Ruby's War

by Johanna Winard

  ‘Where’s the rest of them tonight? They coming later?’ he asked.

  ‘The girls will be coming over in a bit. You met Jean last week at the house. Do you remember?’

  Con smiled and shook his head. His memory was hazy. He could remember dancing with Rita and complaining to Wes about the beer. She’d taken them to a pub. Then they’d moved on. Every place they’d stopped, Wes pushed a drink into his hand; he hadn’t wanted to say no and be thought a baby. After a while, the places had become a blur of faces and noise. The rest was a series of images: a wet street, a cold lamp post, Rita’s laugh, an old man singing and then a rough, cold wall against his face. He remembered her room with stockings hanging from a line. And then Rita’s mouth, her tongue slippery and enquiring, a stale, narrow bed and folds of pliant flesh. Later, as his head cleared, those same soft layers and her round, yellow face had repulsed him, and all he’d wanted to do was escape. The nylons were to tell her that he’d been drunk and he was sorry. Then he planned to leave, and when the guys asked, he would say she’d stood him up.

  At first he was going to wait until the music stopped, but when the dance ended Rita moved in close, reaching up, pressing her soft, heavy breasts against him, curling her arms around his neck. Her skin was velvety and her hair smelt good. Then the band began to play again, and the next time the music stopped, her friends were waiting on the edge of the dance floor. He danced with all of them. Between dances, they giggled and flirted with him and the other soldiers who were crowding around, waiting for a turn to dance. There was an English guy called Sid who was on leave, a couple of Norwegian sailors and a large Canadian who knew Paradise Valley well. For the first time in days, Con felt happy. Then Rita dragged him away. She left him waiting for her in the busy entrance hall, struggling drunkenly to light his cigarette, and went off to powder her nose. He hadn’t noticed the group of white GIs barge through the door, or how they’d suddenly stopped joking with the woman selling tickets when Rita finally came back and he’d helped her on with her coat.

  Outside, the night felt mild and damp, and her lips tasted warm and sticky. When he gave her the nylons, she squealed with delight, and they swayed along the street, until she collapsed, stumbling and laughing, against an iron gate.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go in here.’

  The old churchyard gate squeaked, and Rita giggled as she led him between the gravestones and into the protective shadow of the trees. The sky was clear. In the starlight, Con could see couples huddled together against the buttressed walls. She pulled him towards a flat, white tombstone supported by four curved pillars and then perched on the side.

  ‘We can’t go back to mine. Two of the girls I share with are on the other shift to me. They’ll be sleeping. It’s nice here,’ she said, lying back on the white stone. ‘Look up there.’

  Con climbed up next to her and gazed up at the stars. They began to pulse.

  ‘I reckon they’re swaying,’ he said.

  ‘I reckon you’re drunk,’ she laughed.

  She rolled over and began to cover his face with kisses. In the pale-blue light, her face floated above him. Rita pressed her body into his, and Con slipped an exploring hand inside her coat. He heard the iron gate creak and saw the red tips of cigarettes bouncing in the darkness. Con smiled, imagining other couples from the dance hall sneaking around looking for a place. Under his fingers, Rita’s heart thrummed. She gasped and her soft weight shifted. Then the space above him filled with dark shapes. He smelt stale liquor. Rita whimpered and her warmth was suddenly replaced by the cold night air.

  He heard someone growl, ‘Whore.’

  Con tried to sit up. He could see three dim forms against the patch of sky. Hands grabbed him and held him fast. He tried to move, but his arms were clamped to the coarse stone. He kicked. There was a yelp and fingers dug into his leg. Close by, someone swore. The voice was American. From the South. He shouted, called to Rita, but she didn’t answer.

  He heard footsteps. Then the same voice, low and angry, gasped, ‘Filthy whore.’

  ‘Catch her,’ another voice above him ordered.

  Then Rita whispered, ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘You don’t scream, and you don’t get hurt,’ the same voice said. ‘An’ you, bastard, you shout an’ I’ll gut her an’ then you.’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Con shouted, straining to lift his head.

  The first punch made the pleasant fuzziness in his head disappear. The second made his teeth judder. When Con struggled, cold fingers probed and pressed his windpipe. His body fought for air. His lungs tore and pumped. He twisted and pulled, but he was held fast.

  ‘Reckon we should string him up as a warning to the rest,’ another voice, excited and breathless with the effort of holding him, said.

  ‘Got no rope,’ a third slow, reasonable voice replied.

  ‘Let’s cut his balls off. Not bother any white whore then, will you, boy?’ the first voice said.

  Then a hand slammed his head into the stone, and above him, Con heard drunken laughter.

  ‘He don’t like that idea,’ the slow voice drawled. ‘He don’t like that idea at all.’

  Then, out of the darkness, a guy shouted, ‘Hey, Yanks, leave him alone.’

  The laughter stopped, and the grip on his limbs slackened. Con lay still, listening, hoping.

  ‘You leave him, you great bullies,’ a woman called. ‘How many of you is there?’

  They let go of his arms. His legs were freed. Fingers grabbed at his hair. When his face hit the white stone, Con bit his tongue, and as his own blood flooded his nose, he remembered the smell of the dismembered rabbit.

  ‘This is an American problem, you folks,’ the first voice said. ‘We got no quarrel—’

  ‘No it ain’t, mate. You leave him alone and get lost. You come late to the bloody war, like you always do, and now you want all the say.’

  Con rolled on to the floor and vomited. Above him, the graveyard was full of movement. The voices were mostly English.

  ‘Rita, love, are you all right?’ he heard her friend Shirley call. ‘Have they hurt you?’

  ‘No, but they’ve ripped my bloody stockings,’ Rita said.

  ‘You can leave her some money for some new nylons,’ he heard Sid, the English soldier, shout. ‘You earn enough, and we’re sick of you throwing it around.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Rita yelled. ‘I’ll use gravy browning, rather than take money off these bastards.’

  ‘We’ll get you, boy. You remember that,’ one of the three GIs whispered in his ear, before following the other two towards the gate through the crowd of jeering couples.

  ‘That’s right, mate, clear off, and find your own women,’ Sid yelled after them.

  ‘Bet no bugger will have them,’ he heard Shirley call.

  Above him, clouds covered the stars. Around him, the crowd laughed and then jeered some more, as the GIs made their way out of the cemetery, and Con, who had wet himself, was glad of the darkness.

  Ruby counted out five shillings on to the counterpane. Christmas was only two weeks away. She needed to buy presents and hoped that Bo would get her some tobacco for Granddad. She’d wanted to send Auntie Ethel and Uncle Walt a present, but Sadie had said they wouldn’t expect it and to send them a card instead, telling them what a good time she was having.

  It wasn’t true. At first, she’d expected a letter every day, telling Granddad to take her back. She knew Jenny thought she wasn’t going to stay, but now no one mentioned her going back to Everdeane. Now, Jenny counted on her to do the cleaning, and if she complained, she pointed out that girls of her age worked nine hours a day plus overtime in the factory. Ruby rolled over on the knobbly counterpane and chinked the coins in her hand. If she did get work at the factory, she’d have more money, regular money.

  She didn’t earn regular money working for Mrs Grey, and now she’d gone down with a chill, the fundraising teas had been cancelled. Ruby thought that she must have been feel
ing ill when the American officers came for tea. At the time she’d been disappointed that Mrs Grey, who usually praised her appearance, hadn’t noticed that she’d made a special effort to look smart, wearing Sadie’s cream sweater over her green-and-black tartan kilt, lengthened from the top using some strips of blackout curtain, but now she realised it was because Mrs Grey hadn’t been feeling well. The problem was that without the money she earned playing for the fundraising teas, there was very little cash to hand over to Jenny.

  Ruby sat up and slipped on her shoes. Everyone was at work, and before she left she put a note on the table for Jenny, telling her that she’d peeled the potatoes and they were soaking in a bowl of water. Then she took her coat and basket from behind the door. Today she was going to help Alice to get the house ready for Christmas. They were going to clean the living room, and if Mrs Grey was feeling better, they would probably get out the decorations. When she arrived at Doctor Grey’s, as she walked up the drive and before she turned to follow the narrow path to the back door, Ruby always pretended that she was coming home. Today she imagined that she was on her way home from boarding school for Christmas, and that Dick – who would have been sent to meet her at the station – would be bringing her trunk in the car, after he’d delivered some life-saving medicine to the hospital. In this imaginary life, instead of being Ruby, she was Cordelia, Cordelia Grey, and her mother, Diana, would be waiting for her in the living room. Then Alice would bring them tea, and they would sit together, laughing and gossiping and telling each other their news. When she opened the kitchen door, Alice was standing at the sink beating something in a mixing bowl, and Dick was sitting at the table with a collection of screws and screwdrivers on a piece of newspaper.

  ‘Missus wants a word,’ he said. ‘There was a right panic here earlier on. The girl who plays Mary has mumps and—’

  ‘That Mrs Prendergast was here first thing,’ Alice said. ‘Said the teacher and Father O’Flynn were in a right state.’

  ‘And Alice told me last week, you could say the part word for word.’

  ‘When we was doing the brasses, you did the whole thing. So Dick says to the missus to ask you.’

  ‘“The Magnificat”,’ Ruby said. ‘It was part of it. I could remember it from school.’

  ‘I said she had it off pat, didn’t I?’ Alice said. ‘I thought it must be something like that.’

  ‘Well, the missus couldn’t understand how you could have, and Alice kept telling her you did.’

  ‘They was sat there tryin’ to think who they could get, but there was no one. All the children have parts, or are off with mumps,’ said Alice.

  ‘There’s I don’t know how many off with it. Some of them’s right bad. Poor little things. They’ll miss the party, and going to the Yank’s camp to see Father Christmas. They come for them in a truck last time, and you can’t take sick kiddies in a truck. Perhaps they’ll get their presents sent.’

  ‘Shut up, Dick. I’m tryin’ to tell her that the missus said she wants to see her. In the end, they decided you’d have to do it, even if you’re not at the school. There was no one else. You’d best go and see her now.’

  As she walked towards the living room, Ruby’s stomach began to squirm and wriggle. Mrs Grey was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under a hairy picnic rug. She looked rather pale and she wasn’t wearing make-up.

  ‘Ah, Ruby,’ she said, putting down the cut-glass tumbler she’d been drinking from. ‘Alice and Dick have assured me that you know the part of Mary. Miss Conway needs to hear you, but we are desperate. Do you think you could do it?’ she asked, swishing the golden liquid around in her glass. ‘I know you can perform before people. Do say you’ll have a go.’

  Ruby dug her nails into her hands and took a deep breath. ‘I … Please, madam … I’m to ask if there’ll be a payment.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I’m to say are there wages?’

  ‘Oh really, Ruby,’ Mrs Grey sighed, and put her hand to her head. ‘This really is too bad. I’m trying to help. The Nativity play is in jeopardy. And all you can think of—’

  When the door opened, Mrs Grey put down her glass. Ruby, who didn’t dare turn around to see who it was, felt her ears begin to burn.

  ‘May I go, madam?’ she asked.

  ‘No you may not.’

  The room fell silent and she stared hard at the carpet. She heard someone move to the table near the door and pour out a drink. Then Doctor Grey walked by her and sat in his usual chair. He lifted one eyebrow and sipped his drink.

  ‘We don’t get paid, Ruby. It’s for our community. Most people would think it an honour. Humphrey, darling, will you fill my glass? I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Then I think you should go and lie down, dear,’ he said. ‘Alcohol … Unless you have a sherry. That might help your appetite.’

  ‘I don’t want a sherry. I’ve had the most awful day. All the children in the Nativity play have mumps, and I had hoped Ruby could help us out, but she’s holding me to ransom.’

  ‘Ruby, will you excuse us for a moment? Run along to the kitchen and tell Alice that Mrs Grey will take lunch in her room. Doctor’s orders, Diana.’

  Ruby sat down at the kitchen table, attacked the pile of carrots with the vegetable knife and prayed that she wouldn’t be sent home and told never to come back. She’d almost peeled the whole pile when the door opened. Doctor Grey sat down and picked up a carrot.

  ‘Was it your idea,’ he asked, considering the deformed vegetable thoughtfully, ‘to ask for payment?’

  ‘I was told to … Grandma Jenny said next time to ask if there was wages.’

  ‘Ah. Well, in that case, I think you should do whatever Mrs Grey has asked you to do, and then report to me. We can’t have Mrs Grey upset. When the play is over, I want you to come to me, and I’ll pay for the hours it has taken.’

  Then Doctor Grey squeezed her hand and left. Ruby picked up the twisted carrot and began to chop. When Alice returned from taking Mrs Grey’s meal up to her room, the pile was almost done and Alice remarked that, from the amount of sniffing she was doing, Ruby might be coming down with a chill, or something, as well.

  ‘So,’ Sergeant Mayfield said, looking at Con who was perched on his bed. ‘You men be careful. Watch out for each other. The guys who attacked Con were southerners. No surprise there. There’s a rumour some of them are tryin’ to organise a clan chapel and they’ve got some support.’

  ‘Not in our town,’ someone called from the back of the hut.

  ‘Don’t push it,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I know young Con here, and the rest of you, want to have a go at these guys, but we need to keep the officers on our side. We don’t want to give them any call …’

  There was some restless muttering from the men in the crowded hut, and Bo, who had been leaning against the wall, pushed himself up to his full height.

  ‘Can’t agree with you there, Sarge,’ he said. ‘The officers ain’t ever goin’ to be on our side. The way I see it, we got to look out for ourselves.’

  ‘If there’s trouble, they’ll start to cut down the number of passes into town.’

  ‘They’re doin’ that already,’ Wes said. ‘We used to go into town to the movies, but now there’s less late passes. There’s more an’ more guys stuck here all the time.’

  ‘You said it yourself, Sarge,’ one of the southern soldiers added. ‘You told us last week a lot of the white officers, an’ most are from the South, believe black men are natural cowards. It’s why they don’t want us for combat. If we let ’em git away with what they done to this guy … Well then they’re goin’ to think they was right.’

  ‘All I’m saying, and I think Bo will back me up on this, is that it would be wrong to go out looking for trouble. Give me a week or so. I’ll see what I can find out about passes. I’m tryin’ to get us more facilities here. Basketball, baseball. I got them thinkin’ about it, and Lieutenant Hart is on our side. Don’t want anything to happen to me
ss that up. All I’m sayin’ is keep in groups, and don’t give ’em cause to point to you as the troublemakers.’

  When the group began to break up, Holt sat down beside Con. ‘You fancy getting out of here for the day?’ he asked. ‘Bo can get passes for us and for Wes. We’re picking greenery to decorate the church. We tell them we’re goin’ out helping, doing stuff for the church, and they don’t care how long we stay away.’

  The next day was cold and sunny. The privet hedges were stiff with frost, and in the distance Con could see a sugaring of snow on the hills. When he’d woken up that morning, he’d been torn between the desire to get away from the camp’s drab routine and the idea of spending the day with Bo and Sadie. But once he’d looked out at the sparkling weather, he couldn’t wait to leave.

  When they arrived at the cottage Sadie and Lou were waiting, together with Johnny Fin, who swung himself up on to the truck and grinned his gummy grin.

  ‘Johnny’s coming with us to help us find the best stuff,’ Sadie said, handing up a bag and a pair of gardening shears. ‘And to pick some for the pub – and some to sell, if I know ’im.’

  Sadie and Lou were dressed in boiler suits and old tweed jackets. Con noticed that, despite her practical clothes, Sadie was wearing her lipstick and a pair of earrings.

  ‘Hello Con, love,’ she smiled. ‘You don’t look as bad as I expected.’

  ‘He was real bad when he got back,’ Bo said.

  ‘You’ve not been to see us,’ Lou said, sitting down next to Con. ‘You’ll have to come over at Christmas, won’t he, Sadie? We need some help trimming up and Ruby’s in the play at church, so you’ll have to come to that and join in the carols.’