Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Poor little thing.’ Edna’s voice was full of sympathy. She held out her arms and the child almost fell into them. Carol, to Charlotte’s relief, transferred to where she wanted to be and was soon burying her head in Edna’s shoulder.

  Charlotte placed the two carrier bags onto a workbench next to a bright red locomotive, which Carol also appeared to have noticed.

  Toys! I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Charlotte decided, and a surge of relief washed over her. She tried not to feel guilty about her dread of possibly having to take the child herself, then silently reprimanded herself for feeling responsible for everyone else’s problems.

  ‘I’m going to the hospital now to tell Polly that there’s no need to worry,’ she called, and headed for the door. She didn’t look back and didn’t feel she needed to. Both Edna and Colin were lavishing attention on their new arrival. Edna was swaying gently to one side, cooing babyish words of explanation as Colin pointed at the toys and told Carol what they were called.

  Edna hardly noticed the closing of the door and the sound of Charlotte’s car outside in the narrow cul-de-sac. She was too absorbed in entertaining the blue-eyed little girl with the tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘I think she likes it here,’ Colin said.

  ‘I think she does,’ Edna replied with a smile, relishing the warmth of the soft little body against her own.

  ‘Makes you feel like having one of your own,’ he added.

  For a moment Edna’s smile faded. She couldn’t possibly meet his look. A sharp pain seemed to cut her in two and, for the briefest of moments, she felt like confessing about Sherman, begging him to listen to why it happened and to try and understand … But when it came to it she couldn’t. The child she was cuddling close wasn’t hers and yet, in some small way, she compensated for the child that should be there. If only she had the guts to tell Colin. If only she had had the guts to insist on keeping her own baby.

  ‘How long have we got her?’ Colin asked, stroking the child’s black patent shoe that hung out from beneath Edna’s arm.

  ‘As long as it’s needed I suppose,’ said Edna a little hesitantly.

  She cuddled Carol closer, her cheek sticky against her own. No. She could not tell him about Sherman just yet. Perhaps when Carol had gone home to her mother … perhaps then.

  Polly lay glumly in the hospital bed. If she didn’t get out of this place quickly she was in danger of losing her job. And she didn’t want to do that. She loved it. Things just don’t go right for me, she thought to herself. First there was Snowshoe who didn’t come back. Then there was Al, then Gavin and being left with Carol with no wedding band on her finger. People looked down on you if you had kids without a husband and nothing was ever likely to change on that score. And after that there was Aaron. Then almost an affair with David. A list of disasters. Now Billy. Would she lose him too? She’d asked the staff if he was all right. He was. Just a broken leg. He knew about Aaron, she was sure of it. On top of that, she felt doubly guilty because it was her cruel words that had caused his beloved van to crash.

  He loved that van, though she couldn’t exactly imagine why. It was black, dull, and had funny little oval windows in the rear doors and a metal strip down the windscreen.

  After two days of being in hospital the manager from the New Palace came in to tell her that her job was safe. He liked her and so did the customers and that, to his mind, was all that mattered. Who knows? If he liked her that much, she might eventually get promoted into the ticket kiosk and get to leave earlier than everyone else.

  And she would be able to keep working just so long as Aunty Meg was still around. This going up to see Aunt Ada was only a temporary thing, she told herself. Aunty Meg would be back soon enough to take over looking after Carol again. All the same, the fact that she wasn’t around was very unnerving.

  That morning another letter had arrived for Charlotte. This time it was from Josef.

  He told her the good news first. He was employed by the Pestalozzi Charity, erecting children’s villages all over Europe for those orphaned by the worst war in history.

  It did her heart good to read it. He sounded full of energy and so self assured. Because of this he finally told her what had happened to Aaron Grant. Her eyes had narrowed as the terrible truth hit her.

  Please believe me, I would have told you earlier, but my life too might then have been forfeit. Now there are many miles between me and those that could do me harm. Aaron was not killed by faceless enemy prisoners. He was killed by his own countrymen. Remember a man called Sergeant Noble? He was the ringleader. I have reported the matter to the relevant authorities. I could not leave this for you to do. I am home now. I feel safe and hope I am.

  She remembered how worried he’d looked on the occasions she’d seen him before he left. She’d sensed that something was wrong but had told herself not to be a fool and had put it down to his going home. Guilt bordered on despair. She should have realised. She should have cared enough to press the matter further.

  She thought about telling Polly. There were reasons for doing so and reasons against it. There again, what could they do about this miscarriage of justice? Who did she know who was so involved with the law and its workings that he would take pride in ensuring that true justice was done?

  One name that she could trust leapt to mind. Before leaving home she made a decision, picked up the phone and rang Marmaduke Clements.

  When Charlotte came in and confirmed that everything had worked out exactly as planned, Polly could have whooped for joy.

  Knowing Edna’s secret and how much she loved children, she had half a mind to wonder whether she’d ever get her daughter back. At one time she might not have worried. Someone else looking after Carol meant she could have gone out and thoroughly enjoyed herself. Meg had usually obliged, but things had changed. Polly had had time to think about what really counted. Carol was part of her and they’d got closer. Her life was changing. Billy was becoming more than a friend but she’d given him no encouragement to hope that things might get more serious. He hadn’t tried anything on and, although sometimes she wished that he would, his respect made her feel special. But oh, she wished it wasn’t her fault that he’d crashed his van. If only she hadn’t belittled him with the fact that he couldn’t read or write.

  She wondered if he was still keen on her. She was certainly still keen on him.

  On the day they said she could go home, she dressed in a black skirt teamed with a matching twinset that had a white pattern running around the neck and the cuffs. Before she left, she went around to see Billy. They hadn’t allowed her to visit him when she was still a patient, wearing the white flannel nightgown Meg had brought in.

  ‘I’m not going to get into bed with ’im!’ she’d said to the ward sister.

  The answer had been no. But now she was dressed respectably just like any other hospital visitor – except that the other men in the ward turned their heads to watch her walk by, the heels of her court shoes tapping determinedly on the highly polished floor.

  She didn’t acknowledge them, but she could feel their eyes on her and, Polly being Polly, her hips swayed that bit more in response to their obvious admiration. She stopped the moment she saw Billy.

  Someone had given him a copy of Picture Post. He was frowning as he pretended to read it. Polly smiled to herself. Lucky it had pictures so he knew which way up to hold it! That was a mean thought. She compensated by planting a big kiss on his forehead.

  ‘Hi there, honey,’ she said in a vaguely, American accent.

  ‘Polly!’ His face was as bright as Christmas. ‘I’m sorry about the accident. Are you all right? Are you hurt bad?’

  She couldn’t believe it. He was saying he was sorry to her. Even though she enjoyed his adoration, taking the blame for the accident was something she couldn’t let him do.

  His jaw dropped as she took his hand between both of hers. Who could blame him? Never had she looked so intently into his eyes. ‘It
was my fault. I said something mean about Edna and the American soldier being black. Shouldn’t have, should I? After all, that’s what this war was about, wasn’t it? His blood’s the same colour as the rest of us.’

  With bated breath she waited for him to mention what he knew about her liaisons with the friendly forces. The moment passed. Billy smiled and clutched both her hands in his. It confirmed what she already knew to be true. No matter how much of a wheeler and dealer he was, deep down he was a soft touch – especially where she was concerned.

  ‘So! Will they be letting you home for Christmas?’ she asked brightly. At the same time she wondered how far Meg had got with the scarf she d been knitting him. Money was minimal in her job. Buying a present would come hard and knitting did not come easy to her fickle fingers – dropped stitches and more holes.

  ‘I’m hoping to,’ he explained excitedly, ‘though I’d still be in plaster and on crutches. At the worst I might be in a wheelchair. Bit of a nuisance that, right on Christmas. I was going to pop along an’ visit that Mr Lewis who’s bin buying all our toys. Colin and Edna got everything delivered on time. Good job Edna packed ’er job in at Wills’. The bloke’s already talking about ordering for next year. It’s gonna take more than just Edna and Colin to make toys. Time to take on staff. Might even get a factory. What do you fink of that, then?’

  ‘That’s good!’ Polly nodded vaguely, her thoughts on a more personal level of present giving. I could sew something … Then what Billy said sank in and she thought of Colin. ‘But you ain’t gonna be in a wheelchair forever, are you? That ain’t what they mean!’

  Billy grinned in that mischievous way of his and gripped her hands more tightly. ‘Course not. Be up and about in no time.’

  She told him about Meg going away and Edna looking after Carol. He already knew. His uncle, who ran a scrap yard in Sheene Road, Bedminster, had brought his mother in. She’d found out from Edna’s mother who, of course, did not approve.

  Polly stopped him from telling her exactly what Ethel Burbage had said. She could almost repeat it word for word. According to her, Polly should not have been out at the pictures with the likes of Billy. She should be at home. Her reputation was bad enough as it was without adding child neglect to her list of sins.

  Billy’s mother didn’t know Ethel Burbage and had only heard the news second hand. ‘Ma said Edna’s mother sounded a right bloody cow,’ said Billy. He said it loud, much to Polly’s embarrassment. She’d acquired a few airs and graces from mixing with Charlotte and David. A few men heard and heads turned in their direction. Polly hissed and held a finger to her lips.

  For her part, she adored what Billy had just said to her. It made her feel warm inside. Aggie Hill, Billy’s mother, was a good sort, and although Polly hadn’t met her yet she’d heard from Meg that her son’s happiness was all that mattered. If he wanted Polly, then that would be all right by her.

  ‘So where was this special place we were going on Saturday night?’ she asked him, feeling better about the crash now and remembering their conversation about going out.

  Billy grinned secretively and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nowhere! That weren’t what I was going to say. It’s what I was gonna do that mattered. But there you go. Have to wait for Christmas now, won’t you?’

  Polly promised to visit him every day, her job at the New Palace permitting. She reminded herself to take a look at that knitted scarf Meg had been working on. But first she had to go round to Edna and ask if she would take care of Carol while she was out at work until Meg came back, or until she could find someone else to help.

  Twilight was settling on the city like a dusty veil when she left the hospital and began making her way to the bus stop. She checked what money was in her purse before the bus came. Not much. November had turned to December. Nights were cold and a crisp frost would send it colder. But she didn’t mind. At least it wasn’t raining and, besides, walking home past shops bright with lights and Christmas decorations made her feel pleasantly in tune with the season.

  She set off down Colston Avenue where the concert hall was advertising some orchestra. From there she cut across the large oval space that was still called the Tramway Centre. Since the destruction of the tramway lines by German bombs, only buses ran there now. It was dark by the time she got to Queen’s Square, where the trees were bare of leaves and the grass was vaguely crisp underfoot.

  As she passed St Mary Redcliffe, church of the parish since Tudor times, she glanced over at the piece of tramway line that stood erect among the ancient tombstones, like a sign pointing to heaven. It had been there since the night of 24 November. There’d been arguments about whether to remove it. Some had called it sacrilege for it to stay. Others said it should stay as a lasting memorial to the night when the medieval heart of the old city had gone up in flames.

  On Redcliffe Hill the smell of cooked meats drifted out of the open door of a pork butcher just before the faggot and pea shop. He’d been there since the eighteenth century, according to the sign above the door. Her mouth watered. Closing her eyes she could visualise the Bath chaps, faggots, pork pies, chitterlings and pigs’ tails oozing fat as they cooled off in the window.

  Numerous buses went by, light from their upper and lower decks falling onto the slippery pavements. Car lights were less numerous and flashed by before they could get held up behind horse-drawn brewery drays or coal carts.

  Because she was preoccupied with Billy’s Christmas present and what to say to Edna, she hardly noticed the shiny black car pull into the kerb some way ahead. The door flew open unexpectedly just as the railway carriage had done a year ago. But this time she did not fall. The impact thumped her forehead. Were those stars she could see or merely the reflection of Christmas decorations on the damp tarmac? In that split second she was back in Temple Meads Railway Station, obsessed with looking for the father of her child until she was sent flying – almost as she was now.

  Before the stars disappeared a strong arm lashed out and hit her across the back of the head. Harsh fingers gripped her arm.

  ‘Get into the car!’

  She tried to scream but he was too quick! Too strong! Like a rag doll she was pulled into the seat beside him, her head lolling back against the seat. The door slammed on the outside world. She shook her head in an effort to dislodge the bleariness from her eyes. Where was she? Who was she with? After rubbing her eyes she turned to look at the car driver. For a moment he was just a blur. Then she saw who it was and her legs turned to jelly.

  David! Polly sank further into her seat and leaned against the door, needing to get as far away from him as possible.

  ‘You won’t escape. Not this time.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  CHARLOTTE COLLECTED EDNA’S completed sewing for the orphanage. She’d fully expected her company as usual in delivering the little smocks, dresses and romper suits, but Edna had refused. Charlotte could see that her good humour was fairly fragile and she understood. Carol was helping Edna forget. Just like Christmas, Charlotte thought happily. Edna was coping with an unforeseen event! How very seasonal. It made her feel warm inside. Christmas was her favourite time of year. Soon Janet and Geoffrey would be home. She looked forward to it. Suddenly she wanted to absorb all the atmosphere of Christmas in one go – a bit like an alcoholic finding a full bottle of whisky.

  On the way home she stopped off in East Street, Bedminster, the long sweep of shops that stretched for almost a mile from the London Inn at one end to the grim, grey police station at the other.

  There were plenty of people about and, even though rationing was worse now than during the war, spirits were high though purses were light. Queues crowded the butcher’s, the baker’s and the greengrocer’s, but one shop above all others had a mass of people pressed tight up against its window. Intrigued, and feeling childishly excited, Charlotte gently pushed her way through.

  Peacock’s Bazaar had scraped together a seasonal tableau display in its window. Cardboard houses with
red and yellow cellophane windows stood among cotton-wool snow and, on the roof of the largest, a cardboard cut-out Santa Claus sat in a cardboard sleigh pulled by a red-nosed Rudolf. Colouring books, paint boxes, and baby dolls with staring eyes surrounded the scene as though the red-suited old man had flung them there with reckless abandon. Pride of place went to a rocking horse. A sign resting against one of the rockers read ‘Orders taken’. Charlotte beamed with pleasure. Colin and Edna had been busy! They were doing so well so soon after the war. And all would go well. Hopefully Colin need never know about Edna’s child.

  Excited voices surrounded her and she quickly relegated sad thoughts about Edna to the back of her mind as she studied the display.

  Small balls of cotton wool hung from threads that dropped down at regimented distances, feebly attempting to give the impression of falling snow.

  Charlotte found the scene moving. It was hardly the best Christmas window display she’d ever seen. Shops in Castle Street, such as Jones’s the large department store for instance, used to have some breathtaking displays in the pre-war years. Of course that was impossible now. The store was no more than a pile of rubble. And then there was Regent Street. In the Thirties she had made a ritual of having one day of Christmas shopping in London. Even if she hadn’t bought anything, which of course was never the case, it would have been worth the trip just to see the displays and, especially, the crowds of children observing them.

  Small upturned faces glowed with happiness around her right now. Their mood was infectious. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she said to one small soul, ‘and what is Father Christmas bringing you?’

  The child pointed to the rocking horse and Charlotte wanted to cry. The child’s mother looked Charlotte in the face and furtively pointed to a much lesser present, a painting set. Not everyone could afford a rocking horse. And then someone said something that reminded her how things had changed since the war.

  ‘Now the old man’s ’ome, it’s goin’ to be a real family Christmas,’ was the remark Charlotte overheard.