few remaining leaves floating like dislodged wings into dark puddles. One particular shadow seemed to be following her. She quickened her footsteps then told herself she was a fool to be frightened by childish terrors.

  Her heels tapped a light constant beat. A heavier tread echoed her footfall. Boots! A man was following her.

  ‘I am sorry about what I said earlier.’

  She recognised the slight accent and spun round.

  ‘I had no business upsetting you like that. Please accept my apologies.’

  He came close to her. For a moment she was afraid, but in the chill glow of a nearby light she saw the sincerity in his face.

  He shook his head, looked around him, up at the sky, down at the ground. ‘All I want is to go home. We have all been injured by this war – all of us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she opened the door of her car.

  ‘But you will be back?’

  ‘Yes. I have more prisoners to see. The Red Cross needs all the help it can get.’

  ‘Then I will see you again. When I do, I will make my decision whether to stay in this country or not.’

  Charlotte stared at him. ‘Stay here?’

  ‘The adjutant says I can do this if I have nowhere to go back to.’ He grimaced.

  His face stayed with her all the way home. At first she had made up her mind to dislike him. Now she was not so sure. He seemed sensitive.

  On the whole she had had a good day. This was the sort of work she was good at; listening, collating information, rebuilding people’s lives. How could David not see that she was needed? It was women like her that would help the likes of Josef Schumann rebuild their lives. But how could she persuade David of that?

  *

  It was Charlotte who brought Polly the news that her husband had decided to give her a job at his own consulting rooms doing a bit of cleaning and a bit of office work – just general filing and answering the telephone. Charlotte beamed like a Cheshire cat as she prattled on about it. Polly had merely listened, smiling all the time though her teeth ached and she longed to tell Charlotte to shut up. Of course David was going to give her a job. She’d seen the look in his eyes when she’d protested that she didn’t mind a bit of cooking but she’d alway
s wanted to work in an office. Of course he didn’t want her to be a cook in someone else’s place. Of course he wanted her close to him. He’d try it on of course, but she could cope with that. Anything was better than going back into Woolworths.

  ‘I could also do with some help at home. Would you object to sleeping over now and again when my housekeeper isn’t available to do breakfast?’ Charlotte asked, noticing the empty fire-grate in the front room at Aunty Meg’s house. There was no doubt that Polly needed the money.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a problem,’ Polly replied.

  Not a problem. Of course it wasn’t a problem! Things were pretty comfortable where she was. Meg looked after her as well as looking after Carol but it was downright suffocating at times. A bit of a change, she told herself, was as good as a rest.

  Things were looking up all round, she decided. Aaron was coming to Christmas dinner! The knowledge skipped as merrily through Polly’s head as her feet did once she had stepped off the bus from Clifton. She had completed her first day at Dr Hennessey-White’s consulting rooms. All she had done was clean a bit, write in a few notes and speak in as good an accent as she could to the patients she happened to bump into.

  It was the best job she’d ever had, but she still told herself it was only temporary. Once she was married to Aaron she would give it up and move to America.

  The bus had hardly moved away from the stop before a loud bang echoed around the tired streets.

  A bomb! It was the first thing that came into her mind. Yet it wasn’t loud enough and there was not enough vibration.

  She ran along York Street, aware that the frontage of number 14 was better illuminated than usual. Light from bedrooms as well as front rooms shone from square paned windows and out into the street.

  Shouts and hoots of laughter seemed to erupt from every house along the street. It couldn’t be a bomb!

  The outside door was, as usual during the day, wide open above the stout brass step.

  She dashed in, calling out for Meg as she ran over the bare lineoleum floor, but there was no answer, though she sensed movement somewhere out the back of the house.

  Polly glanced into the front room as she passed. No one was there. In the back room she stumbled over a pile of blankets, then steered a course through bundles, boxes and battered brown suitcases. They obviously had visitors. But who were they?

  The yard seemed full of people, though it could only hold about six people fairly comfortably. They were all bent over, scrabbling at piles of something on the ground, gathering them up in their arms and tossing them into a cardboard box next to the clothes post.

  Carol was sleeping in her pram in the scullery. It was a wonder she could sleep at all through this hullabaloo, thought Polly.

  ‘Aunty Meg?’

  A face lined with age but brightened by good providence looked up.

  ‘Look,’ said Meg, holding up a bunch of bananas as if it were the crown jewels. ‘Bananas!’

  Just as she spoke, there was a lot of shouting from the shunting yard at the back, voices full of Christmas spirit, definitely of the bottled variety.

  Another bang was followed by another shower of the yellow-skinned fruit flying over the wall.

  ‘Can you really eat them?’ piped up a small voice.

  Polly recognised Alfie, her cousin Hetty’s eldest boy. And there was Hetty and there was Bertie, her old man, and the youngest kid, Stephen.

  Meg told him he could.

  ‘What are they doing ’ere?’ Polly asked aggressively. ‘And I don’t mean the bloody bananas.’

  ‘The landlord wanted them out,’ Meg replied.

  Polly couldn’t believe it. ‘They’re staying ’ere?’

  Meg folded her big arms across her ample breast and nodded. There was a warning look in her eyes. Polly ignored it.

  ‘There ain’t room. They’ll ’ave to find somewhere else.’

  Meg’s expression darkened. ‘Now look ’ere, my girl. They need someone and somewhere – just like you did.’

  ‘All right Poll?’ shouted Bertie as he and Hetty and the kids dived in among the new crop of free fruit.

  Polly stormed off, purposely hammering the stairs up to her room and slamming the bedroom door. Then she saw that it wasn’t her room any more. Her single bed was gone, replaced by a double bed squashed into the space between the dressing table and the wardrobe. She grimaced. No room to swing a bloody cat. She guessed the two kids would be joining Carol in the other room. That left her squeezing in with Meg on the single which, she surmised, was now cluttering up the front room.

  Folding her arms, she gazed out of the window at the busy gatherings in all the backyards along the street. Bananas hadn’t been seen since before the war.

  She hadn’t yet told Meg she’d invited Aaron for Christmas dinner. Another mouth to feed, but spam, chocolate, and silk stockings from what remained of US army stores would make it worthwhile. But she couldn’t mention it with Hetty around. When she’d announced she was pregnant with Carol, it was Hetty who had looked down her nose at her as if she were some kind of tart who opened her legs for anybody. Unmarried mothers weren’t quite nice, not even in a rough area like the Dings. A black boyfriend wouldn’t be acceptable unless he became a husband. And even then …

  Polly pulled the curtain across and immediately the scene outside the window ceased to exist. Yes, she knew what Hetty would say. ‘Second best is all a girl like you with a kid can hope for.’ And that was how she would view Aaron, as second best because he was black.

  I’ll never stick it, she thought to herself. Why the bloody hell did they have to come here? The place wasn’t big enough. Then she thought about Charlotte’s suggestion of staying in Clifton overnight. Suddenly it looked an attractive alternative.

  Charlotte preferred to forget Christmas. Throughout the war years she had enjoyed the smells, the treats, even the tawdry trimmings. This year should have been more magical, the first of a new peacetime, but it didn’t work out that way.

  Hopes of trying to alter David’s mind about sending the children to boarding school died with the old year. Amid tearful farewells the children were shipped off to boarding schools. The house echoed to memories. Silence lay heavily, even in the shards of sunlight where dust motes danced in mockery of her sadness.

  She fingered the note in her hand. David had stood over her while she’d written it. His presence had made her hand tremble but the words were still legible. The New Year already felt empty. No children, no job – or there wouldn’t be once she’d handed the note over.

  ‘Mornin’, Mrs Hennessey-White.’

  Charlotte looked up. It was Polly. ‘Oh. I forgot it was Mrs Grey’s day off. Thank you for stepping into the breach.’

  Polly smiled. ‘Glad to be of service, Charlotte.’

  Charlotte smiled back as she got to her feet, though she felt slightly uncomfortable. On meeting Polly at the railway station it had seemed fine for her to call her by her Christian name. But to have a servant or employee of her husband call her that, seemed slightly strange. Imbued tradition, she thought wryly and went to the table to pick up her briefcase.

  ‘Right, I’m off,’ she said as she reached for her gloves – pale blue suede to match her dark grey suit. She didn’t wait for Polly to say anything. There was too much on her mind.

  ‘Cheerio!’ Polly called.

  Charlotte was too preoccupied to hear. If she had she might have avoided the hostility she instantly aroused.

  Polly was already out of sorts with Hetty and her family moving in. Hetty made a point of putting her down. Now Charlotte had done the same thing. She grimaced at the door. ‘Stuck up bitch!’ Inside she wished with a passion that they could change places.

  Chapter Eight

  JOSEF WAS WAITING for her at the main gate, his lean frame braced between two silver birches.

  Her sensible side told her not to look in his direction. Even so she could feel his eyes following her. So be it. He’d be her first
appointment of the day.

  As it turned out Aaron Grant took that favoured spot. He was waiting for her by the hut door and opened it as she approached.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ he asked.

  Trouble clouded his eyes and she noticed a muscle twitching in his jaw. She also noticed a fresh bruise on his forehead.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Charlotte set down her briefcase and tried not to look at the crisp white note among all the other bits of paper she had in there. There was time for that later.

  ‘You don’t mind talking to me, do you?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘I’m here to help. You’ve got as much right to speak to me as anyone else.’

  He looked down at the floor, hands shoved in pockets. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  Charlotte gestured to him to pull up a chair and studied him as he swung it towards the table. He was a big man, perfectly suited to military uniform, even though he was only a corporal. And yet she judged he was worth more.

  She sat down and faced him.

  ‘How can I help?’

  Again and again he folded and unfolded his fingers over his knees. He looked at them thoughtfully. ‘I want to get married.’

  He said it softly, slowly, as if they were the most precious words in the world.

  ‘You’re old enough to do that without parental consent I take it?’

  He nodded and nervously licked his lips. ‘The problem is that she’s one of yours – English.’

  Charlotte laughed and allowed herself to relax. ‘Lots of British girls have married Americans.’

  A sardonic smile came to his face as he shook his head sadly. ‘No black American soldier is allowed to marry a white girl, Mrs Hennessey-White. Only white men are allowed to do that.’

  Charlotte tossed her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  He shrugged, his smile unchanged. ‘Takes some believing don’t it, Mrs Hennessey-White. Makes you wonder what we’ve been fighting for, huh?’

  Charlotte hesitated to comment because she really did not believe him. It was just so unfair. ‘I’m sure there must be a mistake.’ Feigning concentration she fixed her eyes on the paperwork set before her and vowed to find out if it was true.