Ruby's War

by Johanna Winard

  Although he wouldn’t admit it, Con could understand why folks – black and white – should resent the increase of new workers coming in. The only people that would benefit were the shopkeepers. And the new black workers from the South would take lower pay. That didn’t help the Detroit blacks none. The people who went to his father’s church worked hard and didn’t want trouble with their white neighbours.

  ‘We got our own Nazis now,’ Walter said. ‘The Silver Shirts they call themselves. A lot of them is Poles. Detroit Poles. The Clan’s mixed up with it – National Workers’ League. Papers say it’s a front for the Nazis. German Americans and these Silver Shirts. They say this war’s not worth the life of one American boy, and they talk against the Jews and the black man. They reckon Jews hire black folks, so they can give ’em low wages.’

  Con shifted uncomfortably and nudged Wes. ‘You coming up town?’ he asked. ‘I went in this place with Holt last time. The food was good, and I think I can find it, even in the fog.’

  ‘I was hoping Holt and Bo might show up. Do you know what they were sent on this morning?’

  ‘No. They could do, I suppose, but there’s no point in waiting, and I’m pretty hungry.’

  They walked along a street leading away from the docks. On the clear blue day Con had visited the street-corner pub with Holt, as they’d crossed over one of the terraced streets, he’d caught sight of a ship sailing across the other end, so close that he’d felt as though he could have reached out and touched it. The pub was a tiny place with a bar in the main corridor and a series of small crowded rooms, each with a fire, a leather seat running along the walls and a push bell to call for service. Despite the choking fog, the pub was crowded. Most of the drinkers lived in the streets nearby, but because it was a port, the locals came from all over the world. Most of them were sailors or worked on the docks or in one of the warehouses along the quay. Con liked the place: it felt easier than the pubs around the camp that were all white. They ordered food, bought pints of beer and found two seats next to the fire, alongside a group of Irishmen.

  ‘You want a little drop to warm you, boys?’ a small toothless man asked, handing them two small glasses of pale golden liquid from a tray on his table.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ Wes said. ‘You must let me pay …’

  ‘No, no. If you’ll drink my health. I’m ninety today and my son has arrived to help me to celebrate. It is the first time I have seen him for many a day,’ the little man said, nodding towards a man who looked almost as old as he did. ‘My son Eoin has brought me a couple of bottles of a very singular drink.’ The old man’s son told them that he knew America well and had been to Detroit several times, and they chatted happily about the places he remembered until their food arrived.

  ‘That was a mighty nice drink,’ Con said, tucking into his meat pie. ‘I think I can feel my feet again.’

  ‘Would it be better than Buckie?’ Wes asked innocently.

  ‘Buckie?’ Con repeated, his fork frozen in mid-air. ‘How do you …?’

  Wes grinned. ‘Henry said that, when he came home …’

  ‘Henry?’

  When – under Lou’s orders – Con was kissing Ruby, they’d heard the front gate open. Lou had grabbed bottle and glasses and dashed into the kitchen to hide them, but there’d been no hiding the fact that both she and Sadie were drunk, and that Ruby, although she hadn’t drunk any of the Buckie, looked equally guilty. Luckily, when Henry and Sadie’s mother walked into the cottage, all they’d been concerned about was Sadie’s arm, and her worries about losing wages just before Christmas. Even when he discovered that the Buckie was all gone Henry hadn’t complained, although his chest was very bad. This patient acceptance, in addition to the guilt he’d felt for his part in the drinking, meant that Con had been willing to pay almost twice as much to find Henry a replacement bottle.

  ‘I got the Buckie for him because I felt sorry for the old guy. He said it was the only thing that helped when he was gassed, and he thought it might help him again. His chest is awful bad.’

  ‘Does Henry know what was goin’ on in his house – and what about Bo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do they know about that story you told the girls? The one about the cinnamon sticks?’

  ‘It ain’t no story. Just because you didn’t do it. We did in my neighbourhood. Does Bo know about Sadie and …?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you?’

  ‘Lou told me you said it was a custom. An American custom, you told her …’

  ‘It was her and Sadie. They got drunk. I got the Buckie for Henry and went along to drop it off and …’

  ‘You took advantage. That’s what I heard. Now you’re not going to tell me you protested. And you made out with little Ruby. Now you’re not telling me that she—’

  ‘That was Lou’s idea. We didn’t make out. I just … She’s only fifteen. Too young for me.’

  ‘She’s awful pretty.’

  ‘I know, but she’s just a kid. It wasn’t my idea. Lou and Sadie just kept on, and by then … Well, we’d all had some of the stuff. It’s real powerful. Does Bo … If she’s told you, then Sadie might have …’

  ‘You’d best hope not,’ Wes grinned. ‘I bet Sadie don’t remember enough to tell him. Lou said you were all real gone.’

  ‘Lou should learn to behave. She’s a married woman. Anyway, I got him another bottle.’

  ‘That was your guilty conscience. Here, get me another drink and I’ll think about keeping my mouth shut. You’d best hope the girls and old Henry do the same.’

  When Con came back with their drinks, one of the Irishmen had begun to sing and gradually the little bar filled with people listening to his rich baritone. One of them was a black guy wearing an RAF uniform. He smiled and nodded at the two GIs, and when the singing stopped, he came over to their table.

  ‘Have you just arrived?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We’re here collecting parts.’

  ‘You been in Northern Ireland?’ he asked, nodding at the Irishman singing.

  ‘No. We came over from the States. Pardon me asking, but where …’

  ‘I’m from Jamaica,’ the man said with a smile. ‘I came over to offer my services to the RAF. The uniform fools an awful lot of people. The name’s George, George McDonald. Would you like another drink?’

  George settled down with them to chat and listen to the music. Con, whose own attempts to grow a moustache had resulted in little more than a vague shadow on his upper lip, gazed in admiration at George’s neatly groomed moustache and short, slicked-down hair.

  When the Irish baritone finished his song, he was replaced by a burly Irishwoman called Bernadette, who sang ‘Hills of Connemara’ in a sweet, girlish voice that didn’t match her age or size. Now his stomach was full, Con felt mellow and comfortable in the crowded room. He stretched out his long legs, his eyes began to feel heavy and he tried to forget the uncomfortable night ahead in the back of a cold truck. At the end of the song, the old Irishman’s son, Eoin, began topping up their glasses from a large brown bottle.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, handing a glass to George, ‘we’ll drink a toast to my father.’

  As they waited, he moved around refilling glasses and offering drinks to the newcomers.

  ‘Good evening. Will you two gentlemen have a drink? It’s my father’s birthday,’ he called to someone towards the back of the crowded room.

  Con turned, and saw that he was speaking to two white GIs; one was small and wiry, the other taller and flabby with greasy hair flopping in his eyes. Both men were swaying.

  ‘It’s lovely. It will warm you on a cold night,’ the large lady singer called.

  As the big floppy-haired guy reached out his hand, trying to focus on the tray of free drinks, Con saw Bo and Holt standing in the doorway holding pints of beer. At first, the smaller GI sniggered at his friend’s drunken attempts to reach the tray, but then his eyes locked on Con’s.


  ‘Naw thank you, ma’am,’ he said, grabbing at the back of his friend’s tunic. ‘We don’t drink with blacks where I come from.’

  His words made the fat GI’s concentration slip and he fell forward almost upsetting the drinks. Bo, who had been standing behind the two GIs, reached over and steadied the tray.

  ‘Then maybe you should find yourself another place to drink,’ he said, taking one of the glasses for himself.

  The drinkers fell silent, and the packed room filled with the moan of the foghorns out on the river. Con felt his heart start to pound. He saw Wes tense, as though ready to spring out of his seat, and George, who had slipped his tobacco pouch back into his pocket, narrowed his eyes. Bo ignored the two white GIs, and lifting his glass to the Irish woman, he took a sip. Con could see that his face and tunic were damp from the foggy night, and that behind him, Holt was wiping his face with his cap.

  ‘Steady now, lads,’ the Irishman said, moving the tray as far away from the threatened danger as possible, ‘we don’t want no trouble in here.’

  ‘There’ll be none, sir,’ Bo said. ‘These gentlemen are leaving.’

  Alerted by the sudden silence, the landlord peered round the door. ‘All right, lads. What’s goin’ on?’ he asked. ‘Is that poteen I can see, Michael Clancy?’

  ‘I was just offering my friends a small taste of Ireland. It is a drink brewed only on my family’s land and has the most delicate of flavours. Won’t you take a glass?’ the old man asked.

  ‘I’ll ask you to put it away, if you please. I’ve my licence to think of – and you gents,’ he said looking at the two GIs, ‘there’s room in the other parlour. You’ll be comfortable in there.’

  ‘I’ll not drink out of a glass used by no black,’ slurred the larger man.

  The landlord’s pink shiny face clouded. ‘Your friend’s had enough by the look of him, mate,’ he said to the smaller GI. ‘It might be best if you take him home.’

  When the smaller soldier began to protest, two large barrel-chested men in the mufflers and caps Con had seen worn by dockers grabbed his friend by the arm.

  ‘Off you go now, lads,’ the landlord said, as the two GIs tottered obediently into the night.

  When Bo and Holt had been introduced to George and the small glasses of spirit drunk, George took out his pipe and pouch again. ‘You guys often get that sort of trouble?’ he asked. ‘I must say, I’ve had one or two problems with your chaps myself. Couldn’t make them understand that I wasn’t an American. I pointed out RAF on my uniform, but it didn’t do any good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about the RAF guys?’ Bo asked.

  ‘Oh well, you know. It’s not official here. No colour bar, but most of them are surprised at first and a bit nervous to fly with me, until they get to know me. Here in the port is okay. More cosmopolitan, you see. Not like the rest of England. Your guys, well that’s different.’

  The next morning the fog had lifted, but there were so many ships waiting to dock, that they were told it would be late afternoon by the time their trucks could be loaded.

  ‘Guess we could have a walk around,’ Holt said. ‘Go up town, maybe there’s time. Could have a drink and take in the sights. The way things are going with O’Donal, we might not get passes, even at Christmas.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ve promised Sadie, and she’s awful low with her arm and everything,’ Bo said. ‘Henry says to tell you you’re all welcome over Christmas, anytime. Just call by.’

  ‘I reckon we should tell them we’re not goin’ out singing and bein’ all happy, if they’ll not give us passes,’ Wes said.

  ‘We’ve got to do somethin’,’ Holt agreed. ‘But that just punishes the folks who’ve invited us.’

  ‘Let’s have a day off from all that today, guys,’ Con said. ‘Come on.’

  The four of them wandered through the maze of terraced streets and into the centre of the city. In the daylight, they could see the evidence of the bombing. They lingered, fascinated by the destruction that until recently they’d only seen on newsreels.

  ‘Let’s try here,’ Bo said, heading over to a large pub whose ornate marble frontage was pitted, but had a sign on the door that proudly announced: ‘Business as usual’.

  The interior gave no hint that the world outside was full of dust and broken buildings: every marble, tiled and wooden surface gleamed. Behind the bar, the handpumps and glasses sparkled and a dance band played cheerfully on the radio. The barmaid – small, dark-haired and with a strange and hard to understand accent – asked what they would like.

  Bo, who as always took the lead, made her smile, and as she poured their drinks, she asked where they had come from, and sympathised when he told her about their cold night on the dockside.

  ‘Next time, come here,’ she said. ‘We got rooms. Better than a cold night out there.’

  ‘It’s quiet in here,’ Bo said, handing around the pint glasses.

  ‘Oh, it won’t be long before it livens up,’ she said. ‘We’ve been ever so busy. The place is full of British Tommies. Waiting for ships, most of them. Here we are,’ she said, as a group of British soldiers crowded through the door. ‘What did I tell you?’

  There was little conversation, until they all had drinks, but then a small, chubby sergeant nodded over to them.

  ‘That tastes bloody good,’ he said with a wink. ‘We’ve been stuck on a bloody train all night in the middle of nowhere. Bloody fog.’

  ‘What did I say?’ the barmaid laughed. ‘This lot will drink us dry.’

  ‘You just come off one of the ships?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘No,’ Bo said, answering for all of them, ‘we’ve come down from further north. We’ve been here since autumn. Driving. Trucking up and down to the port and the airfields, mostly. Waiting for the stuff to be unloaded.’

  ‘You been held up by the fog as well?’

  ‘Yes, since yesterday. You shipping out?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ the sergeant replied, finishing his first pint at an impressive speed, ‘where we’re off to, or when. The city’s full of soldiers. We all must be going somewhere.’

  ‘Could be Africa,’ a tall bespectacled private said.

  ‘I reckon that’s it.’

  ‘They’d have given us tropical gear by now,’ another private said, ordering a brandy.

  ‘Come off it,’ the sergeant laughed. ‘We might be hanging round here for days. We’d bloody freeze to death.’

  ‘There’ll be some poor sods wandering about in tropical gear, and then they’ll send us out there, instead,’ another private grinned cheerfully. ‘Then the other lot will end up goin’ up to friggin’ Norway or somewhere. Bloody army.’

  ‘Just had embarkation leave,’ the sergeant said. ‘Then we were told this morning we’ll be billeted round here until … God knows how long. Anyway, Monty’s sorted that lot out, so I don’t reckon North Africa’s on.’

  The barmaid had been right. The pub quickly filled with soldiers waiting for ships, and the landlord, a small man with a club foot who went by the name of Taffy, joined his daughter serving drinks. The four GIs sat at the end of the bar, watching the soldiers’ antics and listening to the chatter.

  ‘Looks like this lot are settled in for a heavy session,’ Taffy said to Holt, when he bought their next round. ‘They’re making the best of it while they can, and who can blame them?’

  ‘Is there any place we can buy food?’ Holt asked.

  ‘You could try the British Restaurant round the corner,’ he said. ‘It’s subsidised, but very tasty from all accounts. I’m clean out of grub, I’m afraid, and more’s the pity with all the squaddies in town.’

  ‘They’re not bad places,’ the chubby sergeant said. ‘Set them up all over after the bombing, so as folk could get a bite.’

  ‘That one was set up after we had the May bombing,’ the barmaid said. ‘I’ve heard it’s very good.’

  ‘Is that when all this damage happened round here?’ Bo asked.


  ‘Mostly. Though we’ve had more than our share. Not that you hear about it on the radio. It’s all London on there.’

  ‘There’s a good reason for that,’ the sergeant said. ‘They don’t want Jerry to know they’re hitting our docks.’

  ‘Over fourteen hundred killed and the cathedral hit,’ the girl replied. ‘Bloody Hitler. Come to hit the docks and ships, but he got the houses miles out of town as well.’

  The British Restaurant, housed in part of a badly damaged department store, was packed with soldiers and bombed-out families. The food, potato stew and sponge pudding with a little jam, was basic but filling.

  Bo lit a cigarette and glanced around the busy restaurant. One of the customers, a middle-aged black man dressed in smart civilian clothes, was sitting with a white woman of about the same age, wearing a coat with a light-coloured fur collar and a black hat. When he and the other guys walked in, the children had peered at them, but nobody was staring at the couple; they didn’t cause much interest. The two old women sitting in the corner might have been whispering about them, but he couldn’t be sure. Would it, he wondered, really be possible? Then, as if reading his thoughts, the black guy caught his eye and nodded, as if to say, if that was what he wanted, then yes, it was.

  When Con went to collect their cups of tea, he had to wrestle with the teaspoon tied on to the counter with a string.

  ‘Do people steal them?’ he asked the woman in charge of the tea urn.

  ‘No love, mind you, some might. It’s the metal, you see, there’s a shortage. Not many spoons around.’

  The heavy food had made them all feel reluctant to move. When he’d finished his mug of weak tea, Bo yawned and shook his head.

  ‘I ain’t got Sadie a Christmas present yet. I wanted to get something real special that she’d not expect. I thought I might get somethin’ in the city. Somethin’ different. But all the shops … well, I don’t know.’

  ‘How about a bottle of Buckie?’ Wes said, wincing as Con landed a sharp kick to his ankle under the table.

  ‘She don’t like strong drink. That stuff’s awful powerful. It’s not for a lady. I wanted somethin’ pretty.’