The Consequences of War

by Betty Burton

  Although he had denied saying anything specific, only that there probably wouldn’t be enough members, Vern had looked pretty sheepish when Sam had tackled him about it. It all went towards giving Sam indigestion and shooting fires in his leg.

  What was going on this morning? Another meeting? Dolly seemed to be here and there and everywhere since she had got herself this job. It wasn’t even proper cooking, it was seeing if turnips would do instead of apples to make jam.

  ‘Damn it, Dolly, the war won’t stop us growing apples.’

  ‘It’s a question of shortages through distribution, Sam. So don’t argue about something you know nothing about.’

  Who’d ever think that somebody like Dolly would let a bit of authority go to her head.

  If you didn’t laugh you’d cry.

  And now Marie was gadding off on a Tuesday morning.

  Sam knew that if he lost his place, lost control of the family, it would go to pieces.

  He took the beans into the house, and knotted his tie prior to going for his regular stump examination. There was always something when you were responsible for a family.

  Harry, for a start, always wanting to be off somewhere, dancing, dancing, dancing. Never the same girl twice. All sorts of bits of things. There was lads like him that Sam had known when he was in the army: they’d pick up anything wearing skirts in the hope that they wasn’t wearing drawers. Even Dolly couldn’t make excuses for some of them he went out with, and now he was talking about selling his motor bike and going in for a car. A car!

  ‘Can’t you just see it – a council house with a car parked in front.’

  The trouble with Harry was, he had come along five years after Charlie – not that that was Harry’s fault – and seven after Paula, and they had treated him like a puppy; and I was out there having me legs blown off, not here to see what was going on. And he’d gone on being a blooming puppy.

  ‘What you going to be like when you’re forty, Harry?’

  ‘Blue-eyed and fancy-free,’ Harry said, not taking it a bit serious. Harry never seemed to take anything serious. A wonder he’d got his certificates. But he had. One thing you could say about the lad, he was blooming clever. Who else on the whole council estate has got a son working in the Town Hall?

  Only you, Samuel Partridge, MM.

  Charlie wasn’t so bad, not bad at all really. Got a nice place, as nice furniture as you’d find if you like all that modern gloss and figured wood. The trouble with Charlie, you always had that worry at the back of your mind that he was going to do something. He never had yet, but there was always that feeling. Like Charlie betting on horses.

  I know you do it, Charlie, because whenever there’s a big race on you always got the racing paper in the front pocket of your bag.

  And he’s always late with his Diddle’m money.

  You don’t say nothing to him, Sam Partridge – Dolly always defended them – it’s none of your business if he has a flutter or not. Our Charlie’s master in his own house now. You’d have something to complain about if he went off boozing like some.

  But there was always the worry that one day he might get a decent win and would start betting big money. Sam had seen it happen.

  He took out his Rizlas and Black Beauty, rolling meanly as he’d learned in the trenches and set off to walk to the surgery.

  Paula’s all right, thank goodness for that. She’s always been less worry than the boys… except that she was married to a docker, and dockers never knew where the next day’s work would come from. What a system! Treating men like animals in a pound… ‘You and you and you. No more! The rest of you can blow.’

  What a way to run a country! It would have been better if Paula had married a local chap. A daughter ought to stop in her own town. Pity they hadn’t got no kids. Paula never said about it, but you could tell how she felt about kids. She’d have made a blooming good teacher if she’d a been born the right side of the tracks.

  There’s still plenty of time, she’s only thirty still. Thirty isn’t old. It an’t young. Still – she’s healthy and plump as a corn-fed chicken.

  1939

  As she swept her front path, enjoying the lazy feel to the hot day that had started early with no children in the house and Dick bringing tea up and getting back in bed with her to drink it, Mrs Wiltshire saw her neighbour, Mrs Kennedy, checking her handbag for her keys before she slammed the front door shut. Grass widow. Grass officer’s widow. She did look nice. Her hair looked… blonder. Certainly blonder. Well you couldn’t say it didn’t suit her with that pale blue dress and hat and the white ear-rings. She was a very pretty woman.

  Mrs Wiltshire touched the front of her own hair, wondering whether she dare do a bit of bleach on the front. She would have loved to try it, but apart from the fact that Dick would be angry, Mrs Wiltshire did not know how bleaching was done. People talked about peroxide blondes, and you couldn’t just put on that sort of stuff without knowing what you were doing. You heard about women whose hair turned green or fell out.

  Dick liked blondes. He always got up and stood at the window with his hands in his pockets if he heard Mrs Kennedy’s footsteps on the front path.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right is our Georgia,’ he would say – not that he ever called her Georgia to her face. ‘But you wouldn’t get me off and leaving a wife like her alone in the house.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t mind leaving a wife like me then?’

  ‘Ask a silly question,’ Dick had said.

  It had been quite like old times the last couple of weeks since Little-Lena and Roy went off for a bit of a holiday with Dick’s mother. They had gone out to the pictures and a couple of times for a drink. Dick had been playful, like he used to be. Making a lot of noise going upstairs.

  ‘Ssh, Dick. You can hear through these walls.’

  ‘Never heard a sound from them.’

  And you’d think you would. As Dick said, he might have been a bit of an old stuffed shirt, but she doesn’t look like one who’d be quiet while she’s about it.

  ‘You’re an expert then, Dick Wiltshire.’

  ‘I reckon she could do with somebody a bit younger. The Chocolate Soldier must be forty if he’s a day, and she can’t be much over twenty.’

  Mrs Kennedy came down the path, her white Cuban-heel strappy sandals clicking with that modern sound.

  ‘How’s Mr Kennedy getting on?’

  ‘Oh he’s fine. Loving every minute of it apparently. He’s not much of a letter writer. But he’s doing very well – been selected for something. I don’t know what it is. Some new regiment I think.’

  ‘Not staying in the Hampshire’s?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. He said he wasn’t at liberty to say anything about what he is doing.’

  Mrs Wiltshire leaned her brush against the separating hedge. Georgia glanced at the abbey clock. Still plenty of time, she could always do her bit of shopping after the meeting.

  ‘Fancy that. He’ll be getting a bit of leave soon, then you’ll get to know.’

  ‘Well no, he says he won’t be off camp for at least two months.’

  ‘Two months! Well that’s pretty steep, especially as he’s only at Aldershot.’

  ‘I don’t even know if that’s where he still is. All my letters have to go to some office in London for transferring.’

  Mrs Wiltshire was impressed. ‘Sounds very hush-hush if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Well, I must be going. I’ve got myself involved in this committee.’

  ‘Well… lucky for some. Enjoy yourself.’ Mrs Wiltshire smiled as she watched her walk towards the town. She liked Mrs Kennedy. Liked having a pretty, modern woman next door. It had done Mary Wiltshire no end of good herself. Mrs Kennedy said she did her eyelids with Vaseline and got that nice fine edge to her lips by using a little brush. Mary had tried it out and was really pleased. She had even bought a safety razor of her own once she learned that Mrs Kennedy had one.


  Last night Dick had called her to the front window. Mrs Kennedy and the tall chap with the prematurely grey hair were standing outside next-door’s front gate. ‘Here, Mary, come and have a decko at this. Do you think our Georgia’s being a naughty girl?’

  ‘You don’t want to go saying things like that, Dick. They aren’t doing anything wrong or they wouldn’t be standing out there like that. Anyway, you can’t expect her to live like a nun.’

  ‘And he don’t look like no monk neither.’

  * * *

  What Dick and Mary Wiltshire had seen was indeed entirely innocent. A friendly game of tennis with Nick.

  Georgia had been in the cottage next to the Mission Hall that was to be her office. The place had been dirty, so she had changed into a wrap-round apron and head-scarf. The physical work freed her mind to think about the pile of official instructions and forms she had received on the running of the office, but it had been side-tracked into thinking about Nick Crockford.

  Last week, when she was leaving the tennis club, he had been outside.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said, and fell in beside her. ‘Would you like to give me a game one evening? We used to have fun in the old days.’

  ‘It’s not the old days – what about Nancy?’

  ‘Nancy never held a tennis bat in her life.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ A pause. ‘As a matter of fact, she’s gone. She’s been gone since last spring. She cleared off with a ginger-haired relief signalman at Mottisfont.’ Trying to make it sound comic showed that either his heart or his pride was hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Nick. You didn’t say, did you? I expect you miss the little boy.’

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it right now?’

  Georgia fell silent.

  ‘Well, Georgia, will you have a game of tennis one evening?’

  ‘All right, book a court for a Thursday. I’m always free then.’

  ‘Lead a busy life do you then? Did you enjoy your evening with the toffs?’

  He was touchy about that. But it was none of his affair. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. I could quite take to the high life.’

  There had always been times when he had never quite known whether her tongue was in her cheek.

  They had continued talking easily: at least, Georgia had talked at his prompting. He had walked with her as far as her gate, where they had stood talking for a few minutes.

  ‘I’ll see you then. Thursday evening.’

  They had had their game.

  ‘You’ve improved,’ he conceded.

  He was not very good, but could hit a ball very hard and kept her running about, laughing at her puffing. ‘You smoke too much, Georgia Honeycombe.’ She was the better player, and won. They laughed a lot, had a drink sitting in the garden of a pub and he had walked home with her. It had been really good to be with him again. Not like old times, those years when they were very young and had gone around together. Then, he was inclined to be very serious and solemn. Older now, he was still serious but not solemn. Man and woman now, each with experience of adult life.

  Now, in her new office as she was hanging curtains, she heard footsteps in the passage and thought it might be Mrs Farr. Nick’s head peered round the door.

  She had not expected him. She pulled her apron across and her hand went to her scarf.

  ‘What are you doing here, Nick?’

  ‘I booked the court again. Will you come?’

  A spark of irritation, he had booked the court. Men were all the same, expecting you to fall in with their arrangements. Even so, she had enjoyed herself last time. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘You mentioned it. I remembered. Here, let me do that.’ He took the curtain spring she had been struggling with and fixed it.

  Again the irritation. ‘I could have managed.’

  ‘I’m taller.’

  ‘Now that Hugh’s away, I have to stand on my own feet.’ It sounded childish and unnecessary.

  ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t accept help from somebody with longer arms.’

  He was right, she had been about to give up on the spring. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re niggled because I didn’t ask before booking the court. Come on, say you will. It’ll do you good to bash a ball about.’

  They had repeated the enjoyment of the previous Thursday, and again they had separated at Georgia’s front gate, leaving her elated and a bit dissatisfied.

  1939

  It was the first meeting proper with certain other organizations of the ‘Markham Committee for Nutrition and Emergency Local Food Provision’, and Georgia was its convener and secretary. Her cool appearance belied her extreme nervousness and high excitement as she clicked her summer sandals along the pavement towards the Old Mission Hall premises.

  Inevitably the bureaucratic and pompous title of the committee was soon humanized by the women who constituted themselves as The Restaurant Women. To the great and powerful, the preparation of food was domestic and thus female and low status work, which was assurance that there was no risk of any male wishing to serve as Chairman of their committee. Markham’s great and powerful were content to leave the Restaurant Women to get on with it.

  ‘Any guidance you may need, ladies, you have only to ask – this work will be most essential to the entire community.’

  The men who said that didn’t believe it of course. Essential work was that which could be seen in the streets: sandbagging, boarding-up, commandeering buildings, commandeering vehicles, ordering about lesser mortals and wearing badges and arm-bands and designating. Commandeering, ordering and designating was what would get the war moving.

  The Restaurant Women, finding themselves in the unexpected situation of being in charge of themselves, soon discovered that they had no need of a Chairman at all. Georgia, the office worker, was adept at keeping the discussion close to what they had set out to discuss. Nobody needed any title except the one they brought with them – Mrs or Miss. There was nothing to commandeer, order or designate. By the time of the Tuesday morning meeting, anarchy seemed to be working quite well.

  Georgia arrived at the Old Mission Hall at the same time as the contrasting Eve and Connie Hardy. Eve, small, plump and pretty, wearing a pink dirndl skirt and white blouse and flat sandals and floppy straw hat, looked a picture of English rosiness. It was really too warm for dark-blue serge, so Connie was a bit self-conscious in her new Red Cross officer’s uniform, every seam of which Freddy’s tailor had unpicked and re-sewn around Connie’s svelte body. She looked a picture of elegance. Georgia wished that she had worn her own small discreet pearl ear-rings. Her nervousness at having to run this meeting was not calmed by Connie looking the picture of efficiency. But her mother’s training and Georgia’s own nature masked the anxiety.

  ‘I say!’ Georgia said. ‘You do look absolutely splendid, Mrs Hardy.’

  ‘Do you think so? That is nice of you. It is rather a hot day for this fabric, but I thought I must get used to wearing it. And it is best to try things out first among friends if it is possible.’

  ‘You look marvellous. Only somebody as slim as you ever looks any good in men’s-type clothes… all those pockets on the bosom.’

  ‘I know, I can’t think why they do it. Breasts look absolutely bulging if one puts so much as a flat handkerchief in these pockets’.’

  Georgia’s natural friendliness had cut the ice.

  ‘Mrs Kennedy, this is my daughter Eve. I hope that you don’t mind that I have brought her along. You see, she is a very good driver, and I had heard that you need drivers.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Georgia and Eve shook fingers. ‘We shall want as many drivers as we can get delivering food-containers to schools. I only wish I could drive.’

  ‘I could teach you.’ Eve Hardy’s voice was unexpectedly low and very feminine, the sort of voice which Georgia thought of as having ‘It’ – like Marlene Dietrich. Quite at variance with the p
ink dirndl.

  If Georgia felt less elegant and a bit overdressed compared to the mother, she felt quite ‘the thing’ compared to the daughter who dressed as though she was seventeen, but who must be quite the same age as herself.

  ‘Could you really?’

  ‘Of course, I should love to.’

  ‘I don’t think Hugh would mind if I got his car out.’

  ‘Oh that’s all right, we can use mine. It’s a bit well… you know… but it’s a nice little job to drive. You’d learn in no time.’

  Suddenly Georgia’s stomach warmed and relaxed. Eve Hardy seemed nice. The mother didn’t seem half bad either – she had seemed genuinely pleased at Georgia’s compliment, yet people must always be telling her how lovely she looked.

  ‘Did you enjoy Freddy’s evening? He said it was a working supper. Any excuse. My husband likes people in the house.’

  For a moment Georgia felt gauche but quickly recovered. ‘I can’t say that it seemed much like work. I did talk to a few people about this place, which was why I was invited. It was a lovely way to be working. Your house and grounds are beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. Though I must say I was glad that I had an excuse – some of my husband’s colleagues are frightful old farts.’ The word that Georgia’s mother would have made her wash from her mouth was not coarse coming from Connie Hardy’s lips.

  Her mother had always said, The Rich are different, they don’t have to please anyone except themselves.

  From outside, Georgia saw herself coolly talking to one of Markham’s Rich, its first lady, whose husband had momentarily held her breast and kissed her – not passionately, but had kissed her. From outside, she saw a Georgia Kennedy she had never before seen.

  They went inside the Mission Hall, where one or two women had already arrived. Immediately the rest of the women arrived, all at least fifteen minutes early.