Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ he said.

  Edna breathed a sigh of relief.

  A plan flashed through Polly’s head as she brushed her hair before the bedroom mirror in the lemon-striped room she had come to call her own. For days she’d been agonising as to the best way of putting a distance between them. Telling him she had a steady man friend was possible but not intense enough. She had to add something extra and she’d decided exactly what the extra would be.

  The brushing slowed as she got the words clear in her head. She straightened, eyed her reflection and imagined it was David’s. Once she was sure of what she had to say she cleared her throat.

  ‘David. I have something to tell you. I have a man in my life, a steady man, and I’m having a baby!’

  She shrugged. One more shot. As Aunt Meg always reminded her, there was always room for improvement.

  She did as before, this time adding a swift lick of her lips. ‘David!’

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice caught her by surprise. She had thought he was still in the bathroom. She turned round, her heart beating so loud it seemed to echo around her brain.

  ‘I have something to tell you!’ She said it quickly. Well, here goes! Look helpless. Look appealing. She took a deep breath. ‘I think I’m expecting.’

  Oh, but it sounded so puny. Expecting! What sort of word was that? She could have said it so much better …

  Regrets were irrelevant. All that mattered was that the colour had drained from David’s face. His eyes were like chips of jet-black beads.

  Polly got to her feet, put down the brush and clasped her hands in front of her. Her fingers seemed to tangle into a tight knot. Her nerves were tangled too. But she’d started this. It had to be finished.

  ‘So I’m telling you to keep away from me, to leave me alone.’ Her voice sounded weak, as if it belonged to someone smaller, less confident of her looks and abilities.

  A nerve flickered beneath his eye as he clenched his jaw. ‘We can get rid of it,’ he said evenly.

  Polly stared at him in disbelief. This was not the response she’d hoped for. ‘Get rid of it! How do we get rid of it?’ Her stomach ached. So did the knuckles of her clenched fists.

  His smile was laced with sarcasm. ‘I’m a doctor. Remember?’

  Now it was her turn to feel the colour draining from her face. The very thought of what he’d just suggested made her feel like fainting away. The idea made her feel sick.

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’ Her voice was small. She sank back onto a stool. But Polly was not one to be weak for long. ‘You’re a monster!’ she shouted as she got to her feet. ‘A killer! And in cold blood too!’

  His expression hardened. The glint in his eyes was like neon shining on sheet steel. ‘Don’t talk to me about killing. I’ve seen enough killing in the last few years to last me a dozen lifetimes! I’ve seen men screaming as their legs are blown from under them. I’ve seen them carrying their guts in their arms, hoping that I can do something for them. I’ve carried men from the battlefield as the guns fired around me, and when I’ve laid them down, thinking they’re safe, I’ve found that I’ve been carrying a body that no longer has a head, his blood congealed with the dust and dirt upon my back.’

  Too stunned to move, Polly listened. He sat down on the bed, his head falling forward into his hands. There was silence for a while before he began to sob, then wail. ‘I don’t want to do it again! I tell you, I’m not going back out there.’

  There was silence again.

  Polly took a step to her right, her eyes fixed on David.

  ‘Don’t order me to go back out there!’

  His head was rolling in his hands.

  ‘I can’t take it, I tell you. Please listen!’

  She flattened herself against the wall. ‘I’m listening,’ she said, but her words went unnoticed.

  Slowly he got to his feet and just as slowly saluted. It was then that Polly realised it wasn’t her he’d been talking to. He was back on the battlefield being told to go into the fighting and help bring in the wounded. But his nerves had cracked. She wondered what he would do next. Perhaps if she spoke firmly to him …

  ‘David. Snap out of it will you! Come on. Sort yourself out!’

  He turned his head slowly, his eyes darkly menacing from beneath a frowning brow.

  She realised her mistake. ‘Oh no,’ she said softly and attempted to make her way along the wall to the bedroom door.

  He came forward. She moved back, her knees weak, a cold sweat breaking out all over her.

  ‘I swear to you I’ll kill you before I ever go out there again, and once I’ve done that I’ll go and kill myself. You’ll never get me to do it again!’

  Despite the fact that her legs felt like jelly, she managed to move sideways, and backed into the alcove.

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  His brow was furrowed, his cheeks were flushed. Spittle seeped from the corners of his mouth. She was in no doubt this was the face of a madman. He took another step, then another. He was close to her now, she could smell his sweat. Glistening like beads, it sprang on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his chin. He was going to kill her. She was sure he was going to kill her. Visions of Carol, Aunty Meg, Billy – even Mavis – flashed before her eyes. His shadow fell over her. There was nothing she could do. She flattened herself against the wall, waited for the first blow and after that felt nothing more.

  The eleventh was only three days away. Changing her mind about going up to see Josef off at the station was something Charlotte did every day. Some days she determined to be the truly dedicated wife, loyal to her husband despite everything. On other days both her body and her heart ached for a man who had made her feel worthwhile as a woman. She couldn’t just go back to Bristol purely to see him off. If there were some other reason to go back for a few days, that would be a different matter.

  Suddenly, everything changed. It was mid morning. The children had been taken on a pony-trekking trip and she was sipping coffee in the chintzy cottage living room when the phone rang.

  A cool breeze was blowing in through the open window, billowing the net curtains and gently caressing her hair. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine it was the soft touch of someone’s hand. So when the phone rang she was disinclined to leave the chair and her dream behind. But she did so. Perhaps David was joining them. With a pang of guilt she hoped that wasn’t the case.

  The phone sat in the wide window ledge behind the rose-patterned curtains. There was a window seat just in front of it and she made herself comfortable on it, curling her legs up beneath her.

  ‘Charlotte?’ The voice was only vaguely familiar at first. A memory stirred and gave him a name. Julian was an old friend from her hospital days and David’s commanding officer in the army. Julian was the man who had phoned to tell her which train David was on when she hadn’t even realised he was coming home.

  ‘Mrs Grey told me you’d gone away on holiday with the children. I hope you don’t mind, old thing, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk to you about David while you’re alone. You do remember some of what I said on the day I told you he was coming home, don’t you?’

  Charlotte faltered. He was talking about an event that happened eight months ago. She tried to remember exactly what he’d said but couldn’t. ‘I’m sorry, Julian. All I remember is that my husband was coming home and I was very excited. We’d all missed him.’

  A taut silence followed on the other end of the phone. Then he spoke. ‘How has he been?’

  She had every intention of saying he was fine, but the hint of concern in Julian’s voice caused her to pause. ‘Well, I have to say he hasn’t exactly been his old self.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Julian. ‘Look, I don’t like talking about things like this over the telephone. When are you back in Bristol? I could meet you there.’

  ‘The eleventh!’

  ‘I’ll be at the Royal Infirmary. We’ve set up a post-depres
sion research facility for returning servicemen. I won’t tell you any more than that at the moment. We’ll talk further when you get here. What time can I expect you?’

  Josef was leaving at one-fifteen. She had to allow for the train being late. After that he’d be out of her life.

  ‘Three o’clock?’

  After putting the phone down, she sank thoughtfully back into her chair. What had Julian said to her when he’d first phoned to say David was demobbed? It seemed such a time ago, a whole lifetime. So much had happened. But bits of what he’d said that day started to come back. There was something about an incident and him being upset about a friend who’d been killed. But David had never mentioned this friend since he’d been home and he’d never appeared upset, only violent.

  Because her reason for going back to Bristol had expanded, she packed an overnight bag. The morning train would get her into Temple Meads for twelve noon, enough time to snatch an hour with Josef before he began his journey home. Then she would make her way to the Royal Infirmary for her appointment with Julian. He’d sounded friendly but concerned, a true professional, and it worried her.

  Mrs Peacock, the woman who looked after the cottage when it was empty and came to tidy and cook for them when they were in residence, was quite happy to look after the children while she was away. Charlotte gave her the phone number at home should she need to use it.

  ‘Only in emergencies, Mrs Peacock. Don’t let Geoffrey near it. He uses the telephone just for the fun of it.’

  Is it selfish of me to be thinking more about Josef than I am about David, wondered Charlotte as she selected the right clothes to wear. Then she sighed audibly. David, his behaviour and his problems, would still be there long after Josef had gone. She owed this to herself.

  The hat she chose was of navy blue straw with a thin bow at one side. Her dress was yellow, scattered with tiny navy blue dots. Shoes and handbag were chosen to match.

  The Great Western express ran through countryside rampant with ripened corn. Fat cattle grazed in grass that grew long enough to tickle their bellies. The first harvest of peacetime would shortly be gathered in. Unlike the cities, the countryside looked untouched by conflict. Everything seemed to be the same, or perhaps better than it had been. Thanks to the land girls probably.

  Exeter, Taunton, Bridgwater: As each city, town and mile was eaten up by the train, her stomach tightened. Bristol came closer and with it Josef and her appointment with Julian. The first she viewed with brittle excitement, the second with a hint of fear. Afterwards, she would make her way home to Royal York Crescent, find something light to eat, and take a long bath in a really wasteful amount of water. No rationing there any more! Later she would sleep in her own bed, completely alone. Mrs Grey would not be there because David was away at yet another of his BMA conferences. He was adamant that a National Health Service would never work, and called Beveridge, Bevan and the rest of them a load of lying thieves who he hoped would die in agony. It seemed a bit strong. But she hadn’t argued. She might have done before the war, but David wouldn’t have said such a thing back then.

  There was a hold-up between Bridgwater and Bristol. For twenty minutes she sat there, fiddling and folding her ticket until it was barely recognisable. The conductor politely reminded her that she’d need it if she wanted to get out of the station without having to pay twice.

  ‘Are we going to be long?’ She tried not to sound impatient.

  ‘Depends,’ the conductor replied.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how long the cow takes to get off the line.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said another passenger in her compartment, his head suddenly appearing above a newspaper. ‘It should not take terribly long to push a cow off the line. Surely your chaps can manage that?’

  ‘Once she’s finished calving it should be no problem at all,’ replied the conductor politely. ‘Then we’ll move them both!’

  The cow and her newborn took long enough. The train was running late. The prospect of missing Josef, after having dressed herself so carefully for their goodbye, was agonising. Impatience was not something Charlotte usually gave in to, but she did now. She was on her feet before the train pulled into the station. The wide leather strap that let down the window was weak. The window slammed fully open and a piece of leather came off in her hand. She threw the broken piece out to land among a cluster of yellow flowering weeds. Uncaring if her hair, her face or her hat received a smattering of soot from the puffing engine, she leaned as far out the window as she dared. Narrowing her eyes against the smuts and the smoke, she stared straight ahead searching for the face she wished most in the world to see.

  ‘What platform for Portsmouth?’ she asked a guard the minute she got off the train.

  Case bobbing at her side, she dashed down the steps to the underpass, dodging businessmen in trilby hats and parents toting children with buckets and spades of painted tin, then through the underpass and up the steps to the platform. A train was in the station. People were hanging out, kissing or waving loved ones goodbye.

  She ran the length of the train, then back again but couldn’t see him. Where was he? Was this the right train? Was he sat in the corner of a compartment resigned to the fact that she wasn’t coming?

  Gasping for breath she stopped and stared again at that window, another, another and another, squares of glass filled by the faces of strangers.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice at her side.

  She started. A man, obviously a railway employee, stood at her side looking up at her kindly.

  ‘Civilians that end, ma’am,’ he said pointing to the front of the train.

  ‘I’m not looking for a civilian.’

  ‘Oh!’ The kindly expression disappeared. ‘Oh! The Krauts are at that end,’ he added and waved with casual contempt towards the back of the train.

  She headed in that direction. Again she scoured the windows and met the disdainful gaze of some, the interest of others. Suddenly he appeared through the open window above a door, pushing his comrades aside, looking up and down the platform – looking for her.

  ‘Josef!’

  Grappling with handbag and case, she ran to him.

  Josef reached for the door handle, his eyes never leaving her face. An MP’s hand appeared on his shoulder. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  For one brief moment she could see a fighting look in his eyes and was sure he was going to land a fist on the MP’s jaw and get out of the carriage anyway.

  ‘No! It’s all right, Josef. Stay where you are.’

  She rested her hands on the bottom half of the door. It trembled beneath her touch. The train was about to leave. The stoker would be throwing in more coal. The steam gauge would be rising.

  ‘I expected you earlier,’ said Josef, his hands covering hers.

  ‘I wanted to be here.’ She smiled and it almost felt painful. She let her luggage drop to the ground. ‘Unfortunately a cow got in the way.’ She laughed enough to stop herself crying.

  He laughed too and nodded as if he understood completely. That’s what she liked about him. She only needed to say the most minimal things. It was as though he could read her mind or had been there with her.

  He patted her hands. ‘We haven’t much time. I’ll write to you.’

  ‘Please do.’ Oh, why did she sound so lame? So polite: the sort of thing one says at tea parties. ‘I won’t forget you, Josef. You do know that, don’t you?’

  He nodded sadly. His hands tightened over hers as he leaned down, his hair falling over his eyes as his lips met hers.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the train began to move. Still their lips clung together. Charlotte began to move with the train. Breaking apart was so difficult. The train began to move faster. She kept up as long as she could. First their lips parted. Her hands dropped from his.

  ‘Remember to write,’ she called after him.

  He shouted back, the wind beginning to ruffle his hair. ‘Rememb
er I love you!’

  Time seemed suddenly to stand still. He said that! Why had he said it now?

  She stood spellbound, with only her thoughts for company, until the dark brown rear of the very last carriage had disappeared from view. The rest of the world seemed suddenly to be of no consequence. She was like an island, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a station in need of care and attention – just like her really.

  The overnight bag might have been forgotten but an overhead loudspeaker crackled into life and brought her back to reality.

  The train now approaching …

  There was a clean handkerchief in her pocket. She blew into it and dabbed at her eyes. I hadn’t planned to cry, she thought. Pull yourself together. He’s gone and you’ve got responsibilities; in fact, you have a very full life. Work is not enough, said a voice from somewhere deep inside her.

  Slowly she walked back to where she’d left her bag. The old railwayman who had pointed her in the right direction now looked at her with undisguised disdain. As she picked up her bag he leaned close to one of his compatriots and whispered something. Then he turned back and spat at her. It landed some way from her feet. ‘German whore!’

  She walked quickly on, unable to come to terms with what she’d just heard. Her face was on fire. Her breath was tight in her chest. A German’s whore! Normally she might have responded, gone over to him and in her most cut-glass accent threatened to report him to his superiors. But a postwar world seemed more complicated than one at war. How long, she wondered, would it be before the open wounds were healed?

  Edna knew she was in for trouble when her mother saw her driving through Bedminster in Billy Hills’ van. She blamed herself for being so preoccupied with thinking about Sherman. Her mother always went shopping early on a Saturday morning in East Street, Bedminster. The queues for anything, whether it was rationed or not, were still horrendous. And all for tired vegetables, fatty meats or bits of offal, and bread that was greyer than it had been in wartime. But her mother usually came home with something a bit special. Most weekends there was meat of some sort, perhaps a rabbit or a few pigeons, all ending up in a pie. They’d never run out of sugar like some during the war though her mother had doled it out sparingly, as if it were the most precious thing on earth.