Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  They walked into East Street, Bedminster, a busy thoroughfare of shops, buses and factories. It was a lively, noisy place.

  Next to the public toilets and the London Inn were the street traders. Barrows were piled high with beetroot, potatoes, cabbages, and mountains of swede, the latter used in some of the most stomach-churning recipes ever invented. The thought of those meals caused her almost to envy the skewbald horses that drew the carts, their muzzles permanently enclosed in feedbags that looped around their ears.

  Greengrocer, butcher and baker; they went to each one, mostly standing outside in the queue, ration book at the ready.

  The conversations going on around them were about continuing shortages.

  ‘Rations! I thought the war was over.’

  ‘Swedes don’t come in ships. Plenty of those around,’ said a woman with no teeth, a fag hanging out of the corner of her mouth. She wore a checked woollen scarf over a head bristling with metal curlers, her appearance enough to frighten off a battle fleet!

  For five years the conversation had altered little. Edna was glad when they at last got to the Baptist Hall.

  ‘Take these.’ Her mother gave her the heaviest two of the four bags. ‘I’ll see you later. Make sure your father’s been fed by the time that I get back.’

  The bags were heavy and although she could have made her way home straightaway, she didn’t. Thinking of Billy Hills and his offer to Colin made her light on her feet.

  Her step grew even lighter as she approached a turning just before Sheene Road where a bomb had destroyed a building and the bombsite had been cleared by virtue of the black marketeers. Even before she got to it she could see the crowd of people and hear Billy Hills shouting out the prices of the goods he sold from the back of an old van.

  ‘I’ve got plans,’ Billy had told them. He’d also informed them he had a dicky heart which was why he’d not been accepted for active service. It was an old excuse but they needed his help so they chose to believe it.

  Her eyes met Billy’s as she walked past and she fancied he gave her a barely perceptible nod. She smiled. Her mother wouldn’t approve of him. His clothes were too good, his eyes too quick and too dark. But he seemed like a fairy godmother to her.

  Her spirits were high so she walked further than she had intended. She passed the police station, which vaguely resembled a small, square castle, crossed Bedminster Bridge and went up Redcliffe Hill where the Tudor-style spire of St Mary’s parish church stood sentinel over the muddle of old shop roofs. The rich aroma of good food steamed into the air as she passed the faggot and pea shop, its bow front hardly changed since the seventeenth century.

  Edna licked her lips, but it wasn’t food she was looking at. On the left-hand side was a wonderful shop with curved glass windows to either side of its wide doorway and a central glass-covered podium from which a plaster bride stared out at the world.

  Gorgeous wedding dresses adorned each of the side windows. They were far beyond her price range of course, but if Billy could do all he said he could, she might at least be able to get enough ration books together for a bit of decent material and make a copy.

  Beautiful, she thought, as her gaze swept over gowns that seemed part of another world, one that had existed before austerity and blackouts. They took her breath away. She pressed her palm flat against the window and could almost imagine she was touching them.

  I can just imagine myself dressed in that one there, a veil over my face and Colin standing…

  Her thoughts stopped there. Colin would never be standing at her side. He would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

  A strange coldness seemed to take her over. Her hand dropped to her side. For all her married life she would go to bed with a man with no legs. Images of what those hidden stumps might look like had so far been kept firmly at bay. But one day soon she would have to confront them – or not marry him.

  Her spirits dropped. Her fears grew. She cared for Colin. She knew she did. But did she love him or was it merely pity she was feeling? On top of that there was her shame and guilt, which her mother had used to make her keep her vow to Colin.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t see the door swing open or the smart woman dressed in a brown suit with black velvet detail who came out carrying two large bags.

  ‘Edna! Now don’t tell me! Which one are you going to have?’

  ‘Mrs Hennessey-White – Charlotte!’ said Edna swiftly correcting herself before Charlotte did.

  ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ said Charlotte, her voice mellow with admiration.

  Edna turned her face back to the window. ‘I suppose they are.’

  ‘You don’t sound very convinced. Having problems?’

  ‘Well …’ Edna began.

  ‘I see. Pre-marital nerves. I think you need a heart-to-heart talk with a long-married woman. How about a cup of tea?’

  Charlotte looked as if she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Edna. And it would. She wasn’t going to say anything silly. Just have a cup of tea.

  The teashop door had an old-fashioned bell that jangled on a coiled spring as they pushed it open. A waitress zig-zagged through the closely packed tables to get to them.

  Charlotte ordered. ‘Tea for two. Biscuits would be nice if you’ve got them.’

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ said the waitress. ‘But we only have digestives. Is that all right, madam?’

  Charlotte told her it was.

  They took a seat by the window. They could watch the new double deckers crawl up past the ornate Victorian tram supports that had once carried the electric wires and now merely stood like leafless plants in the middle of the road.

  The tables were covered with white cloths. Brass bits and pieces hung from the walls and the white crockery clinked pleasantly around them. Sugar lumps were not left in a dish on the table. Two were supplied in each saucer when the tea arrived at the table.

  ‘That’s why I ordered biscuits,’ stated Charlotte with an amused grin. ‘One lump for the first cup of tea. One for the second. The biscuits make you believe you’ve used more than that.’

  She proceeded to pour.

  ‘Now, Edna. Tell me what you’re so worried about.’

  Edna felt Charlotte’s eyes on her as she pushed the cup and saucer across the table.

  ‘Well … it’s difficult.’

  Charlotte leaned closer and in a low voice said, ‘Is it about the first night? Is that it?’

  Staring into her tea, Edna shook her head. ‘No. It’s nothing like that. Not really.’ She sighed, not wanting to tell anyone because, in truth, she hated hearing the words herself. But wasn’t it only fair – both to herself and Colin – that she question her motives? A second opinion could be very helpful.

  ‘I feel confused,’ she blurted, her hands grasping her cup tightly. ‘Am I marrying him for the right reasons? He’s changed. I’ve changed.’

  ‘Oh!’ Charlotte said it softly, as though she understood completely.

  ‘I hope I love him. I care for him. I know that. But do I love him enough to marry him or is it merely pity?’

  Charlotte looked away, silently readjusting the yellow scarf she was wearing. Edna assumed she was thinking her own thoughts, probably feeling thankful that her husband had returned from the war unscathed.

  Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Did you love him before he went?’

  Edna nodded, looked down at the soft brown of the milk-starved tea, her hands clasped nervously together. ‘He’s always been around. We’d both always taken it for granted that we would marry. So did our parents. But so much happens in war, doesn’t it?’

  It was hard to finish an outpouring once it started, but Edna knew it had to happen. She’d tell so much, but she couldn’t, mustn’t, tell all.

  ‘Just me being silly I suppose,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘But I want to be sure.’

  Charlotte patted her hand. ‘Of course you do. Is there anyt
hing else you want to ask me?’

  Edna shook her head. ‘Have you bought some lovely things?’ she asked, in an effort to turn the conversation in a different direction. She nodded at the carrier bags nestling at the side of Charlotte’s chair.

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ said Charlotte, delving into one of the bags and bringing out a bundle of muslin, cotton, silk and linen scraps. ‘The bridal shop gave them to me. I’m setting up a little sewing group to make baby clothes for one of the orphanages.’ A watery look came to her eyes. ‘Not that many of them are true orphans. Most are put up for adoption or otherwise by girls and women with no men to support them. Some of the mothers are unmarried and wanting to restart their lives. Some are married and in a hurry to get the unwanted child out of the way before the husband comes back from the war.’

  Edna felt the colour drain from her face. In her hurry to appear unaffected by Charlotte’s statement she reached swiftly for her cup, clumsily hit the handle and sent tea into the plate of biscuits.

  She sprang to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry!’

  Charlotte called for a waitress and apologised.

  Edna offered to pay for her clumsiness. Charlotte was having none of it.

  ‘My treat,’ Charlotte said once they were outside after having had a second cuppa and a fresh plate of biscuits. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  Edna’s first inclination was to refuse. From across the road the bells of St Mary Redcliffe pealed merrily, announcing that another man and woman had promised to love, honour and obey. According to the church clock it was twelve-thirty, just enough time to get back in time for her father’s midday meal.

  ‘I’d be very grateful,’ she replied.

  Charlotte did most of the talking on the way home. Edna sat almost tongue-tied, thinking about what Charlotte had said and the name of the orphanage on the letter she’d found earlier that week.

  ‘We get a nice little bundle of clothes together before I take it to the Muller Orphanage. So if at any time you have some free time and don’t mind doing a bit of sewing – especially once you’re married – I’d much appreciate your help.’

  The moment Charlotte said the name of the orphanage, a window opened on Edna’s life. Providence! First she’d found the letter from the orphanage and at last knew where her child was. Now Charlotte was offering to take her there.

  ‘I’d love to!’ she said with honest enthusiasm. ‘I’d really love to.’

  Charlotte glanced in the side mirror and watched Edna striding to the front door of the house in Nutgrove Avenue. Strange how she’d gone so pale back there in the teashop when she’d mentioned the orphanage and the babies. Strange too how much colour had now come back to her cheeks. A dark horse. Was it possible that Edna had more than one reason for having second thoughts about marrying Colin?

  She unwound the window and sighed heavily as she made her way through the Tramway Centre, which had now gone over completely to buses. She wound it up again as the yeasty smell from Georges’ Brewery flooded through the window.

  The engine slowed as she hit the uphill gradient of Park Street. She didn’t mind. Going home was not something she wanted to do quickly.

  It was a long journey to the prisoner of war camp at Pucklechurch and if Tommy Adams hadn’t offered her a lift on the back of his motorbike, Polly would never have got there before noon.

  A brisk breeze was blowing, reddening her cheeks and sending her hair flying.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she called over her shoulder as she made her way to the guard post.

  The American guard on duty did a second take. Cows outnumbered blondes in Pucklechurch and those women that did live roundabout had more muscles than sophistication.

  ‘I want to talk to Aaron Grant.’

  The guard purposely turned his back. ‘He’s not here. Goodbye.’

  Polly drew herself up to her full height. ‘You ain’t looked.’

  He turned back to face her. His smile had disappeared. ‘What’s he to you?’

  When she’d first got off the motorcycle he’d looked at her appraisingly. Now he regarded her with contempt.

  ‘I’m his fiancée!’

  The guard outside exchanged looks with another man who stuck his head up from behind a glass partition.

  ‘Send her in here, private.’

  The guard moved aside. Polly brushed past, deliberately sticking her elbow out at an awkward angle so it caught him fair and square in the ribs.

  The American sergeant sitting at the desk flung his pen down as she entered but did not get to his feet. ‘Sergeant Noble. At your service. And what can I do for you, little lady?’ He did not smile.

  ‘I want to see my fiancé. We’ve got things to discuss.’

  ‘Have you now?’ His tone was overly sarcastic. ‘And what kind of things might that be?’

  Polly held her head high. ‘Wedding plans!’

  The sergeant smiled and shook his head some more. ‘Not with him you don’t. He’s been shipped back to the States and I can categorically state here and now that there ain’t no way you and him are ever going to be married!’

  Polly couldn’t believe the cheek of the man. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Blame Uncle Sam, little lady, but don’t blame me.’

  ‘But he can’t be gone. Not without me; not without saying goodbye.’ She knew she sounded hysterical. But hell, she had every right to be.

  The sergeant started to turn his attention back to the buff-coloured folders on his desk. ‘The US army judged it best in the circumstances.’

  Polly stood her ground. ‘I want to speak to someone in charge.’

  The sergeant looked amused. ‘The commanding officer is a little busy at the moment. Now if you’d care to leave my office …’

  Still Polly didn’t move. ‘Then tell me who I can talk to.’

  The sergeant picked up his files and shuffled them like a pack of over-sized playing cards. ‘Have a talk to the Red Cross lady.’ He fingered a piece of paper in front of him. ‘Her name is Mrs Hennessey-White. She’s the one who brought a certain matter to the CO’s attention.’

  ‘Charlotte!’ Polly could hardly believe it. Charlotte had broken up her romance. Charlotte who had seemed to be her friend.

  She walked silently back to where her lift was waiting, her eyes flinty hard and her heart like lead. Everything she had dreamed of sharing with Aaron was no more than a fantasy.

  Despite the breeze stinging her face on the way home, Polly boiled with anger. How dare Charlotte interfere! She had no right! Supercilious cow!

  What was it with these classy broads that caused them to stop the likes of her from getting on in life?

  Jealousy! Just sheer jealousy!

  Well, she’d be having a word with her when she got to work on Monday. Mrs Grey was back and doing Sunday. But she’d be there on Monday regardless, you bet if she wouldn’t!

  Josef Schumann watched as Polly re-mounted the motorbike. He badly wanted to tell someone of what he suspected had happened to Corporal Grant. But he had no real proof. Falling down a flight of stairs could be as fatal to a German prisoner of war as it was for a soldier who had stepped out of line – and far easier to get away with.

  Chapter Ten

  SUNDAY EVENING. THE house was completely empty.

  David had left for a BMA conference in London. The Government was intent on bringing in a national health scheme for the benefit of all, but the BMA was sceptical of how it might benefit their members. Their private fees would be affected, their standard of living reduced, went their argument.

  Charlotte was glad of the respite. Tonight she would be alone. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to Josef. She’d seen him a number of times now. On the last occasion he’d appeared anxious, as though something was weighing heavy on his mind. She had found herself desperate to know what was wrong but he wouldn’t tell her and wouldn’t say why.

  There was undoubtedly something special between them. It was like an elect
ric current, unseen but dangerously powerful. At times she could almost guess what he was thinking about her. Sometimes it made her blush. For the most part it made her want to hug him.

  Go to the pub. He asked you to.

  The thought came unbidden, but instantly goaded her into action. It was a fine evening, chilly but promising spring just over the horizon.

  She drove out through Kingswood and across Syston Common. Timid greenery was just starting to push its way through. Seeing it and smelling it cleared her head of ugly things like husbands who were not quite as they had been.

  She passed the POW camp and made straight for the pub, parking her car on the road outside.

  She paused at the door. Her head told her she was being a fool. Her heart told her that caution was the sensible refuge of the emotionally infirm.

  In one swift movement she reached out, then, having second thoughts, curled her fingers into her palm. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was with some of the others and people saw them? What would they say?

  Swiftly, before her head again ruled her actions, she pushed the door open.

  The lounge bar was a place of dark brown woods and Windsor chairs. It was easy to imagine it in times gone by, men straight from hunting sitting in here, churchwarden pipes clenched between uneven teeth, cheeks red from too much port. Drinks were served through a small hatch roughly cut into an expanse of stained panelling.

  He saw her before she saw him. At first she blanched visibly. He was with some of the others, each with a pint in front of them. He got up when he saw her and walked over. There was no doubting his pleasure.

  ‘Charlotte.’

  He’d taken to calling her that on the last few occasions they’d met.

  He repeated her name as though enjoying the sound of it and the way it rolled off his tongue. ‘Charlotte. Can I get you a drink?’

  She nodded, then realised her mistake. ‘Let me! Please! Take this.’ She handed him two half crowns. She looked up at him and said in a low voice, ‘You haven’t much money. If you buy it I won’t drink it.’