Now the War Is Over

by Annie Murray

  Fifty-One

  ‘Auntie?’

  Melly tapped on the door of Gladys’s bedroom the next morning. When there was no answer she tensed with alarm. Opening the door, she tiptoed in, grateful for the strip of carpet on the floor which muffled her footsteps.

  All the time, even when she was doing something else, her mind had an extra pulse of Reggie, Reggie and all they had said the night before.

  She slid the cup and saucer she was carrying on to the chair by the bed, pushing aside Gladys’s black stockings that were lying there. Melly could hear the light rattle of her breath.

  Looking down at her she saw the face of an elderly, sick lady. Gladys’s hair had turned, rapidly, in the last months, from a dark chestnut threaded with white, to a greyish white like dirty snow. The flesh sagged on her big-boned face, there was a downward pull to her mouth. Even in sleep her brows were clenched in a frown and her eyes, those startling blue lights in her face, were closed.

  The sight of her shocked Melly with tenderness. Gladys had been so strong, like an impregnable fortress, all through Melly’s life. In Alma Street she had been the gaffer, queen of the yard. In Aston, she was someone. Now, here in Harborne, away from the old end and the neighbours who had drifted away, she was just another old lady, faded and unknown.

  Thank goodness she’s still got the Rag Market, Melly thought. But she had an ominous feeling, looking at Gladys. She had a bad chest – but was that all? Was there something really wrong? The idea of Gladys fading out of the world was shattering.

  ‘Auntie?’ She spoke a little more loudly.

  Gladys opened one eye, then the other. Immediately she looked more in possession of herself.

  ‘Uh? Oh! What, bab? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. Mom’s out and the others’ve gone to work.’ It was Melly’s day off from the sweet shop. ‘It’s late – gone half past nine. I’ve brought you some tea. How’re you feeling?’

  Gladys, trying to sit up, fell into such a bad fit of coughing that she couldn’t speak for quite a time. Melly helped her, but it felt very strange. Gladys had always been an intensely private person, her bedroom her kingdom where no one dare set foot. She had always been the same Gladys, downstairs in her dark clothes and shawls, her hair twisted up and pinned at the back. Melly was not used to dealing so intimately with her. She was aware, up close like this, of the slackness of the skin on Gladys’s arms, the spreading weight of her in her pale blue nightie. She was not a small woman. To make it easier, Melly pretended to herself that she was nursing again, as if Gladys was a stranger.

  ‘Oh,’ Gladys groaned, once she was upright. ‘Ta, bab. Ooh, I do feel bad. My head’s spinning. Give us a bit of that tea, will you?’

  Melly perched on the bed. She knew that Mom reckoned Gladys was putting it on now; was just after attention. But she felt sorry for Auntie. She’d been uprooted. She seemed lost and sad. Gladys took a sip of the tea and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and gave Melly a wink.

  ‘Ah, nectar!’

  She was well enough to joke, Melly noted. Perhaps she wasn’t so very bad after all.

  ‘How many sugars d’you put in?’

  ‘Three.’

  Gladys nodded. She took a few more sips, and seemingly restored, fixed Melly with a shrewd look.

  ‘You’ll have to take over for me, Sat’d’y,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be up to it.’ Without waiting for Melly to consent to this, she was off, giving orders about how much stock she had for the stall in the house in town where some of the market traders stored it, and about the money she’d need to take in and what she was going to have to do.

  ‘I know all this, Auntie,’ Melly laughed. ‘Mother’s milk. You don’t need to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, ar.’ Gladys peered at her over the rim of the teacup. ‘All right, then.’ She gave Melly a knowing look. ‘Where were you last night then?’

  ‘Out,’ Melly said, blushing.

  ‘With Dolly’s lad?’

  Melly nodded, looking down at the little flowers on Gladys’s eiderdown.

  ‘And?’

  Melly looked up, half smiling. ‘What d’you mean, and?’

  ‘Dolly do your hair?’ Gladys changed tack. ‘Looks all right.’ The style had held, to some extent, overnight. Melly nodded.

  ‘You could do a lot worse,’ Gladys said. She looked pleased, Melly thought. The Morrisons were like family already.

  ‘Auntie!’ She stood up. ‘I’ve only been out with him a couple of times!’

  She wasn’t going to tell anyone that Reggie was behind her like a steamroller wanting to get married.

  Melly was about to suggest breakfast when she saw that Gladys was looking solemnly at her.

  ‘Your father thinks I should move in here, doesn’t he? For good?’ She seemed in need of reassurance.

  Melly took a moment to answer, weighing her words. ‘You can’t go and live back there, can you?’ she said gently. ‘The place is falling to bits. But if you stop here a while you could find somewhere else. Somewhere you like?’

  Gladys gave a little belch, fist to her lips. ‘Well, if I’m going to go, the sooner I fetch the rest of my things out of there, the better.’ She seemed already to have made up her mind.

  Tommy had asked her to take a letter to the post for him and she went to buy him a stamp.

  On the envelope, in his painstaking handwriting, Melly read, ‘Invalid Tricycle Association’.

  Some club he was joining, he’d said to her as he got ready for work this morning.

  ‘Costs a pound – a year,’ he told her. ‘But they – have socials.’ He shrugged. ‘Might as well. Make – a change.’

  He seemed a fraction brighter, she thought. Getting his little car had definitely cheered him up. These concerns soon left her and she wandered along the road lost in thoughts about Reggie; how it had felt to be in his arms, his lips on hers.

  ‘I’ll come back and see you, soon as I can,’ Reggie had assured her as they kissed goodbye. ‘I don’t want to be away from you.’

  Melly had to admit to herself that she was quite glad he was away for a while. Everything felt so new and fast. She was still trying to catch up. As if none of it was quite real, like a dream or in the pictures.

  When she got home after posting Tommy’s letter, her mother had just got back from work.

  ‘She all right?’ Rachel raised her eyes to the ceiling in an exasperated way.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Melly said, filling the kettle. ‘She sat up and had her tea and a bit of bread and butter. But her chest sounds terrible. And she’s asked me to do her stall on Saturday.’

  Rachel turned. ‘Has she?’ This was a sign that Gladys must actually be ill.

  ‘She says she wants Dad to fetch the rest of her things.’

  Rachel stared at her. ‘What – not go back?’ Melly knew Mom did not really want Gladys here. She tutted and tightened her lips for a moment. Looking up again, she said, ‘What time d’you come in last night?’

  ‘Oh,’ Melly said vaguely. ‘I can’t remember.’

  She felt her mother looking at her. ‘You and Reggie – are you . . . ?’

  God, Melly thought, can’t anyone mind their own flaming business round here for one minute?

  She forced a laugh. ‘Mom! We’ve just been out a couple of times – and he’s not even here any more. He was just passing the time. You sound like one of those old matchmakers!’

  ‘Huh,’ Rachel said. ‘Well, you were out very late for someone just passing time.’

  Fifty-Two

  It was a beautiful July day. The markets were thrumming with life. In the Rag Market everyone was setting up, paying the Toby Man, laughing and joking. In the warm air the scents seemed intensified: cigarette smoke, the mustiness of old clothing, a whiff of perfume, chips frying somewhere in the distance. Soon it would be time for the punters to come in but for the moment the huge gates were closed.

  People kept asking her what she had don
e with Gladys. Everyone missed her. Melly had enjoyed setting up the stall the way she wanted. Gladys now sold a variety of things as well as second-hand clothes: a rack of skirt lengths, remnants for curtains, cards of poppas and safety pins and skeins of zips, spools of cotton, of bias binding and lace, of ribbons and elastic of varying widths. Melly set it all out to make it as attractive as possible, hanging things from the rails at the ends.

  Maybe I could do this, Melly thought, leaning her hands on her stall, checking everything was in order. In the distance she could see her father, his stall already set up, the leathers and sheepskins all hanging in neat rows and now a rack of second-hand furs. He was always on to the next thing. She smiled to herself, enjoying being in charge.

  Just as the gates were opening and the surge of shoppers burst inside, Danny came running over.

  ‘Here, kid – you’ll need these.’ He thrust some change into her hand and rushed back again.

  ‘Ta, Dad!’ she called. She stowed it in the purse she had tucked into her waistband.

  And then she was busy, with no time to think about anything except the crowds, keeping a sharp eye out for any light fingers round her stall, watching, chatting, selling. The warm weather brought a lot of people out for a mooch around ‘rag alley’ and soon the place was heaving and trade was brisk. Melly felt herself settle into her stride. The business came easily to her. Gladys would be pleased, she thought.

  She spent a long time with a lady who said she was making clothes for her daughter’s wedding.

  ‘There you are,’ Melly said, handing her a paper bag full of sewing things. ‘I hope she has a lovely day!’

  ‘Thanks, bab.’ The woman smiled. She was a straggle-haired, beaten-down-looking person who counted out every penny very carefully. Melly followed the woman with her eyes as she moved away into the crowd, dressed in a shabby grey raincoat on this hottest of summer days. As she looked she became aware, at the side of her vision, of someone watching her.

  ‘Hello.’

  Reggie. Just standing there, with his stick.

  ‘Oh!’ She was startled, her heart speeding up. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Well, that’s nice.’ He hobbled towards her. She liked the way he was dressed – jeans again, a blue-and-white checked shirt, the sleeves rolled. ‘I wanted to see you. I went to the house and they said you was over here.’

  He came close and kissed her cheek. ‘Ooh’s and other comments – ‘Aren’t you a lucky girl?’ and ‘Ooh, he’s a good-looking feller!’ – came from the cluster of women at the stall.

  Melly blushed. She was suddenly very pleased to see him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m working all day now. Auntie’s poorly.’

  ‘Yeah – your mom said. Never mind. I’ll come behind and give you a hand, shall I?’

  ‘You’re a natural at this,’ she said after he had sold a suit each to two Indian lads, both thin and bashful about their purchases. Reggie had talked to them nicely and helped them find a good fit.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Can’t be easy for ’em, can it?’

  The afternoon flew by. Danny popped over again at one point and greeted Reggie, surprised and pleased.

  ‘Come for a drink with us after, won’t you, Reg? We always go – the Adam and Eve. I’ll stand you a pint.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Booker,’ Reggie said. He smiled at Melly. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

  In all the marketing and packing up, she worked in a haze of happiness. It was lovely working with Reggie. He was good with customers and it was such a help to have another person there, who went off and bought her a cup of tea, somehow managing to carry the two cups in one hand as he moved his stick with the other. She even imagined the two of them making this their business. How would that be? But she was also relieved that they were out among the crowds, that this was not the time to talk about the future or what it might mean.

  After they’d packed up again and wheeled the remaining stock to the house nearby where they now stored it, they went up Bradford Street to the pub. The three of them stood amid the smoke and loud chat and laughter. Danny reminisced about the market and he and Reggie swapped army stories and Melly was happy seeing them together. She didn’t say much. It was an effort to shout at the top of your voice over all the racket and she was feeling weary.

  ‘Right,’ Danny said, draining his glass. ‘Better get back or there’ll be trouble.’ He rolled his eyes and Reggie laughed. Danny liked to give the idea that Rachel was a dragon who policed his every move. They all knew it wasn’t really true. ‘Want a lift, you two?’ he asked, when they got out into the street.

  They hesitated.

  ‘Shall we stay in town for a bit?’ Reggie said.

  Melly nodded. If they went home there’d just be all the kids and no privacy.

  ‘All right, then. Nice seeing you, Reggie.’ Her father set off down Bradford Street with his energetic stride.

  ‘He’s all right, your dad,’ Reggie remarked.

  He said it in a certain way, a way that made her think, he’s talking about his father-in-law. She felt herself tighten up inside, almost as if she was afraid.

  ‘Fancy something to eat?’ Reggie said.

  ‘Ooh, yes.’ Melly was starving hungry.

  ‘Come on then – I’ll show you a nice place. D’you like curry?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never had it.’ She’d heard her dad being rude about curry. It wasn’t exactly a favourite of his from his time in India.

  ‘It’s nice – come and give it a try. There’s a place just down here.’

  He took her arm and they strolled along, cutting through to Bristol Street. It felt funny to her, walking into the dark restaurant with its foreign smells. But Reggie said the food was really good. He seemed to know all about it.

  They settled at a small table and the waiters, all young men, fussed around them. One of them laid a napkin across Melly’s knees. She smiled and thanked him. There was a strange, perfumed aroma mixed with the spicy smells of the food.

  ‘This place opened last year,’ Reggie said. ‘Pete, one of the lads I did my training with in Kings Heath – he told me about it. The food’s . . . Well, I really like it.’ He leaned over as she peered, bemused, at the menu. ‘I can tell you some nice things if you like.’

  She felt the age gap again suddenly, Reggie much older and more experienced. He had learned to do all sorts of new things. And he had money. He ate in restaurants sometimes, something she had scarcely ever done, except for a couple of times before Christmas when business had gone especially well and Dad treated them.

  ‘The chicken’s nice,’ he said. ‘Go on – order what you like. It’s all on me.’

  He seemed excited, she thought. When she glanced up from the menu his eyes were drinking her in as if trying to memorize her, or as if – she realized afterwards – he was about to spring a surprise on her.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. She chose something that sounded fairly safe and Reggie ordered. He asked for lagers to drink.

  ‘D’you know why they serve lager in Indian restaurants?’ he asked, sitting back once the waiter had dissolved away like a shadow. ‘There’s this big restaurant in London called Veeraswamy’s, been open for years. And sometime before the war the Prince of Denmark went there for a meal. He liked it so much that he gave them a present of a whole lot of lager. I suppose they must have found it went well with the food.’ He laughed. ‘Pete told me that as well. He knows all sorts of odd things, like a walking encyclopaedia.’

  Melly laughed. She looked around her. There were a few other people in the restaurant, but it was only half past six – early as yet. She realized that today had made her feel less like drab little Melly. She had run the stall – run it well, she knew – and now she was sitting here, in a restaurant, with Reggie. She felt more grown up, her thoughts expanding wider.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me about Germany,’ she said. ‘You never said anything about your National Service.’<
br />
  ‘I will.’ Reggie took a drink of his lager. ‘Thing is though, Melly. I want to say summat first.’

  She saw that he was now full of some emotion that she could not read. He lit a cigarette and she noticed that his hands were not steady. He took a drag on it and set it down in the ashtray, his right hand reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Before they bring the food I want to . . .’ He had brought out a little blue box and, watching her, he opened it. Against a dark bed of velvet, she saw jewels winking – one at the centre a deep green, nestled between clear, glassy diamonds like tiny dots of light.

  ‘I know it’s been quick, Melly. But I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. Not since I saw you again. Being away from you is terrible. I love you with all my heart and I want to ask you to be my wife.’

  Fifty-Three

  Tommy had woken that Saturday morning with his heart pounding hard. He opened his eyes and looked round, startled. He was still in the back room downstairs on the put-you-up – of course he was. Auntie was in his old room.

  Usually he woke in a sweat about getting to work – still, after all this time. But there was no work today. As he sat up, he remembered that the reason for his pounding blood was excitement as much as nerves.

  ‘Dear Mr Booker . . .’ The letter had arrived by return of post from an address in West Bromwich. ‘Thank you for your subscription to the Invalid Tricycle Association.’ The letter went on to give him information about events and socials that were planned.

  ‘You may be interested in an event that is coming up shortly . . .’ There was to be an outing to Cannock Chase; a picnic and social with games. Times and meeting places followed. Today – it was today. And he had decided to go. He had dared himself. What else would he be doing, stuck at home? It looked dry and bright outside. He had no exact idea where he was going, but what the heck? He and his little car would find the way together.