At the Break of Day

by Margaret Graham

  She watched as he walked up the alley, listened as his footsteps grew fainter.

  She wrote to him at the transit camp, and then to the Barracks when he moved on there. He wrote to her of guard duty, the inspections, the charging of his friend because of a dirty buckle.

  He wrote of the Corporal who read out the Guard Duty orders, issued them with bicycle lamps, whistles and pick-axe handles, allocated the stags, or shifts. He drew second stag – 2030 to 2230 then 0230 to 0430. He wrote of the route they walked, the huts they guarded. He wrote of the hours they spent guarding nothing against nobody.

  As November became December he wrote of rifle practice. How he would lie on a groundsheet, feeling the iciness of the earth seeping up into him, seeing his breath white before his face, feeling his fingers hurt with the cold as they held the rifle, then the numbness.

  He told of pushing home the ammunition clip with the palm of his hand, seeing a red and white flag for a miss, but more often it was a bull.

  He told her he loved her, missed her, and knew that she must love him because she stayed for his sake to help Maisie and Lee, when she could be in America.

  On 20 December Rosie made paper chains with Lee, but in Lee’s house, not Norah’s because Norah would not allow the mess, and she was glad that Jack was lying on groundsheets firing at targets because the British were launching the biggest drive yet against the rebels in the Malayan jungle and that could have been Jack, but it wasn’t. Thank God, it wasn’t.

  She strung the paper chains around Norah’s kitchen, though she had not wanted any, but Grandpa had always liked them. She helped Maisie do the same. Balancing the step ladder while Maisie reached up, pushing the drawing pin in, laughing because Lee was laughing, and soon they all were, even Ollie who came through the door with a bottle of wine for Christmas and a message from the pub that Jack was coming home for two days’ leave.

  They ate the turkey at Maisie’s because Norah and Harold were going to his mother’s for two days. She looked at Jack, and he at her, and she barely tasted the turkey, because he was back. This year there was no perfume for Maisie, no need for Rosie’s lies, and she drank her wine, her shoulders easing, because soon perhaps she could go to Nancy and Frank. 1950 promised to be a good year.

  Jack walked her back, into the empty house, up the silent stairs into the boxroom where ice crept up the inside of the windows and the chill dug even through their coats. He wouldn’t let her stay up here where it was so bleak and carried her mattress, her bedding, and laid it where Grandpa had slept, where he slept next door.

  She watched the muscles in his back beneath his shirt as he stirred up the fire, straightened the blanket made of cardigans. She watched his arms as he tucked the blankets under the mattress. She watched his face as he turned and held out his arms to her and the bed was soft and warm now as they lay together, and his hand undid her blouse, traced the shape of her breast, and his lips too touched her flesh and his tongue licked her skin and it was the right time where Joe had been the wrong time and the wrong person.

  She undid his shirt, pushing it back from his muscled shoulders, remembering the boy who had played flicksies, the boy who had raced in the carts, the boy who had pinched the cheeses, the boy who had been beaten by Jones’s man. They were not children any longer. They were nearly twenty.

  ‘I want you, Jack. I love you.’ She was breathing in the smell of his body, kissing his shoulders, his chest, his arms.

  His voice was soft as he drew her close. ‘I want you too, but there might be a baby. We must wait.’

  But she was kissing his words away because she was alone and soon he would go and she couldn’t bear it.

  His kisses were stronger, his leg was between hers, his hands on her skirt, but then he moved, pushing her back, sweat on his face and chest.

  ‘No, not now. Not yet. We must wait.’ He stood up and drew on his shirt, turning from her, doing up the buttons, looking into the fire, stooping, scooping out the ash, banking it up. Then just standing, watching the greyness that was all that was left of the smouldering fire.

  ‘We must wait, little Rosie. Wait until we’re married.’ He turned now and sat with her, pulling up the blanket, wrapping it round her.

  ‘I’ve never seen your body. I’ve never felt your skin against mine. I don’t need marriage. If you do, we’ll marry now.’ She leaned against him. Didn’t he know what it was like, living with a sister who wanted you to go? The snow would be crisp now in Lower Falls. Frank was under pressure because things had become much worse for liberals in his town. She could go back, lean into Nancy’s arms. But more than this, she longed for him and his love.

  Didn’t he know that, though she had promised to stay for his sake, she was lonely? That the days were long and the nights longer still? But then she looked at his hands, the scars, and knew that it was a time they both had to live through.

  January pushed into February and she heard little from Nancy and Frank. She wrote to say that she missed them, loved them, and would have come but Maisie and Lee needed her help and support, but maybe she could come in the summer. Did they understand? Were they angry?

  Nancy wrote saying that of course they understood, but they had been a little busy. Mao’s victory in China and the friendship pact between China and the Soviets had caused a bit of an upsurge in the Reds under the Bed campaign. McCarthy had launched a true blue Red Crusade, saying that he had the names of over two hundred Communists working in the State Department. Three more of their friends had been fired – one had had his house burned down. Another had killed himself. Frank was still fighting through his paper, through letters to other papers, and he was becoming a target.

  But she also said that this was only a wrinkle and Rosie mustn’t worry. It was just that it was taking a lot of their time. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t come for a while anyway.

  Rosie chose to believe her, because there was nothing else she could do. She went next door to Maisie. It was Saturday and they took Lee up West, had lunch in a Lyons Corner House and Maisie held her hand and said, ‘It’s easy when I have you.’ Her smile reached her eyes and Rosie squeezed her hand. What else could she do? And things were getting better for Maisie and Ollie, she was sure they were.

  Jack wrote telling her about the trench digging they were doing. And then the trench refilling they were doing, day after day.

  In March Norah heard that there was to be a new town built in Corby, Northants.

  ‘If you weren’t here then we could go. Why don’t you get out and find a place of your own?’

  ‘Because this was Grandpa’s house and I can stay as long as I goddamn need to. I don’t enjoy it. I just have to stay here.’ Rosie sat at the table, watching them both sitting in the armchairs, looking at the space where her mattress had been when they were away, and Grandpa’s had been before that. Yes, for now she had to stay here, she had promised Jack.

  In April she laughed because customs men raided a liner and seized thousands of pounds’ worth of smuggled nylons and Jack wrote to say it was a crime, all those stockings being kept from the streets.

  At the end of May the sun was hot and on the first Whitsun since petrol rationing ended Maisie and Rosie took Lee to Southend by train, and walked from the station past streams of cars. Rosie held her face up to the sun. Jack was more than half way through. The sun was out, the world was good today. They would marry when he left and had sorted out a job. He had written and asked her. Soon, all the grey years would be over.

  But on 25 June North Korea invaded the South and Rosie wrote to Frank because she wanted to know what it meant. He had always said Truman was afraid of appeasement. Would the United States become involved? Was this the conflict he had dreaded? Come on, Frank, she wrote, tell me what’s going to happen. Jack’s a soldier now.

  She didn’t have to wait for his reply because on 26 June President Truman offered military aid to South Korea and Attlee endorsed his actions in the House of Commons. On 27 June the UN ba
cked the opposition to the Communists, making it a police action, not a declaration of war. But did that make any difference? Boys would die anyway, wouldn’t they, she wrote to Jack. It was not a question.

  The Soviet Union was boycotting the United Nations and was unavailable to veto the motion. On 28 June British ships were placed under the command of US General Douglas MacArthur, the same day that the South Korean capital, Seoul, fell to the North Koreans, and that night she didn’t sleep. But so far British troops were not being sent. And anyway the boy at the Butlins fairground had said the only conscripts who went into action were volunteers.

  She wrote to Jack in the first week of July, sitting out in the yard as dawn came up, breathing in the fragrance of the roses, sure that England would not send troops into yet another conflict. They had done enough. Yes, here, with the yellow roses unfolding and dew thick on the petals, she told herself that England had done enough.

  For God’s sake, the houses still hadn’t been rebuilt, food was still rationed, unexploded bombs were still being found. Yes, they had done enough. And so she wrote not of the conflict in Korea but of Sinatra’s visit which she had written up as a feature and would send to Frank.

  She wrote of the new Zephyr that Jones was driving and how she had let his tyres down because of the beating he had given Jack, and the apprenticeship he had terminated. But before she could finish the letter the post came, and a letter was brought out by Norah because it was from America, and not in Frank or Nancy’s handwriting.

  Norah waited as Rosie peeled it open, looking at the address. It meant nothing to her, neither did the writing. She turned it over. It was from Joe. She looked up at Norah standing beside her. Rosie stared at her, then walked from the yard, remembering his blond hair, his tanned skin, his lips on her breasts, but he meant nothing to her. She leaned against the wall which was not yet warm from the sun and read the letter.

  Lower Falls

  27 June

  Dearest Rosie,

  I’m writing to you because I feel you should know that Frank has been ill for some considerable time. It’s his heart. They didn’t want you to know, which is why they were glad you couldn’t get over. The pressure of the last few years, the rise in the anti-Red feeling – though for God’s sake Frank isn’t a Commie, just a liberal – were giving him problems. They didn’t want to tell you. Felt it was better not to.

  But Korea was the last thing really. Frank kind of takes all this to heart. He is so scared it will make things much tougher over here for those guys already in trouble with this un-American thing as well as involving our boys in war again. I guess he feels that with MacArthur in Japan it could get real nasty. That guy’s such a hot head.

  Anyway Rosie, Frank has had a heart attack. He isn’t well. He could die. He thinks of you as his daughter. I know that it would do him more good to see you than anything else. I work for him now. I know him. Please come if you can. I’m sending you a ticket. Pay me back later if you can. I still remember that summer before you left. It was really great to be with you. Do you remember?

  Yours,

  Joe

  Rosie folded the letter, putting it back into the envelope, taking out the ticket. Hearing Frank’s voice, his laugh, seeing his broken pipes, seeing the love in his eyes for Nancy, for her. She mustn’t cry. There was no time for tears. She must go now. She had waited too long already. She had neglected them.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Maisie,’ she said, wiping Lee’s chin with her finger and licking it. Her finger was sticky. It had been sticky with hops that first summer back here, when her heart was so raw at leaving the lake and the Wallens.

  ‘I’ve got to, Frank’s ill.’ She looked at Maisie who was cutting bread, holding the loaf to her body, against her apron, sawing a slice from the top. There were crumbs on the table.

  Maisie stopped, her face paling. ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I’m not strong enough.’ She threw the knife down. ‘Don’t leave, Rosie. Don’t leave us. Not with Jack gone too.’

  She hurried round the table, took Rosie by the arms, shook her, looking at Lee who had gone quiet, and stopped eating.

  Rosie smiled at him, at Maisie. ‘It’s not for long. I have to go. I have no choice. I’ll be back. Soon. Hang on. Please, let me go. Promise me you’ll stay. Jack loves you so. You and Lee and Ollie. Promise me. If it gets very difficult, I’ll come back. Just write.’

  Maisie promised to stay, promised to write if it became too hard, and kissed her, held her tight, and there was the smell of lavender on her neck.

  Rosie wrote to Jack too. She said that she knew she had promised but she had to go. It was only for a while. You’ll understand. He’s ill, they’ve written. I’m needed. I love them but I love you more. Write to me. I love you, I love you.

  She forgot about Korea. She forgot about everything but informing the office, packing her clothes, posting Jack’s letter, taking the train which rattled from the station, and now she cried because she feared that she would be too late.

  CHAPTER 12

  On the ship, Rosie thought of Jack receiving her letter, reading it on his bed, the only private space he had. She stood by the rail, watching the gulls wheel above the wake as they left Southampton, and wished that he was with her to take her in his arms and tell her that he understood. Surely he would when he knew that Frank was so ill?

  She thought, too, of Grandpa standing on the dock so long ago as the children sang ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ and her voice broke so that no words came from her. Had he heard them as the ship moved out? She would never know now.

  As the days went by and England faded, she remembered the leaves on the north shore of the St Lawrence as the ship carrying the evacuees at last drew into Canada, of their colours which she could not believe even now. She thought of the three cheers on deck when they docked, the high arched dining hall where they were taken, the lights in the streets, the food. But most of all the lights because England had been so dark.

  On board now, she wrote to Maisie, talking as she would have done had she been there, pulling her back to them all, talking of days gone by; the good times. She would be back soon, she said, and Jack would finish with the Army next year. She wondered to herself how long it would be before Maisie had no more need of their support. They had their own lives to lead, their own love to enjoy. Their futures to explore and work towards.

  She wrote to Jack, explaining again, telling of her love, again. She wrote to Norah.

  She sat in deckchairs, feeling the breeze on her face, breathing in the air which was free of London smog, free of smoke, thinking of the balls which Frank used to throw to her to catch, the mitt that was warm on her hand, thinking of the balls which he threw for her to hit, the bat which she could swing as well as any boy. Thinking of Jack because she was sailing far away from him and already it was hurting her.

  She ate food which was plentiful and fresh and sweet, and felt again the guilt which she had felt as a child a million years ago. But this time she had chosen to come. It was her decision – and she could have made no other. Jack would surely understand that.

  She rested in the day because she didn’t sleep at night, and each morning asked the purser how much longer, until at last he smiled and said they would dock within thirty-six hours. But she knew that because the gulls were back over the wake again and as they moved along the Hudson River the next morning she saw the cars on the Brooklyn Shore Road, the Staten Island ferries passing the ship. She saw the towers of the city glittering in the morning sun from the starboard side.

  She moved to the other side. Here there was the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and the low outline of the New Jersey shore. She was back, she was almost home and she was crying.

  Merchant ships lay at the piers, steam was surging up from the streets beyond, streets filled with new shining cars. Britain could not afford to keep its goddamn cars, they were exported, and she realised she was gripping the rail, taut with anger.

  She took a cab to Grand Central S
tation and there were no damaged streets, no queues outside the shops, and the tears came again now because she was going home, but she had left home too. She belonged in both, but really she belonged with Jack.

  The cab plunged in and out of the shadows of apartment blocks and sped along the double highway of midtown Park Avenue which Frank had said covered the New York Central and the New Haven railroad tracks.

  ‘You a Britisher?’ the cab driver asked, his jaws never ceasing to chew gum. He flicked her a piece.

  ‘Yes, but I spent six years here. I’m glad I’m back.’

  The gold lettering was still on Grand Central. She walked through the pillared hall, bought a ticket from a booth, thought of all the cleaners, looked up at the zodiac on the ceiling. No, she couldn’t see what was wrong with it. She remembered Frank’s face and hurried. She didn’t stop to look at the Oyster Bar, or the movie houses, and there was no one meeting her beneath the clock. She felt alone and longed for the feel of Jack’s hand in hers.

  She moved straight towards the bronze doors, checking her watch. The train would go at one minute past the scheduled time. There were redcaps wheeling trolleys to the silver grey trains, conductors standing by the doors. There was air conditioning on the train. It hummed like the ice-box would hum in the kitchen in Lower Falls. She sat down, she looked at her watch. Come on, for Chrissake. Frank was ill.

  But he wasn’t at the house. No one was. The blinds were drawn and it looked smaller than she remembered. She walked round to the back. The target was painted as Nancy had said. The rhododendrons were glossy, the lawn was green except where the hose wouldn’t reach. There was no jazz sweeping out across the lawn. She stood with her hand to her mouth and longed for Jack because she couldn’t bear to think that Frank was dead.

  But he wasn’t. A neighbour rang the newspaper for her because Frank and Nancy had gone to the lake, and it was Joe who came, driving across in a silver grey Buick which flashed the sun into her face. He drove her to the lake, the hairs on his arm still bleached, his watch still golden against his tan. His voice was deeper, his shoulders broader, but she couldn’t look at the hands which held the steering wheel, or the lips which had kissed her breasts.