Ruby's War

by Johanna Winard

  ‘I still take Bess out sometimes,’ she said. ‘I could bring her down to the rec again, or we could take her out for a walk … Next Sunday, I could—’

  ‘I’m going to Anne’s Sunday afternoon,’ Pauline said, as the little boy tugged her towards the door. ‘We’re putting up their tree. I’ll have to go. My mum’s over there waiting for us.’

  That evening there were shirts to soak. After tea, Sadie and Bo had gone into town, and then Jenny and Granddad left for the pub. But when the door closed behind them, instead of settling into a placid silence, the house felt uneasy. Ruby wandered between the dismal front room and the kitchen. Before Bo became Sadie’s boyfriend, she would have gone across the lane and asked Mrs Lathom if she might have Bess for company. But now, when she asked if Bess could come and stay with her, Mrs Lathom made an excuse, although she still allowed her to take the spaniel out for walks. Then, as Ruby was peering into the mirror over the sink, trying to twist up her hair into a sleek roll, the hens began to squawk. She picked up the long-handled brush, turned off the light and went into the garden. The henhouse was locked and the birds were safe. But close by, among the fruit bushes, there was an almost imperceptible movement. Using the brush, she slashed at the leaves: a prowling fox might not get in the cabin, but it might put the hens off laying. Then she stood in the starlit garden and listened, until the hens began to settle. The air was damp, and once she was happy that she’d driven the fox away, she hurried back inside. For a moment, when she switched on the light, Ruby’s brain refused to make sense of the black, formless thing crouched on the kitchenette. Then it turned towards her and spat. The animal, the largest, most evil-looking cat she had ever seen, held its ground, lashing out with its claws and hissing when she tried to dislodge it with the end of the brush. The creature was guarding the remnants of the chicken that she should have put away in the meat safe, and Ruby, who was poking at it furiously, didn’t hear Mrs Bland at the door until she spoke.

  ‘It’s only me, dear,’ the old lady said, edging through the door. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. I knocked at the front door, but no one answered. I’m looking for—Ah, you’re here, and you’ve made friends already,’ she said to the cat, as it began to rip at the remaining meat. ‘Is Ruby feeding you? How kind.’

  ‘He got in. I left the door open … I thought it was a fox going after the hens. That chicken … there was enough for tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh dear. Poor Ruby. Please don’t be distressed. Was that for your …? Timoshenko can be such a rascal. I’ll go and get his basket. Then, if we can persuade him into it … Yes. That might be best.’

  The cat ignored his mistress’s concern for Ruby’s welfare, and turning its back on them both, continued eating the chicken. When the old lady had gone, Ruby pulled Henry’s old coat from the back door and made a grab for it. The startled animal thrashed and yowled, but she hung on, rolling him inside the coat and carrying the struggling bundle to Mrs Bland’s cottage. Once he was released, Timoshenko took up position on the stairs, lashing and spitting furiously as his owner tried to scold him.

  ‘I know you didn’t mean it, but it was very wrong of you to take Ruby’s supper. It’s his experience of the bombing, I’m afraid. He’s had to fend for himself for some time and his manners are not what they should be. I’m sure if we leave him for a while, he’ll calm down.’

  Mrs Bland insisted on cleaning up Ruby’s scratches with her own herbal liniment and then made cocoa. The little room was chilly and the old lady was wearing a selection of worn jumpers under her old tweed jacket. As they sipped their cocoa, she put a record on the gramophone and began nodding in time with the wistful music.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask if you would consider some cleaning. Have you some hours to spare? I need someone to help clean the books. You would need to be trained. They were bombed, and then the storage was less than satisfactory. They will need very careful treatment,’ she said, picking up one of her grubby leather-bound books and brushing it as gently as if it were a child’s sooty face. ‘I’m afraid I can’t pay you much.’

  ‘I don’t mind, but Jenny will expect … I have to pay my way. I’ll be getting a job in a factory soon, but until then, I’d like to help.’

  ‘Ah, you’re someone who loves books.’

  ‘Yes. I like reading. I’ve read all my dad’s books.’

  ‘Now, what would you like, I wonder? You must let me think about that, and I’ll see what I can find that might interest you.’

  Once the excitement of the Nativity play was over, Ruby began to look forward to the time she spent with Mrs Bland and her angry cat. The war meant that Granddad, Jenny and Sadie were working longer hours. Often they would be on different shifts and want to eat at different times. There was a build-up of American troops as well. That meant Bo and the other GIs were busy bringing in more equipment and didn’t visit so much. The house was often empty, and when she had finished her work, she would sometimes go and help Mrs Bland with her books. The war also meant that food was harder to get, and in addition to the cooking, Ruby was also responsible for the shopping and queuing.

  She would often shop on her way to Doctor Grey’s, and then on her way home she would sometimes walk the long way round through the village again to check if there was a queue outside the Co-op or the butcher’s. At least, that’s what she told herself, but the walk also took her by the school at about the time Pauline would be on her way home. A few days after the Nativity play, as Ruby turned the corner by the chemist’s, there was a queue of women waiting outside the butcher’s. She hurried across the road.

  ‘He’s got pork,’ the woman in front of her said. ‘That’s the rumour. Pork, recently killed.’

  Ruby pushed her hands deep into her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the damp. More people joined the queue, but the line in front didn’t move. Up ahead of her, she could see Aunt Maud. She hadn’t spoken to her since the day she’d let it slip to Jenny that she and Granddad had called at Maud’s house. Her granddad still sent his sister vegetables and fruit from his garden, but now he didn’t risk taking the parcels himself. He was so scared of Jenny that – instead of handing the vegetables over to Ruby in the garden – he would whisper that there was something for ‘our Maud’ in the hedge by the gate and that she must leave it on Maud’s doorstep on her way to Doctor Grey’s.

  ‘Not a word to Jenny now, love,’ he would murmur, ‘best to keep the peace.’

  Alice and Dick would sometimes give her leftover food for ‘poor Maud’ as well. And today, with a woollen shawl over her head and wrapped tightly over a shabby black dress, Auntie Maud reminded Ruby of the beggar women from the Marshalsea Prison in the book Mrs Bland had given her to read.

  The shop window was empty, except for the statues of two smiling pigs, standing on their hind trotters and dressed in chef’s outfits. Inside, the walls were tiled – white with a blue border. The waiting women chatted happily amongst themselves, pacifying their babies with the small home-made toys hanging from the hoods of the prams and keeping the toddlers occupied with small crusts of bread and promises of bacon for tea. The good-natured queue only began to turn restless when a well-dressed woman with bright-red lips hurried out of the shop, calling a cheery goodbye to the butcher. Her departure was followed by a ripple of discontent, as the women waiting in line took in the comfortable bulge under the snowy cloth covering her basket.

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘There’ll be nowt left.’

  ‘Should be ashamed of himself.’

  ‘Wants reporting, he does.’

  ‘I’ll bet that’s the pig’s heart and liver gone, for sure.’

  ‘More like a whole leg by the look of her basket.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll be calling round there for a bit of leg later on.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, probably he’s given her one of his legs and she’s promised to show him hers.’

  The women began to chuckle. When she heard
the laughter, Maud glanced up, nodded in Ruby’s direction and then turned away.

  ‘He can ’ave a look at mine any time for a nice bit of ham shank,’ the toothless old lady next to Ruby said.

  ‘Now then, Ethel,’ a woman further down the queue shouted, ‘what would your Albert say?’

  Then the queue shuffled forwards up the worn stone steps and Ruby managed to squeeze inside the door. Mr Ashton, the butcher, was a large man of about fifty wearing a red striped apron. His sister, Agnes, a pale, humourless lady who wore thick spectacles, and a spotty boy called Fred were helping him to serve the customers. The queue moved slowly over the sawdust floor, until Ruby could see Maud in front of the marble-topped counter.

  ‘What can I get for you today, Miss Barton?’ the butcher asked.

  ‘Sausages. Four, please.’

  ‘You’ve enough points for some …’

  ‘No. I fancy sausages, and some bones, if you have them, for the dog.’

  The butcher nodded, and disappeared into the back of the shop. Ruby saw some of the women around her shift uneasily, while others lifted an eyebrow, but when the butcher appeared with a lumpy parcel and dropped it into the old lady’s basket, there wasn’t any disapproval in the looks that passed between them.

  Ruby managed to get belly pork and some bacon and paid for it with part of the money Doctor Grey had given her for her performance in the Nativity play. As she walked home, planning what she could make with the pork and thinking of how pleased everyone would be when they came in from work and smelt the bacon cooking inside the potato pie, she didn’t see Johnny Fin pushing his bike along the road until he called to her.

  ‘Dick’s given me some spuds. I’ve been givin’ him a lift with the car. There’s too many for me. I swapped some of ’em. I was on my way to drop the rest off for Maud, but you can save me the trip, if you will.’

  ‘She’s just been in the butcher’s. I’ll try to catch her up,’ Ruby said, taking the rough sack from Johnny.

  ‘Tell her there’s something in there for Joe as well.’

  The old lady was opening the front door to the little terraced cottage, when Ruby caught up with her.

  ‘This is from Johnny,’ she said, handing the old lady the sack. ‘It’s potatoes and something for Uncle Joe.’

  ‘It’s you our Henry’s got leaving stuff at my door, isn’t it? You’ll have to knock next time,’ the old lady said.

  ‘I will,’ she nodded breathlessly, but Maud had already gone inside, letting the door slam behind her.

  When Ruby got home, the kitchen smelt of spice and the doors to the kitchenette were hanging open.

  ‘That you, Ruby?’ Sadie called from the front room.

  Sadie and Lou were sitting on the sofa, with Con squashed between them. Sadie’s arm was in a sling. They were each holding one of the tumblers from the top shelf of the kitchenette filled with red liquid.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘Accident with the machine. I’ve had to have stitches. And he give me an injection for the pain. I think it’s wearing off. It doesn’t half hurt.’

  ‘She was lucky it didn’t take her arm off,’ Lou said, sipping the deep-red liquid from her glass.

  ‘Not be able to work for a bit. Told me to go back and see ’im in two weeks. I don’t want to miss two weeks’ money.’

  ‘Well, there’s Christmas in between,’ Lou said. ‘So you’ll not be that bad, and there’ll be a bonus. Should be. That’s what I heard from our neighbour.’

  ‘I felt that faint I went round to Lou’s, she walked back with me. Then Con turned up with a bottle of Buckie. At least, that’s what it said it was on the label.’

  Con smiled. ‘It was for Henry. He told me—’

  ‘Da won’t mind. It’s medicine. It’s a tonic for me arm. Me and Lou need a tonic. Don’t we, Lou? Want to try some, Ruby, love?’ Sadie asked, waving the glass at her. ‘Oh, come on. He’s brought some spices and some more of those cinnamon sticks as well. He’s been showin’ us about some of their Christmas customs in America. And very nice they are.’

  ‘You’ll have to show Ruby,’ Lou said, refilling their glasses. ‘Come on, Con, don’t be shy. She’s such a nice girl,’ she said, smiling at Con, who was steadying her hand, as she poured more of the dark liquid into Sadie’s glass.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ve got an idea,’ Sadie said, attempting to stand up. ‘Ruby, put the radio on.’

  ‘No. Jenny said I—’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Sadie said, falling back on to the couch. ‘We could have a dance.’

  ‘Ruby, you,’ Lou said, in a fit of giggles, ‘should have more fun. Shouldn’t she, Con? You’ll have to learn to dance. If you learn, you could come out with us.’

  ‘Lou, I don’t think you should have any more,’ Con said. ‘You’ve got to go to work. She’s on the late shift,’ he said grinning at Ruby. ‘I think you’d better make her something to eat.’

  ‘I’m making potato pie and I got some bacon from the butcher’s. There’ll be enough for everybody.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Lou said, trying to focus her eyes on Ruby. ‘She’s such a nice girl, but she should have more fun.’

  ‘If we can’t dance,’ Sadie giggled, ‘we’ll just have to keep on trying that American custom young Con’s been teaching us.’

  ‘That injection the doctor gave her … I think it’s reacted with the drink,’ Con said. ‘I think they’ll both need to eat something.’

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ Lou said, joining in the giggling again. ‘Now that’s something else Ruby needs to be shown how to do. Tell her what you do at Christmas with the cinnamon sticks, Con. Tell her about what you do in America.’

  ‘It’s just that some of us, the youngsters …’

  ‘No. Tell her properly.’

  ‘It’s when … Well, sometimes when we make biscuits with cinnamon – cinnamon biscuits for Christmas – well, sometimes we put the spice on our lips … and kiss each other. It’s just a game.’

  ‘It’s lovely. You’ll like it,’ Lou said. ‘Go on, Con, put some on.’

  Ruby watched Con put the cinnamon on his lips and took a deep breath. He stood close. She could feel his warmth and smell the spice. She squeezed her hands tightly and hoped he couldn’t hear her heart banging.

  ‘Go on, Ruby, look up,’ Lou ordered.

  When she did, she saw that he was smiling. And although she’d seen it done lots of times at the pictures, she couldn’t remember if she should shut her eyes. He took her shoulders and bent down. When she lifted her face closer toward his, she was glad that she’d kept them open, because as his face came nearer, she could see his long, graceful lashes leisurely sweeping down over his eyes. Then she closed her eyes and felt his lips, soft, steady, pressing. He touched her mouth with his tongue. Ruby held her breath and tried not to move. She didn’t want it to stop, ever. It felt holy. The smell of the spice filled her nose, and a taste – his taste – cold and sweet, filled her mouth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The city was fastened up, walled inside its own bitter fog. On the quayside, as he followed the line of trucks swinging in through the dock gates, Con inhaled the sour city-taste fused with the damp sea mist. The cranes on the dockside were still, but out on the river, the ships left blind and stranded by the fog had set up a lament. He climbed down from the cab, pulled up his collar and joined the huddles of men leaning against their cooling truck engines. At least he would get to stay outside the camp: late passes – five to midnight – were scarce. Lately, the only way to escape was to volunteer for duties at a village Christmas party or to sing for some church. And the joke was – according to Sarge Mayfield – it was the churches, some of them at least, that wanted to stop the black soldiers mixing with the locals. The other reason for rationing the passes was that, although the black and white GIs drank in different towns, the colonel was afraid of what could happen if they came across each other. And it was true that, in some of the villages they’d thought
too small to be designated black or white, fights had been arranged.

  He nodded to Wes and some of the other guys that he recognised.

  ‘Word is we’ll be here until morning,’ Wes said, flicking his cigarette stub into a puddle on the cobbled quayside. ‘They’ll not risk bringing the ships in.’

  ‘Guess not,’ Con said, squatting down on his haunches and offering Wes another cigarette.

  Even if the fog meant they stayed on the docks until morning, Con didn’t really mind: now the ban on black newspapers had been tightened, meeting guys in other trucks was one of the only ways left of getting news from home.

  ‘See that guy over there. The fat guy? He’s from Paradise Valley. Name’s Walter. He’s only been over here a couple of weeks.’

  Con followed Wes over to the circle of men standing around an overweight GI.

  ‘Got worse since August,’ the fat man said. ‘It’s starting to hurt war production. If you ask me, they’d rather fight each other than Hitler. Labour relations are poor, and in a lot of the plants, it spills over into fighting between blacks and whites. Then it carries over on to the streets, particularly around the parks at weekend. It’s not safe for families to go out there, even on Sundays. Aircraft plant at Willow Run’s producing parts for … I know I shouldn’t say … But, hell, we’re all black folks here.’ Walter looked around the group of men. ‘There isn’t no Nazis here. The plants are producing parts for B-24 Liberator bombers. They keep upping the production. Wanting more and more folk to work there, and folk from the South is coming in. Can’t get that sort of pay down there. All the houses and apartments are full with workers, even an hour’s car drive away. Little Washtenaw County’s full. Trailer camps all over the place. Them places have no schools, policing or sanitation. The white folk ain’t happy ’cos of all the blacks coming in.’