Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘I was not thinking about me,’ Josef said haltingly and suddenly rested his head in his hands. ‘I’m wondering if you really will get Aaron’s address.’

  ‘I fail to see why not!’

  Josef stayed silent and in that silence she sensed there was something about Aaron he was not telling her.

  Edna approached Colin’s mother about making her wedding dress. Gladys had a sewing machine in an upstairs room and was sympathetic to the fact that Edna did not wish to wear her mother’s old gown.

  ‘Remember, the bridegroom’s not supposed to see it before the big day,’ she said, as she bustled about the room pulling pins, scissors and tape measure into Edna’s easy reach.

  ‘There’s no chance of that,’ said Edna and could have bitten off her tongue. Colin would never climb the stairs again. ‘I’ll lock the door,’ Edna added in an effort to repair the damage.

  Mrs Smith’s face brightened a little. ‘Good idea. Now I’ll leave you to it.’

  Edna did indeed lock the door. But it was the baby clothes for boys she got to work on first, her fingers feverishly cutting out the tiny garments. It was boy babies she was interested in.

  By the end of one week she had made four outfits, mixing silks with cottons and blues with yellows. The material for her wedding dress remained in the bag.

  Colin asked her to go and see Billy Hills with him. There was a whole box of aeroplanes, horses on wheels and pull-along dogs, all painted and ready to sell. Besides, they had to make the final arrangements about the house. There were curtains to be measured and furniture to be bought. Although she longed to be elsewhere, Edna went along with the plans.

  The furniture was strictly utility and bought on coupon. A bedroom suite was a must. A dining suite would also be useful but a three-piece suite might have to be second hand – if at all obtainable.

  For Colin’s sake, Edna gave her all to the plans. But the baby clothes – washed, ironed and sitting in the paper carrier bag – still filled her mind. Charlotte had said that she would collect the garments, but Edna had her own agenda. She wanted to deliver them herself. A weekend was out of the question. Her time was taken up with Colin. In the time she wasn’t with him, her mother’s eyes followed her everywhere as if she were fearful she might run away before she got to the altar.

  Much as she disliked doing it, she made up her mind to take a day off work. On return the next day she would feign illness as the excuse. She’d had little time off since joining the firm and it shouldn’t be a problem.

  On Wednesday of the following week she dressed as though she were going to work, wearing her grey dress, tweed coat, and a red and gold patterned scarf. She’d taken the carrier bag from Colin’s house the night before and hidden it behind the laurel bush that grew against the front wall.

  Taking care not to leave until her mother was hanging out the washing, she rushed out of the door, retrieved her parcel and made her way towards the park entrance.

  There were no railings or gates to stop her from using Victoria Park as a short cut. Park railings were early casualties of the war, taken away to boost the metal mountain that was needed to make guns and shells.

  The trees were in bud and a mist promised that the day would turn warmer. But Edna hardly noticed a thing. Instead of turning off in the direction of the tobacco factories, she carried on to St Luke’s Road, a long sweep of terraced houses that would take her towards the railway station and the city centre.

  There were no buildings between the station and up Victoria Street. Here and there were gaping holes and danger signs. Young sappers with the worried faces of old men were over seeing the removal of twisted and blackened beams of buildings that had stood for centuries and were now no more.

  She caught a bus in the city centre that would take her up Muller Road to the orphanage, which bordered Stoke Park and an area known as ‘the Duchesses’.

  Orphanages were not something Edna was familiar with, except that when older people talked of them they seemed to lump them together with workhouses. She had never wanted to think of her baby’s home that way. In her mind she had imagined him in a place of bright colours and warm people. As she stood outside the iron gates and looked up the drive at the grey Victorian edifice before her, she wanted to cry. How could her mother have put her baby in a place like this?

  Concern for her child gave her the courage to step forward and make her way to the front door, a large, wide opening surrounded by solid grey stonework.

  The entrance hall had high ceilings and a shiny brown floor. The windows stretched from ceiling to floor and had wooden shutters on the inside.

  Her footsteps echoed around her.

  A woman in navy and white who she presumed to be the matron greeted her.

  ‘Mrs Hennessey-White sent me,’ she blurted, knowing it was a lie but determined to be let in. ‘I’ve got some baby clothes,’ she added, raising the bag she carried.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, my dear.’ The matron looked at her quizzically. Edna wondered if she really believed her or was the shame of her wrongdoing stencilled on her brow forever. ‘Shall I take them?’ The matron reached out her hand.

  Edna swung the bag behind her back. ‘I’ve come a long way. I took the bus,’ she blurted. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the babies.’

  The woman looked surprised and for a moment Edna was sure she was going to be sent packing with or without her donation. Her heart felt like lead.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said the matron. She called to a passing nurse. ‘Sister Ruth? Take Miss …?’

  ‘Burbage. Edna Burbage,’ Edna replied, hardly able to believe her luck.

  She felt as though she were in a dream. The pristine surroundings blurred into softness simply because she was feeling warm all over. Sister Ruth led her into a colourless room where wooden cots were ranged around the walls. Some of the babies were crying. Some lay quietly, eyes following the newcomers as they moved around the room.

  ‘Are they all boys?’ Edna asked and feeling stupid for doing so.

  ‘No.’ Sister Ruth indicated a nameplate on the side of a cot. ‘Their names are written here, boys on blue paper, girls on pink.’

  Edna’s heart went out to the round little eyes looking expectantly up at her, the soft little faces of those sleeping. But one cot above all others caught her eye. The name ‘Sherman’ was written on a piece of blue paper.

  ‘Most of the children are half-caste,’ sniffed Sister Ruth. ‘All of the girls, of course, are unmarried. That’s how dependable Negroes are, I suppose.’

  Edna was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on the cot and the name she knew so well. Hardly daring to breathe she approached and looked down at her son. His eyes were open and so was his mouth. He was the one crying the loudest.

  ‘Sherman!’

  The bag of clothes fell to the floor. Before Sister Ruth could stop her she leaned over and picked up the child wrapping him tightly to her body, his little head resting on her shoulder. The crying stopped immediately as he made sucking sounds against the shoulder pad of her coat.

  Sister Ruth rushed over.

  ‘Miss Burbage! You have no right doing that! You’re spoiling him.’

  ‘He needs me,’ whispered Edna, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He needs me.’

  ‘Put him down or I’ll get Matron and you’ll never be allowed in here again!’

  The last comment hit home. She had to come here again. She just had to.

  ‘There, there,’ she cooed, rocking Sherman tightly against her until his eyes were almost closed. Slowly and gently she lowered him back into his cot and tucked the bedding around him.

  ‘He’ll be all right now,’ Edna said softly and her heart ached fit to break. But she determined that she would visit again. No one would stop her from doing that.

  Sister Ruth was too busy to tell Matron what had happened. She was the sort who administered the necessities of life but not the love. The incident was forgotten. It was Matron
who remembered the young woman with the intense expression and the carrier bag when she did her rounds. Thoughtfully she slid a baby’s name card out of the receptacle to reveal his mother’s surname. This one said Potterton. It rang no bells. She did the same to the name card of the next baby along. This time it revealed the name Burbage. She smiled. Sherman’s mother had come looking for him, unmarried no doubt. I wonder how much she’d sacrifice in order to have him back, she thought?

  On the following day at work Edna was called to the supervisor’s office. He was a middle-aged man who rarely entered the typing pool except to complain about errors or ogle a new recruit who he might be able to do favours for – given the right incentive. The girls called him The Groper.

  He had the neck of a giraffe and looked at her stiffly. ‘Do you have a note from your doctor, Miss Burbage?’

  Edna tried to be brave. ‘No. I’m sorry. It was only a day and I thought …’

  ‘You’re not paid to think, Miss Burbage. You’re only an invoice typist. I do all the thinking round here.’

  Yes. And we know what about.

  She tried not to show what was in her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again wishing the floor could swallow her up.

  ‘Well so am I, Miss Burbage.’ He lit a cigarette, drew on it and almost spat the smoke into the air. ‘I hear you’re leaving us soon anyway. Is that right?’

  ‘I’m getting married. But I don’t want to leave. Not right away.’ She was worried. She couldn’t afford to leave and live on Colin’s money, not until Billy Hills got more orders for toys.

  Teasing young women was another of the ‘Groper’s’ favourite occupations. ‘Well, I don’t think we can keep you on once you’re married, Miss Burbage. As far as I’m concerned you’re taking liberties with the company having days off without a bona fide medical note.’

  It was too much to bear. The threat frightened her. She sprang forward, palms flat on the desk. ‘I can’t afford to give up work, Mr Gordon. Please reconsider!’

  A slow smirk crossed his face. Yes, he would reconsider. She could see it in his face.

  ‘In this office after work and we’ll discuss it further.’

  For the rest of the day Edna’s fingers refused to hit the right keys. Groper Gordon was only part of the problem. The other lay more heavily on her mind. She could still see Sherman’s eyes looking up at her, feel his wet little lips sucking against her coat. If only she had the courage to do something about it. But she wasn’t courageous. Her mother had seen to that. Even now, she was afraid of what she would say about the dress she was making and the house Billy was letting them have. But in her heart of hearts she knew that owning up to Sherman would be the hardest thing of all. Could she ever bring herself to tell Colin about her son and what would his reaction be? No! It would do no good. She couldn’t do it.

  Chapter Twelve

  POLLY HELD HER head high as she made her way down the Batch towards York Street. The workers from Georges’ Brewery were coming in the other direction, a host of clogs clattering on the old cobbles like a herd of horses.

  The men divided and lifted their caps as she passed by. The women eyed her enviously and muttered disparaging comments. They cut no ice but only served to make her hold her head that bit higher.

  It had been two weeks since she’d last called in at York Street and she hadn’t stayed long. Carol had been howling her head off on that occasion and Hetty’s two had been arguing over some cardboard cut-outs that Meg had probably made.

  Bertie had been sat shirtless in front of the fire, his thin arms poking out through the sleeves of his vest. He was reading the paper and barely acknowledged her as she entered except to say, ‘Put a bit of coal on the fire while yer up, our Poll.’

  She glared at him. ‘Too busy, are you?’

  ‘He’s thinking about work,’ Hetty had explained.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Strikes me he’s doing more thinking about it than actually doing it!’

  A row had erupted and Meg had got upset. Better to stay away for a while, she’d decided, until things calmed down. Not that she needed much persuading. York Street was a place she wanted to leave behind. Clifton was where she wanted to be, and if no man other than David was available then so be it.

  So far she had been the perfect tease – just so far and no further. Yet at times his dark looks and deep voice had scared her. She could sense his anger and wondered how far she could go before he refused to take no for an answer. At those times when he didn’t scare her, she felt guilty about playing fast and loose with another woman’s husband, but she reminded herself of Aaron and felt a little better.

  She acted now both as his part-time receptionist and nursing assistant, though God knows she had no experience of either. But she knew how to make the patients, especially the men, feel at ease. It was a natural flair.

  As she lay in the yellow-striped room with the fresh and airy smell, she could almost forget where she’d come from. The only thing she couldn’t really forget was Carol. It wouldn’t be long before Meg was sending her a note to come and visit her child. She sighed and wished she’d planned her life differently, then went out and caught the bus.

  Mr Long the greengrocer was still in the street, his horse-drawn cart slap-bang in the middle of the road. York Street was his last stop of the day. There, he usually shifted what was left of the vegetables for knock-down prices because he was in a hurry to get home and not have too much unloading to do when he got there. His old horse certainly looked ready for bed. It hung its head, its eyes drooping as a troop of fruit flies buzzed busily around its ears.

  Meg was standing with the other women, her apron spread out in front of her as Mr Long took his scoop off the scales and rolled the potatoes into it.

  Polly shouted a greeting to her and smiled.

  Her aunt looked straight at her then, without saying a word, she went tight-lipped into the house.

  Polly took a deep breath. Meg was not pleased with her. She recognised the signs. Adapting to another life had been so easy!

  Polly wrinkled her nose as she entered the passageway that led out back to the living room and the scullery that, according to Meg’s description, wasn’t big enough to swing a cat in.

  When it had been only her and her aunt in the house, the place had never smelled of old cabbage and dirty washing. Since Hetty and her brood had moved in, this had changed.

  Polly could see that things had got worse. Lines of wet washing were festooned across the kitchen. Steam was rising out of the old copper that sat in the corner. Dishes were piled in the sink and two pans were boiling away on the stove smelling of onions and pork cuttings.

  Aunty Meg’s sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Her arms were red and sweat glistened on her face. Despite looking utterly exhausted she stood glaring at Polly as though something weighed heavily on her mind. Through the open door, Polly could see her daughter’s pram moving as she kicked her legs and arms. She promised herself she’d go out and see her in a minute.

  ‘Where’s Hetty?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s upstairs lying down. She’s not feeling well,’ answered Meg.

  Polly was astounded. ‘And left you to do everything? Well, that’s a damned nerve!’

  Meg rounded on her, face reddening, arms waving. ‘Nerve is it! And what about your nerve! When was the last time you saw that child of yours? She’s growing up! She needs her mother. Why haven’t you been home?’

  ‘I’ve been working!’ She said it sharply, quickly. If she allowed herself to feel guilty or ashamed she might cease to continue on the path she’d planned.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Meg looking her up and down. ‘New coat and shoes is it? And where did you get that hat?’

  ‘Cast offs! Just cast offs!’ It wasn’t quite true. David had given her money. He’d actually thrown five-pound notes across the desk at her and told her that he had no use for money, and that if the government had their way he’d soon have no money at a
ll.

  He’d frightened her, shouted at her to take it, his eyes blazing. She’d done as he’d asked, fearful that to disobey might only increase his anger.

  Before coming here she’d felt good, but Meg was a reminder that she was far from perfect. She flounced out of the back door and made for Carol’s pram. If she didn’t already know it, she might not have believed that this was her baby. She was much bigger, sitting up and chewing on a crust of dry bread. Had it really been that long since she’d seen her?

  ‘Carol?’ She blinked away her tears as the child looked up at her and smiled – as she might at a stranger who she quite liked the look of.

  She unfastened the leather harness that held Carol in her pram and lifted her out. She was wet and she took her inside to change her. A small voice in her head told her that it was the first time she’d done such a mundane thing for a very long time.

  Polly heard the soft flap, flap of Meg’s slippers as her aunt came into the living room. She was sitting on the settee, with Carol lying flat kicking her legs. She felt Meg’s eyes boring into the back of her head.

  Meg said exactly the words she was dreading. ‘I can’t go on looking after her for much longer, Polly. You’re going to have to make other arrangements.’

  ‘I can pay you more,’ Polly offered and wished that David was her husband. Then working and having Meg to look after Carol wouldn’t be a problem. But David was married. So far she hadn’t given in to him. But she knew she had to if she had any chance of taking him from Charlotte. She swallowed the guilt and again reminded herself, as she had many times before, that it was Charlotte’s fault Aaron was no longer around.

  Meg was not going to let it drop. ‘It ain’t no use to the child. It’s her mother she wants and a proper home.’

  Carol was sitting up now playing with the brass clasp on Polly’s patent handbag. Polly touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘I will get you a proper home, Carol. I promise I will.’ She turned round to face her aunt. Meg was frowning and eyeing her suspiciously.

  ‘I can’t have her with me at the moment, Aunty Meg, what with the job and all that. But I’ll give you a bit extra until I can sort things out. I’ll get me and Carol a better home and be out of your hair before long. I promise.’