Ruby's War

by Johanna Winard

  ‘That was just a typical white trick,’ Bo said, ‘tryin’ to set folks against us before we even got here.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t work,’ Sadie said. ‘We didn’t much care for the lot before; too loud and stuck-up for our liking. Always talking down to everybody and sayin’ how everything’s much better over there.’

  ‘Hear about two of our guys goin’ in a bar near the camp?’ Bo said, handing round cigarettes. ‘The girl behind the bar asked if they were Negroes, an’ they thought they might not get served, after all these stories that’s been goin’ around. So they says, “No, ma’am, we’re Red Indians.”’

  When everyone started laughing, Jenny said, ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Haw, she just served ’em. It’s not you folks that’s the problem. It’s our own army. They don’t treat the black man fair.’

  ‘Well, at least here,’ Henry said, ‘everyone’s treated the same.’

  ‘The same? The same?’ Jenny said. ‘Then how come I do the doctor’s washing and his missus sits around givin’ talks?’

  ‘We all have the same rations, though,’ Ruby said.

  ‘Oh aye, we do. How come they have fires in all their rooms in that big house?’

  ‘It’ll all change after the war,’ Henry said. ‘You’ll see. Everything will be shared out. There’ll be no paying to go to doctors. If there’s two kiddies ill, you’ll not have to decide which you can afford to pay the doctor to see. There’ll be pensions as well for all the old folk. So folk like our Maud won’t have to struggle. The working man will be able to hold his head up. There’ll be no bosses telling us what to do. We’ll all have a say.’

  ‘Give us your plates, lads,’ Jenny said. ‘The only way to get Henry off his soapbox is to feed him my fruit pie.’

  When the meal was over Ruby cleared away, and Con helped her carry the dishes into the kitchen. Of the four GIs they’d befriended, Con was her favourite; he was quieter than the others, not so much fun as Bo, but he loved Bess almost as much as she did.

  ‘You didn’t say much,’ she said, as they stacked the dishes. ‘Don’t you like it here as much as the others?’

  Con poured the hot water from the kettle into the sink and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He picked up the small mesh box by its wooden handle and whisked it in the water, until the slivers of soap inside made the warm water froth.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ he said, as he began washing the dishes.

  ‘Are you homesick?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. It’s the camp … The guys … well a lot of the time the guys are real unhappy. Like Bo says, we’re not treated right and … well, our captain’s a good guy, but some of the others they hate us just for the colour of our skin.’

  ‘What colour’s the captain?’

  ‘There are no black guys in charge.’

  ‘I thought you were all black.’

  ‘There’s some black sergeants. Some of them are okay, but some are out for themselves.’

  ‘Well, we all like you … the locals, I mean.’

  ‘I ain’t so sure,’ he said, swishing the mesh box under the water again. ‘Mrs Lathom ain’t too keen.’

  ‘Why? What’s she said?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. It was when I took Bess back tonight. I just said she was getting used to me, and she said Bess was her son’s dog. Then she went on about him being a POW and Sadie being his girl. She said she wasn’t sure he’d want someone like me taking his dog out, ’cause when he left, he’d asked Sadie to look after Bess … It was just the way—’

  ‘Take no notice. She’s like that with me as well. She didn’t want me taking her out either. She’s a right old bugger.’

  ‘Buuggur,’ he laughed, trying to imitate her flat northern vowels. ‘She’s a right old boogger.’

  ‘None of your cheek,’ Ruby said, splashing him with the bubbles. ‘You get them plates clean and behave.’

  From the living room, they could hear Sadie’s giggles above the rest of the laughter, as Bo landed a punchline to one of his stories.

  ‘Is it true, though?’ Con asked, looking at Ruby’s reflection through the window. ‘Does she have … Is she …?’

  The cold November wind blew at the back door, making the latch rattle. Ruby picked up the dried dishes and began stacking them noisily in the kitchenette.

  ‘Is Jack Lathom her boyfriend?’ she said, finishing his question for him. ‘You’d best ask her, if you’re that interested.’

  When the pots were cleared away, Ruby went upstairs and opened her mother’s suitcase. The black velvet dress was wrapped in brittle paper. She took it into Sadie’s room and tried it on in front of the dressing table mirror. Although the dress was less than a year old, the hem of the full skirt was now almost six inches above her knees. It had been bought for her to wear at her mother’s funeral. At first, when the question of what she should wear to the funeral was discussed, she’d imagined selecting an outfit from one of the dress shops in Lytham where she and her mother had often window-shopped. Instead, she was taken to a poky house in one of the backstreets, where the narrow hallway smelt spicy and unfamiliar. Her Auntie Ethel had clutched her handbag tightly under her arm as the thin, foreign-looking woman who’d answered the door showed them into the dark front room. A heavy curtain concealed a bed piled high with assorted blankets. She’d measured Ruby and then brought in a piece of black cloth to be inspected. Her aunt refused to give the woman any money until the dress was finished, and when they returned a few days later, she’d tugged at the seams until she was happy that the garment was sound. When the woman came back with the dress packed in its layers of brittle paper, she’d left the door at the end of the hall open. Black eyes stared out of the semi-darkness, and a naked child, who’d gazed out curiously from the doorway, was dragged back into the room. As they’d hurried away, Ruby remembered her auntie muttering something about bloody Jews.

  She sat on the bed and inspected the unknown craftswoman’s skill. The seams were bound with silk, each buttonhole hand-stitched and each stitch a perfect match. If the dress had been a painting, the skill of its creator would have been applauded. At first, she’d hated the idea of the handmade dress, but on the day of the funeral, when she slipped it on, Ruby had felt special, as though the funeral was part of a film and she was the star. She’d enjoyed the fuss, the attention, but afterwards, when the dress was folded away, the horror crept up on her; her foolish, sweet mother had gone. Then she began to feel annoyed: it was typical of silly, flighty Pearl to step out in front of a taxi in the blackout and leave her. Then came the half-remembered arguments, the times she’d made her mother cry. How Ruby wished she hadn’t sulked when her mother had left her alone in the evenings, and that she’d pretended to be pleased by the little presents of sweets and cheap trinkets Pearl brought back to make amends.

  ‘Is that the dress you got for the funeral?’ Sadie asked, eyeing her sympathetically through the door. ‘Mum sent me up to see how you was getting on. She’s set on you keeping this job. You haven’t half grown. Quite the young lady,’ she said, giving Ruby’s arm a squeeze. ‘You’ll have to start wearing a bra. Don’t look like that. You can’t stop nature. If you’re going to play for these posh folk, they’ll expect you to dress the part.’ Sadie sat on the floor and inspected the hem on the dress. ‘We can lengthen the skirt and put a new top on. I’ve a blouse I don’t wear that will do, pale blue and black. We can unpick this at the waist. It would look funny wearing an evening frock and no bra. At this rate, you’ll still be wearing these bloody gymslips when you’re sixty.’

  ‘Who do you like best?’ Ruby asked, struggling out of the dress. ‘Bo or Con?’

  ‘Con’s a nice lad,’ Sadie said, lifting her hair up and gazing in the mirror, ‘but he’s just a kid. Bo said he lied about his age to get in the army.’

  Michael Holt was waiting by the farm gate, his cigarette a dancing pin of light in the blackness. He’d been reluctant to leave the fireside with the sleepy cats and t
he nodding farmer and his wife. Since they arrived in England, his feeling of resentment against the army had deepened. The only place Holt felt safe was at the farm. He would have liked to stay there in the barn, working on the tractor, listening as John moved among the slow, easy weight of the cows in the byre next door. At the camp there was a feeling of threat and violence. The men were packed in close together with nothing to occupy them and told to look busy, but most of the time there was nothing for them to do, so they lazed around and took their anger out on each other over stupid grievances. And when the trucks were sent out, they were often sent to pick up stuff that hadn’t arrived and could spend days waiting for things that didn’t come, or had been delivered to the wrong place. They could have been training. None of them had been given much basic weapons practice. The guys who’d done basic training with him were only ever issued with wooden guns. And it wasn’t as though there weren’t any weapons in the camp, but the rumour was that the captain had orders not to issue them unless the Germans landed.

  Holt climbed on to the top rung of the wooden gate, his cigarette cupped protectively in his hand, and sat down. The damp autumn air felt raw and he shivered. He could hear the clatter of the railway points in the distance, then the click of Henry’s front door, followed by the sound of chuckling and whispered conversation. He put out his cigarette, and settled the metal engine part he hoped to replace into the pocket of his tunic for safe keeping, contenting himself with the idea that he would be able to get something to replace the worn part at the camp. Holt loved engines and was happiest when he was solving a problem, repairing a fault, or finding a solution. He’d spent the whole day stripping down John Bardley’s tractor, kneeling in the empty barn, cleaning, testing and tinkering. Parts for the old tractor were impossible to find, and John Bardley had crouched at his side, his mild, worried eyes following each step of the process. The Bardleys, Marge and John, put their faith in his assurances that he could fix the engine. They treated him with respect, and Marge welcomed him into her kitchen, feeding him, listening to his stories of home and calling him ‘son’ so naturally that it made him want to weep.

  Holt fell in behind his buddies, his boots in time with theirs, until their laughter subsided and they all tramped along in silence, each with his own thoughts, each reluctant to return to the camp and the indignities the army meted out to the black soldiers.

  ‘You got that old tractor fixed, Holt?’ Bo asked.

  ‘Nope, but I think I know where I can get a part. Going to see the sergeant in charge of the workshops.’

  ‘I heard they’re sayin’ too many passes have been handed out.’

  ‘No point keepin’ us in, when there’s no work. Could give us battlefield training, if they weren’t so jumpy.’

  ‘Black GIs with guns? Lieutenant Roach won’t wear that.’

  ‘Then they’ll say we’re no good for fighting. It’s them that’s afraid who we might want to fight,’ Holt said.

  ‘They reckon there’s more coming next week.’

  ‘There’s going to be trouble. All these guys and nothing to do.’

  ‘They should be happy we’re keepin’ ourselves busy. Holt, you know the words to “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”? I mean, all the way through?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I promised Sadie I’d sing something at her friend’s wedding,’ Bo said.

  ‘Wedding? You never sung in church.’

  ‘Sure, I did. I sung as a little boy.’

  ‘One minute you’re shouting about how the army’s treating us and handing out newspapers,’ Con said over his shoulder. ‘Next minute—’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘Well don’t. Mind your own business.’

  ‘Do you know she has a boyfriend who’s a POW?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sadie, you know who.’

  ‘No, she ain’t. He’s just a friend. Now mind your own business. You’re just a kid. You keep out of it or—’

  ‘What about “Deep River”?’ Wes suggested.

  Con dropped back and listened to the two men softly crooning.

  ‘Take no notice of Bo,’ Holt said. ‘He don’t mean no harm. Always been the same. Any pretty girl can lead old Bo round by the nose. And anyway, none of these girls are as pretty as the black girls back home.’

  The next day Bo and Con stayed out of each other’s way. In the camp, Bo was well known and admired because he spoke his mind. As other soldiers arrived, he passed around copies of The People’s Voice and other black newspapers. Bo had contacts. The papers argued that the army was ill-treating the black soldiers and called for an end to segregated units. Bo set up meetings. Con had been to some of them. Bo explained the arguments, but sometimes his papers and his discussions helped to stoke the resentment, creating ripples of impotent anger that, from what Con could see, just made things worse.

  At some meetings he got the guys who’d come from the Southern states to tell what had happened to them. Con knew about the South. His grandma had come north after she’d married, but she’d always thought of it as her home. Today, a guy was telling a tale about a group of black soldiers that had been taken out of one of the training camps in the South and made to work in the fields for a white senator. Con sat on the edge of the crowd and listened to the soldier sitting next to Bo.

  ‘… and when we complained,’ the soldier said, ‘the colonel sent armed MPs to make sure we carried out his orders.’

  The atmosphere made Con edgy, and when Wes suggested he help to find some wood for one of Henry’s projects, he was happy to slip away. Their luck was in; they found a pile of rough-sawn timber and a driver who was leaving for the port with an empty truck. He helped them load it and agreed to drop it off at the cottage.

  When they arrived next day, Henry was delighted with the uneven lengths of timber.

  ‘Just do me fine, lads,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a brew, and then measure up. I’ve promised the old girl at the end cottage I’ll knock up some shelves for her. Should be worth a couple of pints.’

  The whole ground floor of Mrs Bland’s cottage was little bigger than a single garage and almost as dark and cheerless. Con, whose bedroom at home in Detroit was larger than the living room in Henry’s cottage, gazed around in amazement. The old lady smiled at them over the tea chests stacked four high in the tiny room.

  ‘I’ve drawn this to indicate where I would like you to put the shelves,’ she said handing Henry a sketch.

  He took the paper and tilted his cap on to the back of his head.

  ‘Looks like there’s one on every wall, missus,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, and then I would like some in my bedroom. I thought if I used the empty chests for my clothes, the rest of the wall space would hold a considerable amount.’

  ‘We’ll have to carry some outside to make room to work.’

  ‘Oh, they mustn’t get damp.’ Mrs Bland patted the tea chest’s coarse wood. ‘They’ve suffered enough already with smoke and then water …’

  ‘It’ll be fine, missus,’ Henry soothed, ‘weather’s set fair, and we’ll bring ’em back in before we go.’

  They worked steadily, measuring, cutting and nailing. Henry proved to be an almost instinctual craftsman, first studying the space thoughtfully, riddling and sucking his teeth, before marking the wood to show them where to saw. He was rarely out in his calculations, and by late afternoon, they’d fixed the wooden batons on both sides of the chimney and shelving had been constructed from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall.

  ‘We’ll just sweep up in here, missus,’ he said, ‘and then bring them boxes back in. There’s enough shelves there for you to start unpacking some of them books. That should keep you busy for a couple of days. I’ll come back later and nail the rest of the shelves in place. Then the next time these lads get a pass out, we’ll have a look at the upstairs.’

  ‘If we take a look now,’ Wes said, ‘I’d know how much timber
to get.’

  ‘Make it soon, will you lad,’ Henry said, following Mrs Bland up the stairs. ‘I need something to keep me out of Jenny’s way. The place is full of women and sewing. They were all stitching away when I left, finishing a frock for our Ruby. And then there’s stuff for this wedding all over the place as well.’

  The house had one bedroom and a tiny space at the top of the stairs. The only furniture upstairs was a single bed. When he heard the door of Henry’s cottage slam, Con walked over to the window and bent down to peer through.

  ‘Is Sadie going to work today?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she’s helping Ruby to get ready, and Lou’s there as well with her chap. That’ll be Ruby off to the doctor’s,’ Henry said, as Ruby hurried by wearing a headscarf to cover her newly curled hair.

  Henry gazed around the tiny room. ‘You want shelves on all these walls?’ he asked, consulting the sketch.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have my bed in the centre, and then a couple more shelves on the landing. Do you think you can get enough wood?’

  Wes nodded. ‘We got stacks of the stuff. We just need to fix a pass out and get the load dropped off.’

  ‘Will you listen to that,’ Henry said, ducking his head to look through the window. ‘He’s got the bugger going.’

  On the opposite side of the road, they could see John Bardley walking behind the tractor Holt was proudly driving down the track from the farm.

  ‘Good lad!’ Henry shouted, as the GIs ran out of the cottage to cheer Holt’s success. ‘Good lad.’

  ‘Tell you what, Henry,’ John Bardley said, ‘this chap is a bloody magician when it comes to engines. I’d have never believed it. We’d be lost without this old girl.’

  The sound of the men clapping and cheering brought Jenny, Sadie, Lou and her fiancé, Frank, out of the cottage in time to see Holt stand up and wave from the tractor to acknowledge the applause. Then to show the revival of the old tractor wasn’t a fluke, Holt rode it down the lane to the stone bridge. As he headed back towards the cottages, a jeep turned in from the main road and drove towards them. Two MPs stared out, taking in the little group standing on the pavement and the black soldier on the tractor. The jeep drew up, and a fat, pink-faced sergeant climbed out, walked towards the idling machine and stood in front of it with his hand up.