All Fall Down

by Jenny Oldfield

  It’s Westbury Wootton,’ she insisted. ‘And you know it!’ Martyrdom didn’t sit easily on Tommy’s shoulders. She pictured him at the other end of the phone line, hand over one ear to cut out the yells of the market traders, the roar of traffic trundling by. ‘What are you saying, that you’ll come out here and set up home with me?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’ He didn’t want to sound as if he was falling over himself with enthusiasm. He thought she should realize the sacrifice he was prepared to make.

  ‘When?’

  It seemed he meant it. Edie stood in the hall of the ancient manor house, taking the call in a public phone booth that had been installed for the girls’ use. From here she could see into the grounds; the formal garden outside the main door, the sweep of the main driveway.

  ‘Tomorrow. Whenever you want.’ He began to feel that he should have turned up on the doorstep again. As it was, giving her advance warning would give them both time to get cold feet. What if she turned him down? The trouble with Edie was that she was deep. She could always find reasons for denying herself what she most wanted. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. You took me aback. I was just in the middle of eating my tea.’

  Thrilling. She was shilly-shallying, finding ways of putting him off. ‘What do you think, Edie? Can we make a go of it?’ He put himself on the line for her once more.

  ‘Come down and talk about it,’ she said softly. ‘I need to see you.’

  So Tommy took the morning train.

  ‘Make or break this time,’ he told Rob, who dropped him at the station. ‘I need a yes or a no.’ His self-respect wouldn’t take much more of this hanging around. ‘What the bleeding hell does she expect? I’ve said I’ll drop everything and move out there, haven’t I?’

  ‘Blimey.’ Tommy in turnipland. Rob flicked cigarette ash onto the pavement. ‘And the best of British, mate.’ You wouldn’t catch him moving more than a couple of miles from Duke Street, not at his time of life.

  The assignation was fixed for one o’clock at the pub in Westbury. Tommy got there in good time after another smooth lift from Bristol, his belligerence of earlier that morning having evaporated on the train journey. It had been replaced by an edgy peevishness. ‘Scotch,’ he ordered at the bar. He downed it in one and ordered another.

  Edie had managed to wangle some time off by working overtime the night before. Tommy’s offer had made her smile at first, until she realized he was serious. It had set her thinking; the two of them living together in one of these sleepy villages, perhaps setting up in a newsagents and sub-post-office, learning the ropes. She pictured them in five years time, settled and cosy. Now, the moment she walked into the pub and saw Tommy’s lean figure at the bar, hat tipped back, tie and top shirt button loosened, foot up on the brass rail, the picture dissolved.

  She slid up to him and put an arm around his waist, letting him sense her arrival before she said anything. She reached across for a brief kiss. When Tommy saw her smiling at him, his sense of martyrdom eased. He would do anything for this woman. He’d live on Mars, for God’s sake.

  ‘You look like . . . a million dollars!’

  She was glad she’d changed out of uniform into a silky cream shirt and slacks. ‘Likewise.’ Accepting a drink, she noticed that he’d shaved and made himself respectable after his long journey. They went to sit in a corner, out of the landlord’s gaze.

  ‘This is it, this is the plan.’ He got down to brass tacks. ‘I hand over things in Southwark to Jimmie. He keeps it ticking over while we set up here. I reckon we can easily rent a place. You’ll have to leave the Land Army, though. They don’t have no married quarters, do they?’

  ‘Tommy.’ She put a hand over his. It was nervous energy that made him hurry. He looked worn to a shadow underneath the bravado.

  He stopped, as if a switch had been flicked. Her one word cut him dead.

  ‘Look at me, Tommy.’ She waited for him to respond, moved beyond words at the sacrifice he was prepared to make. When their eyes met, she continued. ‘I don’t want you to do all that for me. It wouldn’t work out.’ Now she had to rush, to wipe out all that hurt. ‘I know I said I couldn’t live in Duke Street, and I can’t. I still think that. But it doesn’t have to be so drastic, see. Think about it, we’d stick out like sore thumbs if we tried to make a go of it round here. You in your spivvy Humphrey Bogart suits, me pretending that I’d got nothing better to do with my time than make jam and knit tea-cosies.’

  For a while it didn’t sink in. ‘You don’t want us to live here?’

  ‘In Woolly Weston, no!’ She grinned. ‘Let’s put it this way, it’s nice for a holiday and a bit of peace and quiet, but it wouldn’t do long term.’

  Tommy felt as if a jail sentence had been lifted. He took a deep breath, shot to his feet and went to order another round. ‘Make them doubles!’ He chose a cigar from the rack on the bar. ‘And have one yourself!’ he told the landlord, returning triumphant. ‘Bleeding hell, Edie, pack your bag and let’s get out of here!’ He was all for heading back to the flat and consolidating the decision.

  She was still firm about one thing, however. ‘Hold your horses, Tommy. I can’t drop everything and land them in the cart. Anyhow, I mean what I said; I won’t go back to Duke Street.’

  He frowned, made what was by now a minor readjustment. ‘Righto, we’re gonna jack in the flat? Got that. We’re gonna look for somewhere new, not on the old patch.’

  ‘But not too far away,’ Edie chipped in. ‘I want to keep in touch with Hettie and Annie and the others.’

  He nodded. ‘Do you want us to work side by side like we used to?’

  ‘Not yet. You get your business going first.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I could dig for victory in Dolly’s allotment, I suppose. Or else, they always need women in the ammunition factories.’

  She didn’t sound too keen. Tommy tried to envisage how Edie could make the most of her abilities. ‘Got it!’ Blimey, he was inspired today. ‘Come back and drive an ambulance for the WVS. That’d suit you down to the ground.’

  Edie smiled. ‘Tommy, you’re a genius!’

  ‘The perfect job, eh?’

  No problem seemed too difficult. Tommy’s confidence soared. They spent the afternoon wandering hand in hand down lanes, picking late blackberries from the hedgerows, looking out over black, ploughed fields and counting the days until they could be together.

  A letter from Ronnie crossed with Meggie’s in the chaotic wartime postal system.

  Meggie was up and about at last, trying to make herself useful at the Duke, but only able to put in an hour or two’s light work. Her post office employers had promised to hold her job open; girls like her were few and far between, they let it be known. When the letter dropped on the mat at number 32, Sadie ran up to the Duke with it, her face showing she was glad to be the bearer of good news for once.

  ‘Aren’t you gonna open it?’ She found Meggie sitting upstairs. ‘Look who it’s from. Go on, it ain’t gonna blow up in your face!’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’ Meggie’s hand hovered over the envelope. So far, her road back to normality hadn’t included being able to admit the truth about her and Ronnie. She avoided it even in her own mind, as if by ignoring the disaster she could anaesthetize that part of her brain, and in turn numb her heart. A letter from him was in fact the last thing she wanted.

  ‘Do you want me to read it?’ Sadie offered. She thought she understood; it was the pain of separation, the disappointment over Ronnie’s last cancelled leave.

  ‘No.’ She gave an exasperated cry. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ma. I never meant to bite your head off.’

  ‘I’ll leave it here, then.’ Sadie withdrew. At the door she hesitated. ‘I’m baking scones for tea. Will you come down?’

  Meggie nodded. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  The letter lay on the arm of the chair for half an hour. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Hettie came and went. At
last Meggie picked it up. She opened it with great care, as if the envelope was both fragile and precious. Ronnie’s letter, dated Sunday 6th October, was loving and tender.

  He’d written it when his ship was cruising off the Portuguese coast, heading for Gibraltar. He and all his mates were mad at having their leave cancelled just like that, but in His Majesty’s senior service they had come to expect it. The timing couldn’t have been worse as far as he was concerned, since it had stopped him from holding her in his arms and telling her how much he still loved her.

  There was more of this; much more. Ronnie’s hopes and dreams were undimmed. He knew she would have been there at Victoria Station waiting for him. Whatever was bothering her could have been swept away. They would have made proper, firm plans to be married.

  ‘Write to me soon, Meggie. I want to know how you are and how things are going with your family. Could you send me a photo? God knows where I’ll be when you get this letter, but you can be sure of one thing. You’ll always be my Number One girl.’

  It was signed with all his love.

  Meggie took the letter down the court to her mother, glad that she’d saved her from the whole truth about Richie. Sadie was won over by its sincere, boyish tone. She folded it and looked at her daughter with shining eyes.

  ‘I wrote to him two days ago.’ Meggie’s voice was flat. ‘I broke it off, Ma. I had to.’

  October gold faded into russet browns and greys. Mornings and evenings grew misty. There was more talk in the shelters of Bomber Command setting out on retaliatory air raids over Cologne, Hamburg and Dresden. Most were on the side of Coventrating Germany and getting the whole thing over and done with, whatever the cost.

  George Mann succeeded in locating Richie Palmer, who was so debilitated by drinking and a poor diet that he acquiesced to attempts to get him lodgings in the Bear Lane hostel. He turned out not to be a violent drunk, but more likely to wreck his own life and leave others out of it, dedicated to self-destruction. The dilemma of whether or not to give him funds as well as a roof over his head was an ongoing one. If they didn’t give him money, he would go out and beg on the streets. On the other hand, could it be right to give him the wherewithal to bring about his final demise? Hettie, Annie and George pondered long and hard.

  ‘One thing, we’ve no need to worry about him turning grateful on us,’ George told them wryly. ‘The air turns blue if anyone mentions the Parsons name to him.’

  Annie grimaced. ‘Poor Meggie.’ They were all still worried about her.

  ‘You know, Richie was the first one she mentioned when she came to her senses,’ Hettie said. ‘If he did but know it.’

  November crept in. The days shortened. America entered the war at last after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Flagging patriotic spirits revived.

  One afternoon, on a dull, cloud-laden Wednesday, Gertie Elliot came to Paradise Court. She asked for Meggie’s house and took directions from Dolly Ogden.

  ‘That’s her house, number thirty-two. But try up at the Duke first. That’s where she’ll be.’ Dolly couldn’t make out Gertie’s business. She looked well set-up in her fur-collared coat and matching hat, but she was a troubled woman. She was practically shaking like a leaf as she turned back towards the pub.

  Gertie stood looking at the sign above the door. The Duke was a big place compared with the Bell; built later and on a larger scale. It was well run; everything spick and span. She allowed small details to divert her; the name of the licensee; George Alfred Mann, the tulip designs in the stained-glass doorway.

  Annie came out, asking if she could help. They were closed; was it a private matter?

  Gertie nodded. ‘Is Meggie here?’

  Annie didn’t ask questions. This was something important; there was a look on the woman’s handsome face that wouldn’t brook excuses and argument. She led her upstairs onto the landing. ‘Wait here,’ she said quietly. ‘Who shall I say wants to see her?’

  ‘Gertie Elliot.’

  She hid her surprise, went and brought Meggie out. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ she asked her granddaughter.

  Meggie nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her and listened attentively, like a schoolchild.

  Gertie spoke calmly. ‘I had to come and tell you myself. I got a telegram this morning, from the Admiralty. Ronnie’s ship went down. They say he’s missing, presumed dead.’

  Ashes. A bitterness that could only be described as the taste of ashes. Shocked to the core, Meggie took the news quietly. It was Gertie Elliot who fell into Annie’s arms. The mother’s grief was inconsolable.

  Sadie came and gathered the news from Hettie, alerted by Dolly Ogden to the fact that a stranger had come asking for Meggie. She saw her daughter suspended in a state of disbelief, standing by and watching Gertie sob. The poor woman’s heart was broken.

  Slowly Meggie fitted together the pieces. In a way her own grief was bound to be less than Gertie’s. After all, Ronnie was already lost to her. But she could scarcely believe that he had been robbed of his future. She needed to hear more. How fast had the ship gone down? Were all hands lost? Would it have been quick?

  But, of course, they could know none of that. Ashes in the water. Meggie prayed for Ronnie, now and always the love of her life.

  ‘What do you need?’ Sadie took over from Annie and led Gertie into the living room. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘They say he’s dead.’ She rocked back and forth. ‘He won’t come home.’

  ‘Let us help. Who can we ring?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Ring the Bell. Ask for Shankley,’ Meggie suggested, out of the depths of her own despair.

  After a time, Gertie grew quiet. She gripped Meggie’s hand. ‘God forgive me.’

  ‘And us all,’ Hettie gave the heartfelt rejoinder.

  ‘I never meant you no harm. I pitied you when Shankley told me the truth. But I was trapped, knowing what I did. And I couldn’t bear to break it to Ronnie. It would have driven him away from me for good, knowing that I’d lied to him all his life.’

  ‘Don’t talk any more,’ Meggie begged. ‘Ronnie loved me, and he loved you too. That’s all that counts.’

  The two women shared their sorrow.

  Shankley came to collect Ronnie’s mother. But as he led her to a taxi, Gertie pulled back and looked again for Meggie.

  ‘Here I am.’ Meggie stared at the grief-torn features, seemed to understand the unspoken question, and drew her aside. ‘We won’t be seeing one another no more, so listen. Richie’s being cared for over this side of the water. No need to worry on that score. And I’ve kept your secret.’

  Gertie drew a sharp breath. ‘You ain’t told no one?’

  ‘Not even Ronnie.’ She would take it to her own grave, in memory of him.

  The women in Meggie’s family knew better than to ask her about her final conversation with the landlady at the Bell. Some things were too private to speak of. Annie saw to it that Gertie went safely on her way with Shankley. She offered her deepest sympathies, took her by the hand and shared her sorrow. ‘You’ll find a way through,’ she promised.

  Gertie rode off down Duke Street. Futility was all she felt. As yet, no memories of Ronnie as a little boy, as a tall young man in Navy uniform, shone through the darkness.

  Hettie and Sadie waited anxiously for the storm of grief to break over Meggie. They wondered if she had the strength of mind and faith to bear it. But for Meggie the news had thrown her beyond the orbit of customary emotions. She contemplated a death by drowning. A deeply held fear for some became an intriguing possibility, to sink through clear green water, feel the surge of bubbles rise against the skin, to become weightless, to drift on the seabed.

  ‘Meggie?’ Sadie watched her sink to the floor, and put out her arms to catch her.

  She revived. ‘Ma, can I come home?’ Clinging to her mother, holding on to life, she returned to their house.

  A few days later, she spoke once about Ronnie. ‘Maybe he never got m
y last letter,’ she said wistfully. She helped Sadie pack a parcel of new socks and shirts to send off to Bertie and Geoff. ‘I’d like that to be the way it was.’ She hoped Ronnie had died with his faith in her intact.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Ten-a-penny,’ was Dolly’s opinion on war brides. ‘Rushing to join the queue. It ain’t nice.’

  In spite of the war, the approach of Christmas 1941 brought celebration to the forefront amongst families in the East End. It was a time for family gatherings, when mothers prayed for holiday leave for their servicemen sons. Fathers grew gung-ho about the Tommy’s gritty spirit and downplayed the power of the suave Yanks who had come in late, shouting the odds.

  ‘Edie ain’t rushing nowhere,’ Annie argued. They stood together on the steps of Southwark registry office waiting for the bride and groom; Annie in a dark blue wool dress, matching coat with astrakhan collar and jaunty hat. Dolly had done herself up for the occasion too, she noticed. ‘She’s taken her time, done things right.’

  Dolly wasn’t convinced. ‘What’s a wedding without all the trimmings? I like a white wedding, with flowers.’

  ‘I hear she looks a treat.’ Annie ignored Dolly’s grumblings and surveyed the party of guests; the men in pinstripes, with nice white collars and ties, the women got up in natty dog-tooth checks, smart velvet, big fur collars. Duke Street had gathered for the occasion, though Tommy and Edie had deserted them for a flat by the cathedral. Rob was there with Amy, trying not to look too impressed, she thought. She went down the steps to talk to her stepson.

  ‘It’s bleeding cold.’ He blew into his hands. ‘Can’t they get a move on in there before we all freeze to death?’ The couple before Edie and Tommy were taking their time. ‘How long does it take to sign a bleeding piece of paper?’

  Amy raised her eyebrows at the language.

  ‘You look lovely.’ Annie turned her attention to Amy’s wide-shouldered, bold-checked jacket and black hat. ‘Now go and cheer your ma up, for God’s sake, before she puts a dampener on things.’ She watched her go and take Dolly in hand.