Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  Holding her head pertly to one side, she asked, ‘Is there something you need to tell me, Billy?’ Then her voice and expression changed. ‘If you’ve been cheating on me, Billy, if you’ve got some kid and some girl somewhere that you haven’t told me about, then I want to know now!’

  He blustered at first. But Polly knew Billy wouldn’t risk losing her no matter what. Once she turned those blue eyes on him and smiled as if he were the most important bloke in the world, he’d tell her anything. And when she threatened not to see him any more if he didn’t own up … well … that would be suicide.

  Polly could barely believe it of Edna. That mousy little creature! Fancy her having a baby. She looked such a little mouse. What glorious gossip! She couldn’t resist passing it around – furtively of course.

  Aunt Meg had never met Edna so Polly thought there was no harm in telling her about the baby in the orphanage. She told her how Edna’s mother had sent her away so the neighbours wouldn’t know. She also told her about the parcels that kept coming from America full of baby clothes.

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Meg. ‘Sounds as if her mother’s a right dragon. I’m glad you kept Carol,’ she added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Lucky for me you were a good dragon!’

  In bed that night she stroked Carol’s curly fair hair. There had been times in the past when she wished Carol had never been born. Her birth and existence had curtailed her enjoyment for a while. But that time was all behind her. This was a new Polly and her dreams had changed. And tomorrow I’ll get a new job, she said to herself. But not cleaning other people’s places and not waiting on tables. I want something better. Something glamorous would be good.

  There was a queue at the Labour Exchange the following day, mostly men in their demob suits or navy dungarees talking in loud voices but seeming slightly ill at ease. Some would be sent to factories or to ‘wait-on’ at the docks. Those most favoured might get in on the bonded ware houses down in the Cumberland Basin where casks of tobacco were already rolling in from Virginia, Rhodesia and Pakistan. A lot more would be sent to demolish buildings made dangerous by bomb damage or to clear sites ready for building – whenever that might be.

  Polly queued outside the women’s entrance. She listened as they talked about their lives. The single women talked of going to dances, the pictures or a pub and whether they were courting. Those having lately left school stood trembling, fearful to speak and fearful to move; their first foray into the world of work. A few were widowed or married. Someone mentioned it was a headache having her man home and she wished he were still away fighting.

  ‘Yeah. I bet you ’ave headaches a lot now he’s been ’ome for a while. Bet you didn’t at first though, did ya?’

  Raucous laughter followed.

  Another said that hers was still out in Malaya receiving treatment in a hospital.

  Polly kept silent. If anyone asked her about the man in her life she’d mention Billy. But her private business was her own and, in view of recent events, she preferred to keep things that way.

  Eventually it was her turn to approach the clerk who sat in a small cubicle, a barrier between him and his job-seeking clients.

  ‘Name?’

  She gave it.

  ‘Address?’

  She gave that too.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘I have worked as a receptionist to a doctor …’

  The clerk peered over his spectacles, which crept to the end of his nose.

  ‘Have you qualifications?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to make do with what you can get and be thankful for it!’

  At one time he would have got a few choice words. As it was she was almost glad to be getting a job, re-joining the outside world no matter what the work was.

  There were a few openings at the cotton factory in Barton Hill. It was within walking distance of York Street, but the thought of working in a building looking like a castle with turrets and stone blackened by war was somehow off-putting. The pay was reasonable but not outstanding.

  Edwards & Ringers, a smaller cigarette factory than W. D. & H. O. Wills, were also taking on staff. It was a bit further to go than the cotton factory and was one of the few buildings left in Redcliffe Street, a main thoroughfare since medieval times and directly opposite St Mary Redcliffe Church.

  She chose the latter. The clerk behind the counter gave her a card to take along on which was printed the name of the foreman she had to see.

  The ugly brick building was only a little better than the cotton factory and had apparently replaced much older buildings in Victorian times. The fact that it was surrounded mostly by rubble did nothing to improve matters. Weeds, couch grass and swiftly growing buddleia were sprouting over what was left of the bombed-out buildings.

  Inside was far worse than out. With each breath she inhaled tobacco dust. She could taste it on her tongue and smell it in her hair.

  The man she had come to see was courteous and it seemed the job was hers. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he talked, telling her about the job, taking her to where she would be working, and explaining about bonuses and bank holidays.

  At first she considered turning it down. She didn’t mind smoking the odd fag, but raw tobacco was something else and in this place they were almost eating it. Then she thought of Carol and told herself she was lucky. Anyone else would jump at the chance. The job was hers and she should take it. The foreman seemed delighted and so was she. Starting date was in one week.

  But things didn’t go according to plan. The job would have been hers if one of the neighbours from York Street hadn’t seen her. Iris Trent had five kids and a husband who worked as a drayman for the brewery. He’d been reprimanded for being drunk in charge of his horses after being reported by a policeman. But it was Polly who’d given him the abuse that day and he hadn’t forgotten it.

  Iris glared at her as if looks could kill. Polly just tilted her chin and looked the other way. They all had to work together. That was the way it was.

  Two days later she received a letter stating that it had come to their notice that she had a child. It was not their policy to employ unmarried women with children.

  ‘That bloody Iris Trent!’

  It was the first time she’d cried in a long time. Meg held her close. ‘Never you mind, Polly. Something’ll turn up. You see if it don’t. Now you dry your eyes and get yourself ready for Billy and the pictures tonight. I’ll take care of Carol.’

  Polly felt sorry that she’d taken Meg so much for granted. What would she do without her? Now when she looked at her she saw the worry lines, the tiredness of old age creeping over her forehead and around her eyes, the grey hairs sprouting profusely on her chin.

  She felt better that evening, sitting there near the back of the pictures with Billy’s arm around her. They went to the New Palace in Baldwin Street. It was in the middle of town and a real treat, despite having to pick their way carefully around the rubble that still littered the ground.

  Since she’d been small, the picture house had been one of her favourite places. She remembered as a child being hypnotised by the shaft of blue-white light, the beam twisting and dancing with dust and cigarette smoke before it hit the screen. There was a liquid luminescence about it that had never failed to entrance her.

  Of course she’d been to the pictures with plenty of Yanks during the war but couldn’t recall a single one of the films. No wonder, she thought to herself. I was too busy fending them off. Hands like an octopus some of them had and the air had been blue with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable twang of their accents.

  The magic of the movies, as the Yanks had called them, had never really left her. And it wasn’t just about the film. The New Palace, like a lot of other picture houses, had a definite atmosphere. Everything to do with it was special. She realised while she was watching the film that the building itself had a specia
l magic. Like a real palace it was, all red velvets, gold-painted plaster fancy bits around the walls and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

  Then there were the people around her, the girls selling ice cream, but especially the usherettes shining their torches as they escorted people to their seats. There was something so glamorous about it all.

  Suddenly she sucked in her breath.

  Billy noticed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered, his breath warm on her ear.

  ‘I’m going to be an usherette,’ she said decidedly.

  ‘Good idea,’ he whispered back, and they both went back to watching Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.

  There were times when Edna could feel Colin’s eyes following her as she moved around the place. Getting home late from work had become something of an ordeal. He asked over and over again where she had been, why she was late. And again and again she told him that she’d worked late for a bit of overtime or that the bus was late.

  Colin was causing her concern. The workshop wasn’t looking as neatly industrious as it had done. She badly wanted to ask him why, but was afraid of what he might say. She hated confrontation. Courage wasn’t something that came easily. It had always been easier to let others have their own way rather than attract an argument.

  The first inkling she had that something was truly wrong was when Billy came calling.

  Billy was his usual ebullient self. ‘Got a few more done, ’ave you chum?’

  ‘Some!’ Colin snapped, and nodded towards a workbench where four painted horses sat in a row.

  Never had Edna seen him treat Billy in such an offhand manner.

  Billy suddenly looked troubled. ‘Is that all? Come on, Colin, you ain’t gonna get enough for Mr Lewis for Christmas at this rate. You are going to speed up, aren’t you? And what about employing someone?’

  Billy left with a flea in his ear. Edna apologised as she accompanied him with two of the wooden horses. He carried the other two.

  ‘I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know what’s come over him. Mind you, he has been to the hospital a lot lately. He says they’re doing a lot of tests but won’t tell me why.’ She frowned and clasped her hands tightly together because she couldn’t help but fear the worst. Life without Colin would be unthinkable.

  Billy looked resigned. He sighed and tipped his hat back further on his head. ‘P’raps I shouldn’t give you any more rides in me van,’ he said. ‘Making the old chap jealous, am I?’

  Edna said nothing but looked down at the ground. Billy was probably right. Her mother had a lot to do with it. She wondered exactly what bitter seed she could have sown in Colin’s head. The fact that Charlotte had asked Billy to give Edna a lift on a regular basis didn’t help, but her hands were full trying to cope with David who had refused all medical treatment and had been lucky that Polly had refused to press charges.

  Billy was looking deeply at Edna. ‘You’ve got to do what’s best for everyone,’ he said to her as if reading her thoughts.

  It was easier said than done. She’d never been very good at broaching a subject. Besides, she was terrified that Colin would find out her true reason for visiting the orphanage. She didn’t want to hurt him. She preferred to bear the pain herself. And she was hurting because telling Colin about Sherman was becoming impossible. She loved them both. It was a terrible predicament and she couldn’t see a way out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CHARLOTTE HATED THE night. The old Georgian house groaned around her as though settling down to sleep. Charlotte found great difficulty in settling down. There was too much turmoil in her head, thoughts concerned with recent events and whatever lay before her.

  She had considered taking the children out of school and having them home with her, but David was difficult to deal with since the incident with Polly. However, she had been relieved that Julian’s prognosis had been wrong. David had not committed suicide.

  She had asked Julian to have him hospitalised but he had surprised her by refusing. ‘He’s come through it – more or less – and one has to think of his professional standing,’ Julian had responded. ‘I mean, you know how it is, this sort of thing only happens to other ranks, old girl.’

  Old girl! She could have slapped his stupid face. What did one’s professional or social standing matter if one’s personal life was in a mess. Somehow she had to escape this situation whether by finding some legal way to get him treatment or, and this was something she found difficult to face, by divorcing him out of her life.

  Marmaduke Clements, the family solicitor, had an office in Queen’s Square. Charlotte went to him for advice as to what she should, or could, do. She was nervous about seeing him, flapping uncharacteristically as she got her bag and pulled her coat on before leaving home. The postman had been and usually she would have picked up the post and left it on the hall table. But there was only one pale blue envelope. She saw the Boston postmark and slid it into her handbag to be read later.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, Mrs Hennessey-White.’ Marmaduke Clements indicated a large leather chair opposite his desk.

  ‘I feel such a fool,’ she said.

  The leather was cool but its comfort was arguable. A few springs in the seat seemed in imminent danger of coming through.

  ‘Why should you?’ said Marmaduke. ‘Matrimonial difficulties are not confined to the lower orders, my dear lady.’

  It was the second time in a short while that an allusion to social status had been brought up with regard to David’s condition.

  She told him how things were. ‘It seems to me that he has to kill someone before he gets proper treatment. I need to know if there is some legal way of getting him that treatment.’

  Marmaduke sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘Treating the mind after a person has endured frightening experiences is a relatively new science, my dear lady. And you are right, to some extent, when you say that nothing will be done until he kills someone. Now, if this young woman had pressed charges, something might very well have been done. But I will look into the legal aspects. In the meantime, of course, there is another option.’

  She read his expression. ‘Divorce.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve been offered a full-time appointment with the Marriage Guidance Council. It would seem more than a little surprising if my own marriage were dissolved.’

  Marmaduke nodded sagely as though he was far older than his fifty years. She knew he was a bachelor, married to the law until death decreed otherwise. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, which only barely covered his girth, and looked at her kindly. ‘I have to say that you are eminently suitable to take up an appointment with such an organisation. Only when you have experienced problems in a situation can you benefit others in that same situation, though of course,’ he added with a raised finger and a shake of his head, ‘I am commenting purely as a layman you understand.’

  His last comment made her smile. She guessed it was supposed to. Marmaduke belonged to a dusty profession not known for its brevity but he had a definite twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was imagination, but for her he seemed to make an exception.

  She smiled appreciatively. ‘Thank you anyway. I value your advice. Is there any more you have to give me?’

  His chair, upholstered in leather like her own but more mobile, squeaked as he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. ‘We can sue on the grounds of his adultery if you can prove any has occurred – or we can arrange for it to have occurred. Five years with his agreement and you’ll be free to marry again. Seven if he doesn’t.’

  Five years! Five years would take them all forward into a new decade in which she would be a divorced woman and able to start all over again. And he was talking about fabricated evidence! There was no doubt about it. But was that what she wanted?

  She got to her feet. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Please do.’

  It was beginning to drizzle outside. She pulled her coat colla
r up as she ran to the car, wishing she hadn’t left her umbrella on the back seat. For a moment she sat in the driving seat thinking about what she should do.

  David had a need to talk about things, but how was she to approach this? It occurred to her that he might have said more to Polly. It was a long shot but perhaps it might be worth approaching her.

  Thinking of Polly made her remember the letter. The moment she began reading it her hands began to shake. After she’d read it she sat still, numbed by its contents. Polly had to know about this. Once she did, perhaps she would finally forgive her for meddling in her private life.

  Full of trepidation, she got into her car and circled the central oval of the Centre, heading back towards Victoria Street and Old Market.

  It was on a weekend that Matron called Edna into the office to tell her that someone was interested in adopting Sherman.

  Her heart almost stopped. Matron came round from behind the desk and gently patted her arm. ‘It might be all for the best, my dear. If you can’t give him a home, perhaps someone else can.’

  Edna nodded. Of course Matron was right. It made sense for someone to give her son a proper home, to tuck him in at night, to read him stories, to watch him grow … Tears hung in her eyes. One blink and she’d cry and she didn’t want to do that. She was visiting Sherman. The day was precious and she wanted to be happy for him.

  Her other worry was Colin. He was working well enough again, but she’d caught him doing strange things, swivelling round in his wheelchair, raising what was left of his legs up and down eighty times or so, six times a day. His visits to the hospital were getting more frequent, but he was just as secretive about them as ever and it worried her.