DECEMBER 1940
The corporation buried them today. Christmas Eve. Some had private services, but most went at the same time. They were all there, the dignitaries. The Lord Mayor, representatives of the Civil Defence Services, clergy from all denominations. I stood in the snow. It had snowed for nearly two weeks now. I thought of her standing looking up at the skies as Jerry dropped his bombs. The best cinema show in the world. I imagined that’s how it must have looked to her. Standing out there in the cold night air, with all that noise, and the red glow of the fires lighting up her neighbourhood. I could picture the child-like pleasure on her face. And then the service was over and we began to leave the cemetery. I remember thinking that it didn’t feel like Christmas. And that it was so cold that I would have to ask the fuel controller for extra coal.
JANUARY 1941
I read in the Star that the King and Queen visited the town yesterday. They stayed three hours and visited bombed-out houses and talked to folk. All I could think about was the smell of the chemical lavatories and cesspools in people’s back gardens. I hope the corporation did something about them. There’s nothing anybody can do about the snow. It’s not stopped for weeks.
FEBRUARY 1941
Len, of course, had refused to come to the funeral. She never did like me, he said. But that wasn’t the point. As far as I was concerned, it was a matter of respect. Who said that she had to like you? She tolerated you. That was a lot for her. Believe me. But Len still wouldn’t come to the funeral. When I got back from the funeral he laughed at me. He lowered his newspaper. She died because you left her down there on her own and went off with me, he said. I walked out of the room. I decided that on the first Sunday of every month I would take the bus into town. I would play daughter. This morning was Sunday. Despite the cold I had no choice. There’s one bus in the morning and one that comes back at night. They’ve cut to a skeleton schedule, having decided to commandeer the buses to serve as emergency ambulances. This being the case, I knew right off that I would have to spend the whole day there. It didn’t take long at the graveside. It was very much a matter of Hello, Mother, how are you? Hope you’ve found Dad again. And if you’ve found him I hope you’re happy. Happier than I am, at any rate. I can’t rightly see how you couldn’t be. You’d have to be a miserable bugger to be unhappier than I am. Now that she was with her maker I had the feeling that she was listening to me. Which is more than she ever did when she had some breath in her body. I left, then decided that I should buy her some flowers. I bought them at the hospital next door. Handy that, having a hospital right next door. I suppose some might look upon it as being a bit creepy, but I didn’t think so. After I’d bought the flowers I walked back into the cemetery and laid them on the grave. I stood back. I wondered if it was possible to place them in such a way that people would understand that they were meant for my mother and not for the other two people who shared this communal grave with her. An infant. Didn’t last a day. Its mother had no money. Probably no bloke either. And an old man. Truly old. Lived sadly past his time until there was nobody left. Probably wore out his memories like a gramophone record that’s been played too often. I tried to place the flowers so that Mother would know. But did it really matter? After all, nobody had brought flowers for the other two. Let them all share them, I thought. And then I went for a walk in the park. I sat by the lake and stared unashamedly into space for the rest of the afternoon. People used to come and feed the ducks. But nobody’s got bread to spare any more. The ducks have to eat whatever it is they used to eat before people were generous. Then the weather turned bad again. It began to snow. The branches of the trees were already bowed under a thick crust of ice. So I went to the pictures to get out of the cold. I found it difficult to find a cinema without a House Full sign. Other people must have had the same idea before me. Lonely people. Single people have no shame about going to the cinema. Why should they? It’s dark. Nobody can see them. Nobody cares. But these days, I hate the films. Short government instructional films on how to win the war. They treat you like a fool. What to do. How to do it. How to save. What to save. And then a feature about how classless England is now that we’re all pulling together to win the war. Classless my arse. A toffee-nosed bugger’s still a toffee-nosed bugger to me. And then the lights came on and we all filed out. Outside it was getting a bit dark. I waited at the bus stop. There were a few people I recognized in the queue. They nodded, then wrapped up warm and kept themselves to themselves. Like me, they’re likely to have been visiting family or friends. Except in their case I imagined their lot were still alive. The bus takes about an hour or so to reach the village. Longer these days. As we laboured up the hill, the tyres spat gravel and ice behind them. We’re its last but one stop. We clambered off and tried to avoid giving each other a final nod. And we succeeded quite well. Very well, in fact.
JULY 1936
Everyone at the factory’s going off for the summer. Most of them are going to Scarborough, but some are travelling across the way to Blackpool. They’ve all got a real beano in mind. But me, well, I’ll not be going anywhere. I know that she won’t let me. She’ll just tell me it’s a waste of money and that will be the end of it. There won’t be any discussion, that will be it. Like when she made me leave school four years ago. I told her that Dad would have wanted me to get my school certificate, and maybe even one day go to college. She just stared at me and said, How do you know? She spoke to me as if he were nothing to do with me. I didn’t say anything else. As a child, I soon learned that it was best to say as little as possible to her. But whenever I picked up a book to read she would finger her Bible and look askance at me. She once hit me because she said I read too much. Apparently, there was no need to read so much. It was wilful disobedience on my part. She didn’t seem to understand that this was my way of hiding from her. Everything was seen as some kind of betrayal of her. I was always a disappointment. So I had to leave school and go to work. After all, I couldn’t expect her to support me any longer. How did I imagine she’d managed up until now? And so I left school. I’ve learned, over the last four years, to ignore her. To try not to hear her bleating, self-important voice. And I’ve continued to lock myself up in books. And now everyone’s talking about going off for the summer. But they haven’t asked me to go with them. They haven’t even asked me if I’m going somewhere else. They’re not interested. I expect they imagine they’ll get the same frightened answer that they got when they once asked me to a dance. I’m sorry, I stuttered. I expect they think I’m coy because I’m not much to look at. She doesn’t go anywhere because she’s ugly. Well, it’s true, but it’s not the whole story. It’s not even the half of it. I’m just happier with books. They don’t shout at me, or accuse me of anything. They don’t even know that I’m not much to look at.
CHRISTMAS 1936
I’ve got an extra job tearing tickets at the Lyceum Theatre (‘Yorkshire shows for Yorkshire folk’). Something to keep me out of her house for a bit longer each day. Once people are in, I get to see the show. But it’s not much of a show. In fact, it’s the pantomime, Mother Goose, but at least I’m getting to know a new world, and meeting people from a different background. That’s how I met Herbert. He’s an actor. He talks to me about Shakespeare. He seemed surprised that I’d read some of Shakespeare’s plays, and some poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge and so on. Herbert has begun explaining to me about the difference between comedy and tragedy. We talk a lot about these things. He laughed when I told him I hated my name because there were no Shakespearean characters called Joyce. We usually have a drink before the show. He’s trying to get me to like gin. I’m always trying to get the glass back on to its wet spot on the bar. And then, last night, Christmas Eve, I agreed to go out with him and the rest of the cast after the play had finished. There’s always places that will stay open for actors. Everybody seems to love actors. We all toasted Christmas as the clock struck twelve. Then later, having walked me home, Herbert kissed me goodnight outside th
e house and said how much he loved me. All I could think of to say was, I’m eighteen. He just smiled and kissed me again.
APRIL 1937
She didn’t even knock. She just came straight into my room and stood waiting for me to say something to her. I couldn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop crying. It annoyed me that she refused to see this. That she wouldn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was really upset. He wasn’t replying to any of my letters. None of them. And there was nobody at the factory that I could tell. She took a long look at me, but all she could say was, It’s the first time in ages I’ve seen you without a book. And I thought about it. She was right. But she didn’t even ask me why I was crying. If she had have done, I would have told her. But it was as if she just wanted to see what the noise was all about. And once she’d found out, she left and closed the door behind her.
MAY 1937
After the abortion, I went to church with her. Or, as she put it, I came to Christ. I still worked at the factory, but I said even less than before. I didn’t talk to anybody at all, even if they spoke to me. It was part of my performance. I didn’t speak. But I thought that Christ might be prepared to speak with me. At least He might express some interest in me. But He didn’t. So I left the church. Or I left Christ. I could never figure out which. And then she left me. My abandonment of Christ was the last straw. I’d chosen to leave He who had made her life possible. This was, for her, the unkindest cut of all.
CHRISTMAS 1937
On the train down, I stared out of the window. I would be spending every penny I’d ever managed to save in my life. When I got to London, I moved into a bed and breakfast near King’s Cross station. It occurred to me that I could last – with some luck – perhaps a lot of luck – four days. And then I didn’t know what. I found Herbert on the second day. He was at the Lyric Theatre playing in Mother Goose. A different production. Even though it was London, it seemed a worse production somehow. Even the posters were shabby. The whole thing was disappointing. But not as disappointing as Herbert, who got me a seat in the stalls and said we could talk afterwards. In a pub in Hammersmith that was thick with tobacco smoke. The Dog and Pheasant. He bought me a gin, and a pint for himself. And then he said he couldn’t reply to my letters. He told me about his wife and his two children, and I listened with my mouth open. And then I spilt my drink. It toppled over and I watched as it pooled on the table. He bought me another gin, then said he had to get some Woodbines from the bar. I never saw him again. I sat there by myself, an idle finger spinning the ice. I’d been jilted. I realized that Herbert had no idea of what it was like to be anyone but himself. But this didn’t make any sense, because he was supposed to be an actor. And then it was ten o’clock and I heard the landlord shouting. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please. Let’s be having you. Time. Outside the pub, a man asked me if I had a light. Then, before I could answer, he winked at me and smiled. He had yellow teeth. My stomach turned a slow somersault.
FEBRUARY 1938
This morning I started a new job. In a warehouse which imports foodstuffs from all over the country and abroad. My job is to serve the people who come in. Shopkeepers, mainly, from all over. I’m supposed to look cheerful. And talk. The factory. Well, they’d had enough of me not saying anything. But I hate this new talking job. I hate this town. I’m trying to start reading again, but it’s not easy. Every night I hear the dull beat of her feet as she drags herself up the creaking stairs. Then I realize that I’m no longer sure of why I’m reading, let alone what it is that I’m reading. I just want to cry, but I’ve promised myself that I’ll never let her see me cry again. Never.
SEPTEMBER 1941
It’s autumn. I’ve been here two years now. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t ever like it. But at least I don’t pretend. Len knows how I feel. He also knows how I feel about the war. I hate the ‘Wings for Victory’ and ‘Salute the Soldiers’ weeks. I’m just waiting for it all to end and then I’ll be off. Today I asked Len about his parents. He’s usually reluctant to talk about them, but for some reason he rested down his cup on the kitchen table and began to speak. But he didn’t look me in the eyes as he did so. He talked for a good while, in fact until I thought he might cry. But he didn’t. He was quiet for a while, and then he simply stood up and went out. I knew then that we’d never really been married. We didn’t know each other. We didn’t trust each other. Later on, he came in drunk and talking nonsense. He told me that he thought Hitler looked like a hysterical lavatory brush. And that because Russia was the only country to stand up to Hitler, maybe their system was right. I expect he heard this rubbish in the pub. He slumped against me as I helped him up the stairs to bed.
DECEMBER 1941
Len’s in prison for doing what hundreds of others, the length and breadth of this country, are still doing. Namely, trading in the so-called ‘black market’. They took him away the day after the Americans were gracious enough to join us in the war. The fact that they chose to stand by and watch as we lost Norway, Belgium, Prance, Denmark and Holland only served to stir up plenty of negative passions towards them. I sat with Len and listened to the announcement on the wireless. When it was over he snapped the Star shut and dropped it by the side of the armchair. Then he stood up. I heard the door slam, and his boots register on the cobbles. And the next morning the inspectors arrived. Representatives of the Price Regulation Committee of the North East Region, based in Leeds. To pinch him. But Len had gone to town. He had been warned three times, but he wouldn’t listen. Eggs could be bought only for the purposes of hatching, but farmers, shopkeepers and customers formed a partnership that made a nonsense of such decrees. Only Len would have to pursue his subversive activities on a grand scale. One thousand eggs. Possibly more. Officially, you could only charge 33/4d. for an egg. But there were plenty who’d pay up to 15 shillings for a dozen. Len was well aware of this. They waited outside in the motor car until Len came back up from town. When he did, he knew straight away that something was up. They followed him ‘in the door. The two of them. Len looked at me, and then back at them. He spoke to them like he was talking to a pair of hounds. You two. What do you want in my shop? It’s you we want, lad, they said. We’ve found what we’re looking for. And we’ve got your mate. Now you’ll be coming with us. Len spun around and stared at me. What have you told them? I shrugged my shoulders. You didn’t tell them ‘owt, did you? The inspectors looked at him. Is there something she shouldn’t have told us, is that it? Course not, snapped Len. You’re a lying bastard, aren’t you. Len moved towards me. One of the inspectors put his hand on Len’s arm. All right. You’re coming with us, and the door’s this way. Your wife can bring your things along later. No need for you to get alarmed now. It’s all pretty straightforward. You arresting me? We’re taking you in, lad. I told you. We’ve already got your farmer mate. The two of you will have plenty of time to get your story straight. What about her? Are you suggesting we take your wife as well? Len glared at me as though I were somehow responsible. But he couldn’t say anything, otherwise it would look as though he was guilty of something. Which, of course, he was. So he allowed himself to be marched off in silence. And I slept well that night. I stretched out in the bed. I knew that whatever happened, I wouldn’t have to share my bed with him again. That if he came back now, I’d stand up all night in the corner of the room before I’d ever condescend to join him in bed. Something was lifted from me the moment they took him away. My chest unknotted. I could breathe again. He expected and received little sympathy from the Magistrate, who terminated his speech with the observation that for shopkeepers and prostitutes these lean years were proving to be years of plenty. Len was encouraged to view himself as a vulture picking at the carcass of his wounded country. I returned to the village alone. To face their accusing eyes. I had not ‘stuck by him’. It was now important for me to abandon any vanity. To learn to ignore whatever they might be saying about me. I’ve been training myself. In the evenings I attend to the blackout curt
ains, then sit by myself and listen to the wireless. I follow the war, listen to ITMA, and read. I often think of my mother. But I never ask her for help. I don’t ask for anybody’s help. And in the shop, no matter how they look at me, I always ask them for their coupons. I wonder if they realize that if the inspectors hadn’t have taken Len, then the services were about ready to take me. I was about to be classified ‘mobile’, as they’re getting desperate. My invalid husband would have just had to learn how to look after himself. As he will have to when he gets out.
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