The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Casey, Jan

  ‘Don’t you get letters from home?’ Evelyn asked, sure he must.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Of course.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, I’m not an orphan or anything. It’s just that… it would mean kind of a lot to get some mail, once in a while, from a special girl. Like lots of the guys do. Look, Evelyn I…’

  Stopping mid-spin, Evelyn kissed him on the tip of his soap-scented nose. ‘Let’s sit for a bit,’ she said.

  They found their table, empty now, and downed their drinks. ‘I’ve never led you on, Malcolm, and if I have, then I’m sorry.’

  He rubbed her hand and inspected it, as if he was trying to memorise its idiosyncrasies. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Worse luck. I’d have loved to be led on by a girl like you.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not Irish?’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ve got enough blarney for it.’

  ‘No, ma’am. Canadian-Scottish through and through. Your king is my king.’ He lit each of them a cigarette. ‘I know where we stand, Evelyn. And I do know that you’re seeing someone else. That Stan guy you introduced to me once? But I was hoping we could write, just while I’m, you know… away. I’d sure look forward to hearing from you.’

  What harm would it do? Evelyn thought. It might even be interesting, give her another perspective on things. ‘Of course,’ she said, kissing him again. ‘I’d love to keep in touch. I’ll write once a week.’

  The following afternoon was for the family. Sylvie and Evelyn had laid out a high tea, the highlight of which was corned beef sandwiches with a scrape of horseradish sauce on one slice of the bread. The apple jelly was made with the water poured off a saucepan of boiled new potatoes; no one complained or was any the wiser. Uncle Bert brought along his Shove Ha’penny board and they played a raucous game, Evelyn and Sylvie saying they had let Alec win so he wouldn’t go away feeling sour. They sang ‘Hail, Hail the Gang’s All Here’ and ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’. Alec took Sylvie’s hand and began a rendition of ‘You’ll Never Know’, but when Sylvie joined in, her strong, animated voice bumped into a sob in her throat and the song came to an abrupt end.

  When Evelyn made her excuses to a chorus of boos and jeers, she heard Dad insist on taking Alec to the pub to have a pint with Uncle Bert and some of the regulars. Pulling the front door closed behind her, she stood and imagined Sylvie’s face as their plan threatened to fail. She waited until the three men stepped outside, then grabbed Dad’s arm. ‘One pint only,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Then you return him to Sylvie.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Dad sounded surprised by Evelyn’s forcefulness – or his own ready answer – or both.

  She didn’t see Sylvie or Alec again until early Saturday morning, although Evelyn heard Sylvie slip into the bed next to hers after midnight. There was no butter for Evelyn or Dad at breakfast, no powdered egg, tea so weak it looked as though the leaves had been waved over the pot. Alec protested, but he got all the rations.

  Sylvie sat on the stairs while Dad and Evelyn said their goodbyes. ‘So long, sir,’ Alec said to Dad, his kit bag over his shoulder.

  Dad grasped Alec’s hand with both of his, holding on tight. ‘We don’t say goodbye in this country, young man,’ he said. ‘We say ta-ta, old mate. See you soon.’

  Alec nodded, his swollen Adam’s apple rising and falling as he swallowed. They clapped each other on the back, circled shoulders with their arms, Dad’s head squashing into Alec’s chest. Evelyn heard Alec whisper, ‘Thank you for….’ His eyes turned to the wall that Sylvie was sitting behind.

  Dad managed a choking sound in reply. ‘We’re very proud of you, son,’ he said. Go get ’em.’

  A hug and an unsteady smile were all Evelyn could manage, then she turned Alec around and pointed him in the direction of the hallway. He took a deep breath, gathered himself together and strutted smartly towards where Sylvie was waiting.

  After a short space of time, the front door closed. A bulky shape passed the sitting-room window, head down, then disappeared. All that energy, the dynamism, the masculinity, the good nature and optimistic outlook – gone. She went to Sylvie and put her arms around her neck.

  Sylvie got on with it. She dried her tears, dyed her hair a richer shade of brown, painted her lips and ran a white pencil under her nails. Work on the bridge continued. After a few weeks dancing resumed, although Sylvie refused to partner anyone but Evelyn. Letters began to be delivered, return correspondence posted. Evelyn read Malcolm’s letters aloud to Dad and Sylvie, all three of them enjoying his hilarious retelling of arduous training, wet kit, shaving in ice-cold water, lukewarm stodgy rations, card games after lights out.

  Evelyn could picture his fresh face, hear him humming through everything. Would you believe I was so beat one night, he wrote, that I crashed out on my bunk in full gear? Boots and all still laced. I tell you, there was one mad panic in the morning when I had to be polished and gleaming for parade at six.

  Alec’s letters were longer and more detailed. Sylvie read parts of them out, but others she kept to herself.

  It was quite a few weeks before Evelyn could walk past the old dance hall that must be struggling for clientele now the Canadians had been posted. She’d never noticed before how shabby it was from the outside. Dusty and a bit shoddy. A thick residue on the door handle, a flapping flyer stuck to the window by one piece of yellowing sticky tape.

  *

  The third talk at Regent Street was scheduled for a fortnight after the men’s departure. But once again there was the possibility she would have to cancel and this time it was because of Gwen. She’d been away from the bridge for a week with no message or doctor’s note. Evelyn wrote to her, but didn’t receive a reply.

  Jim asked Evelyn to check on Gwen, as her confidante and one-time partner, to find out what was going on. One more day, he explained, and he would have to give Gwen the sack. Of course it was right that she should visit, she told herself, the bus to Cubitt Town taking twice as long as it should due to a burst gas pipe. But she didn’t want to miss the roof of Mrs Blackwood’s little house being put in place, so would try to make the visit short.

  Betty answered the door and pulled Evelyn into the kitchen. ‘Gwen will be pleased to see you,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased to see you. You’re a godsend. Tea?’

  ‘Please,’ Evelyn answered. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Bed.’ Betty pushed her lips together until the colour drained from them. ‘I can hardly get her up.’

  ‘Not flu again?’

  Betty shook her head. ‘It’s her nerves. She’s let them get the better of her.’

  They drank their tea standing next to the sink. A line of clothes hung in the yard, stiff and dry in the summer sun. ‘Do you think she’d come out with me for a bit?’ Evelyn asked, remembering the day they’d spent in the park last year, when Gwen’s spirits lifted.

  ‘I doubt it, love. She won’t even go out with George’s arm to lean on when he’s home.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she been signed off?’ Evelyn asked.

  Betty sighed. ‘The doctor wants her to go to work. Says she’ll be better off for it.’

  ‘Do you think she’s able? Jim’s going to give her the boot if she doesn’t come in or produce a sick note.’

  ‘She needs to hear that,’ Betty said, putting her cup on the draining board. ‘I’ll tell her you’re here. Get her down.’

  Gwen was shaky when she appeared, but kissed the top of Evelyn’s head and seemed pleased to see her. She looked hot and sweaty, crusty flakes around her eyes and mouth, her nails a mess. Evelyn could see she was in no fit state for any sort of work, let alone something as treacherous as the tools. When Evelyn mentioned the doctor again, Betty shook her head behind Gwen’s back and rubbed her thumb and index finger together. Evelyn bit her lip. It was expensive to keep having the doctor.

  Alone with Betty in the hall, Evelyn said, ‘I’ll have to report back to Jim and hope that’s good enough for now. What do you think, Betty?’

  ‘That’s the best we can do.
’ Betty agreed. ‘When George gets home, I’m sure… well I think… he’ll sort it all out.’

  Then Betty suggested that perhaps they could work out a schedule between them to help build up Gwen’s confidence. Walks, bus rides, shopping, a visit to the baths.

  Evelyn said she would be happy to help as much as her shifts allowed. ‘But not Wednesday evenings,’ she added, unable to look Betty in the eye. ‘I have something else I have to do on Wednesday evenings for a few weeks.’

  Betty didn’t question her, but as she walked to the bus, she felt remorse wash over her. She stopped and was about to turn back and revoke the midweek codicil to their agreement. Then she decided that she would wait and see how things moved along before committing herself and losing out on the lectures she was enjoying so much; she could always step in on a Wednesday evening if push came to shove, and that would assuage her guilt. On the bus to Regent Street, Evelyn thought about Mrs Blackwood. She wondered if while she was training she had felt as though she was being pulled in a hundred different directions, or if she had been ruthless and quashed those thoughts in order to become a lady engineer.

  11

  August – November 1943

  Gwen

  She wasn’t like this. Not her. The real Gwen was able and sure; strong and confident; up first, last to bed; knew left from right, right from wrong. One mistake, one bad decision, one instance when she didn’t have her wits about her, had led to this situation. Betty with her all day, Evelyn popping in and out, jollying her along, keeping her consoling nails from her mouth, arranging outings and little tasks to keep her busy. Gwen wished they would just go away and give her a bit of peace.

  The first two weeks were the worst. Every morning Betty stood at Gwen’s bedroom door, in irritatingly good spirits, and told her it was time to get up.

  ‘Breakfast’s on the table in quarter of an hour,’ she’d say. And then go on to list the unappetising choices. Toast and marge with apple jam or stewed tomatoes. Powdered egg on toast. Honey cake or one small sausage with a couple of mushrooms.

  It was no use saying, ‘I’m not hungry’. Or turning her back and protesting that she’d had a rotten night’s sleep but could easily go off now. Betty would wait, making herself busy tidying clothes away or pushing up the windows. Chatting the whole time until Gwen tottered towards the bowl of warm water Betty had brought up and started to wash herself. One morning, without saying a word, Gwen refused to follow orders so Betty hauled her up, wiped her face and dressed her, brushed her hair and, keeping her pressed close for support, managed her down the stairs and into the kitchen. The last time she’d felt so humiliated had been when she wet her knickers in First Year Juniors and was told off by Miss and again by her mother when she got home.

  Betty then had her sit until she’d finished whatever was put in front of her even if it was tasteless, hard to swallow and harder to keep down. A chore or two followed. She would be told to tackle the dishes or scour the draining board. Another day she would be directed to the sitting room with a duster. After that, there was a pile of potatoes waiting in a bowl to be peeled. She wasn’t allowed to sit, so couldn’t attempt to mend or write letters; she had to do things that kept her on her feet to build her stamina, get her strength back.

  The shops next, with a list written out by Betty. Queuing was grim, worse than she remembered. Meeting someone while waiting her turn was unbearable. She wanted to run but her trembling legs would have held her back. With heat prickling her armpits and a dry mouth, she stammered her way through conversations that sounded as though they were either taking place in the distance or being shouted through a loudhailer. Betty gave Gwen time to gather her thoughts and talk, taking over when she could see it all got too much. Stroking her wrist all the while with the light touch of an insect’s wings that Gwen had to force herself not to swat away.

  After dinner, she was exhausted enough to sink into a nap devoid of the intrusive images that had dogged her: George lying twisted on a train track; Will or Ruthie slithering at her feet, their legs in their hands; Evelyn plummeting from the bridge; Betty crushed under the rubble of an Anderson. And Johnny. In the second before she woke, he always appeared, standing and staring at her. Just beyond her reach.

  Whenever Evelyn arrived, she looked fresh despite a hard day’s work, the journey, the latest war news. Their voices low, she and Betty would have a chat in the kitchen, discussing her, no doubt, but she didn’t care to listen at the door to hear what they were saying. Evelyn talked non-stop, too, in what Gwen hadn’t noticed before as a rather sickly, girlish voice. A couple of times she mentioned a man named Stan who she’d referred to before in passing. Gwen didn’t know they were still seeing each; she really couldn’t keep up. She also read letters aloud from someone called Malcolm who was fighting in Sicily with her sister’s boyfriend.

  Heroes they were, if the way Evelyn went on about them was anything to go by. She made them sound as brave as Wing Commander Guy Gibson and his crew. They’d go for a walk, a bit further each time. They ventured to the baths where, after completing a number of laps set by Evelyn, Gwen floated on her back with eyes closed, imagining the cold sea caressing her, protecting her in its tidal drift until she reached a warm, sheltered haven where the past three years had never happened.

  By the end of the third week, Gwen thought she was no better. But when she recalled how she’d felt and behaved at the start, she realised she was wrong. She was making progress.

  Since Johnny passed away, almost all of her energy had gone on thinking about him. Images of him and that night pursued her, hunting her down, clamping into the depths of her with the ferocity of a rat, unable to stop biting until its jaws met. Like rodents gnawing away, leaving waste and debris strewn along the tunnels they carved. Roaming the infinite burrows, her self-reproach for Johnny grew. For George, too, the way she’d spoken to him, how badly she’d treated his attempts at reconciliation. As for Will and Ruth, she couldn’t win with them. Her mind would volley disparate thoughts back and forth until she felt she was going mad; she should have sent them away earlier, she shouldn’t have let them go at all; she should insist they come home now like so many other kids; or George was right to make them stay in Wales until the war was over; she should write more often – or perhaps less.

  Now things were a bit clearer, she added Betty and Evelyn to her list of regrets and was overwhelmed with shame. She hoped she hadn’t shown how much she’d resented them helping her, how their trivial chat and masked smiles had wound her up, the catty things she’d thought about them. If they had noticed, neither of them let on.

  She grabbed at Betty’s hand one morning and wouldn’t let go. ‘Now, now,’ Betty said, prising her fingers loose. ‘There ain’t time for all that. There’s carrots to scrape.’

  Evelyn, in her own way, was as dismissive. ‘No need for sop,’ she said. ‘That shower’s passed so we can walk to the Island Gardens for a change. Catch the bus back if you can’t manage both ways.’

  Yet again, she was made to think about what she would do if the tables were turned. In the past, when things had been better, she liked to think she’d been a good friend and neighbour. Often, she’d helped Betty out with bits of shopping, given her an egg or scoop of tea if she ran out. She’d listened to her worries about her son, especially when he was going through his wild days before he settled down. They’d sat together next to the wireless hoping not to hear news that might affect Ray’s battalion. She’d been good to other friends, too, that she’d had once. She was sure of it.

  But this degree of help? Would she ever have committed herself to anyone other than her children in the same way? Admonishing herself for her mortifying shortcomings, she doubted very much that she would.

  As a month of this routine came to a close, thunderstorms broke the dry summer weather. The rotting smell of wet foliage lingered in the cooler autumn air. George had left money for the doctor and Evelyn took her to see him during one of her visits. He was delighted with t
he evidence of Gwen’s recovery.

  With a serious look, the doctor took Gwen’s wrist and felt her pulse. He scrutinised the hands he placed back on her lap, running his fingertip along the tiny scars and rough edges of her healing nails. She was reminded of the endless tubes of antibiotic cream he’d prescribed to patch up the weeping sores she’d inflicted on herself. Now, a sliver of crescent moon grew white on the end of each nail. Next, he studied her face. ‘How do you feel about getting back to your old routine, Mrs Gregson?’

  ‘A bit unnerved,’ Gwen answered. But she spent a lot of time worrying about how she would keep paying for the doctor’s calls and the medicine he prescribed, so added that she thought she could manage.

  The doctor nodded with his eyes closed. ‘We don’t want you to do too much and set yourself back.’ He drummed his fingers one by one on the arm of his chair. ‘How about this for a plan? One more bottle of tonic and a final week off.’

  ‘If you think so, doctor,’ Gwen said.

  ‘But take the week to fend for yourself,’ he said. ‘I think you’re more than capable now.’ He patted Gwen’s arm.

  Nodding, she said, ‘Yeah, ta. I am.’

  When Evelyn related the news to Betty, Gwen noticed the flash of relief on both their faces. It would be good for all of them to have their time to themselves again.

  *

  On her own Gwen thrived on things she hadn’t realised she’d previously relished. Filling the teapot with steady hands; pulling the blackouts at the right time; the way the sun moved across her tiny garden; a clean vest; managing her daily affairs; sending a note to George. She could remember trying to write to him during the dark days, but thought she must have thrown her efforts on the fire with frustration or confusion. She had no recollection of posting anything or of Betty or Evelyn saying they’d done so. Perhaps Betty had kept George informed because one morning, when she arrived home from the shops, there was an envelope from him on the mat.