After the War is Over

by Maureen Lee

  ‘Does that mean I’ll go in a nursing home?’ Nell asked.

  Iris shook her head. ‘Tom and I have a little cottage in a village called Caerdovey on the Welsh coast. We used to stay there, mainly at weekends, before the war. During the war, the army requisitioned it for their own use. Perhaps we could all drive there on Sunday and see what sort of state it’s in.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Tom said crisply. ‘We’ll just have to think of a way of putting people off if they decide to come and see you. Oh, and we’ll need fresh bedding and dishes and other essential items.’ He reached for Nell’s hand. ‘The new year couldn’t possibly have got off to a better start. Thank you, Nell.’

  Iris squeezed Nell’s other hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said softly.

  ‘Do you really think it will happen?’ Iris asked Tom later when they were in bed. ‘That by the time summer comes, we’ll have another baby?’

  ‘I don’t think Nell will change her mind,’ Tom said thoughtfully, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on something else happening to spoil it.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘A miscarriage, her family finding out, our family finding out, something completely unexpected occurring that doesn’t come to mind at the moment.’

  ‘It seems too good to be true,’ Iris sighed.

  Tom kissed her. ‘Don’t get your hopes up too much, darling. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed for the next five months.’

  Soon afterwards he fell asleep, and Iris lay for a long time wondering who the father of Nell’s baby could be. Frank was at the top of her list – Constance would have a fit if she knew Iris regarded her husband as a potential rapist. Though Nell had said it wasn’t rape. The faces of the men at the party were lined up in Iris’s head like an identity parade in a police station, mostly elderly faces, friends of her in-laws. Some she couldn’t remember. Paddy O’Neill had been there, but hadn’t moved out of the parlour as far as she knew. Ryan O’Neill for the last hour or so. And what about Tom, who’d been there longer than anyone and was the only person who knew Nell was ill in bed?

  ‘I wasn’t raped,’ Nell had said. Did that mean a man had intercourse with her and she didn’t mind? It was hardly what Iris would have expected of the Nell she knew.

  In the end, she gave up. All that mattered was that Nell was giving her baby to the Grants. Iris closed her eyes and tried to sleep. For a change, it was happiness and excitement that kept her awake.

  Just after lunch on the second day of January, Maggie, seated in front of her typewriter at Thomas Cook’s, became aware that waves of horrible pain were spreading over her body and she felt an overwhelming desire to vomit. As the afternoon wore on, she came to the conclusion that she must have the three-day flu that was doing the rounds. She made her excuses to the woman in charge of her section and went home, managing to reach her flat in Shepherd’s Bush on the tube, feeling sicker with each mile. Once in the house, she dragged herself upstairs, collapsed on the bed fully dressed and fell into a horrible, restless sleep.

  Some time later, when it was dark outside, she woke up freezing cold and shivering so much that her teeth really did chatter. She groaned loudly and wished she were back in the army. She’d never been a patient in the little hospital with just four beds in the women’s ward, but she had visited sick friends there. It was always warm, a wireless played all day long, and the nurses were friendly and caring.

  Right now, she would have given anything for a hot drink and a cool hand on her brow, but there was no chance of either. The only hands available were her own rather clammy ones – she’d begun to sweat horribly – and she wasn’t up to making her way down to the kitchen on the floor below to boil water.

  Oh God! She felt so miserable. She buried her head in the pillow, determined not to cry. It had been her own decision to come to London, and she must put up with the fact that there wasn’t a soul to look after her now she was ill.

  She sat up, removed her coat and immediately felt cold again. Fortunately she hadn’t made the bed that morning, so it was easy to wriggle under the blankets still wearing her furry boots. She was trying to kick them off when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she wheezed, realising too late that she should have asked who was there. Lord knows who she had invited into her room. It was a relief as well as a big surprise when the door opened and Alicia Black, leading light of the ex-servicewomen’s club, came in.

  ‘Darling!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, just look at you, you poor soul.’

  Maggie couldn’t help herself; she burst into tears.

  ‘There, there!’ Alicia soothed. She knelt by the bed and removed the boots, smoothed the bedclothes, lifted Maggie’s head, shook the pillow and carefully laid it back again. She enquired where the kitchen was and went to make tea.

  ‘The milk you said was yours was sour, so I used someone else’s,’ she said when she came back with two cups on a tray. ‘Could you bear to be propped up a little so you can drink this comfortably? When you’ve finished, I’ll help you change into a nightie.’

  ‘Thank you.’ While she was being propped up, Maggie remembered that Alicia had been a nurse in the WRNS. She was an attractive woman of about thirty with the most beautiful skin and dark red hair. ‘How did you know I was ill?’ she managed to croak.

  ‘I went looking for you at work, darling,’ Alicia said in her dead-posh voice, ‘and was informed you’d gone home feeling rotten. Daphne told me only this morning that she’d met you the other night in Trafalgar Square and you’d both gone to a party, where she’d met this delightful Polish gentleman called Jack and fallen in love. All thoughts of why she’d gone to the square in the first place, to fetch you, were forgotten. As for your address, it’s on our list of members.’

  Maggie was still cross that Daphne had managed to nab Jack Kaminski when it was she who’d seen him first – he’d actually spoken to her, in fact. She’d been landed with Drugi, who was much too young and boyish. All four were meeting again on Saturday and going to another party. Maggie hoped she’d be better in time.

  There was a further knock on the door. This time Alicia leapt to her feet and went to answer it.

  ‘My mother saw Maggie come home earlier and said she didn’t look a bit well. She wants to know if there’s anything she – or I – can do?’ Maggie recognised Philip Morrison’s voice.

  ‘Come in, please. I’m Alicia, by the way.’

  ‘How do you do? I’m Philip. Hello, Maggie.’ He came in, gave her a cursory glance, then turned what could only be described as an admiring gaze on Alicia, who gazed admiringly back. It took quite a few seconds before they remembered Maggie was there.

  ‘Hopefully you’ll be a little better by tomorrow,’ Alicia said when Philip had gone. ‘Would you like another cup of tea before I go?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘About Philip, is he married?’ she asked in a way that was supposed to be casual but sounded terribly contrived.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  Maggie couldn’t remember. ‘He designs things,’ she muttered. She was grateful Alicia had come to see her, but longed for her to leave so she could sleep.

  Philip returned with the hot-water bottle and the drink, and shortly afterwards he and Alicia left to have dinner together and Maggie fell asleep.

  News spread throughout the house in Shepherd’s Bush that one of the residents on the fourth floor was ill. Maggie was brought flowers and meals and other gifts, but it wasn’t these that made her feel better, but the cheery faces that appeared around her door to wish her well. It was almost worthwhile having three-day flu and making so many new friends as a consequence.

  Chapter 8

  The property in Wales wasn’t exactly Nell’s idea of a cottage, being merely the end of a terrace of nine similar houses on the edge of a coastal village. It had two bedrooms, two living rooms, and a tiny kitchen tacked on the back. There was no bathroom and the lavat
ory was in the yard. There was no gas or electricity in this part of the village, but the place was well equipped with paraffin lamps, and there was a paraffin stove in the kitchen.

  Iris and Tom had looked doubtful when they and Nell had gone to look round the place early in the new year.

  ‘I don’t recall it being quite so basic,’ Iris commented as she looked at the peeling wallpaper and crumbling putty on the windows.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Tom. ‘It needs decorating from top to bottom – and the furniture throwing away and new stuff bought.’

  The place was clean, but that was all. Iris suggested they look for a proper holiday cottage that they could rent, perhaps closer to Liverpool. ‘Though we’ll need to have this place done up if we ever want to use it again.’

  Nell suggested they had it done up now. ‘Why not see what it looks like when it’s finished? You would have had it done anyway, so it’s no loss. Then you can decide whether to look for somewhere else if you don’t like it.’

  ‘Good idea, Nell.’ Tom went out to search for the local builder, and Iris and Nell to a hotel on the high street, where they ordered tea and scones.

  ‘I’ll measure the windows before we leave so I can have curtains made,’ Iris said, ‘and make a list of what furniture has to be bought.’

  ‘Why does she need you to stay in Wales with her all that time when she’s married to a bloody doctor?’ Alfred Desmond enquired suspiciously when Nell informed him of her plans.

  ‘Tom can’t possibly stay in Wales with her, Dad,’ she explained. ‘He’s got his patients to look after. Iris needs peace and quiet, like; her blood pressure’s sky high. And it’s ever so noisy in their house; people turn up at all times of the day and night and the telephone never stops ringing. And what with the trams running right past . . .’ She shook her head, as if it was sheer bedlam in the doctor’s house, which indeed it was sometimes. ‘Iris’ll stay in the nursing home, and I’ll live just around the corner and go in and see her every day. Otherwise, she’ll feel dead lonely.’

  ‘Me, I feel dead flattered that the doctor wants our Nellie to look after his wife while she’s up the stick,’ Mabel said.

  ‘Are you getting paid?’ Alfred wanted to know. He still looked suspicious, but then his own actions were so crooked that he found it hard to comprehend that a person could help another without expecting a reward.

  ‘We haven’t discussed it, Dad.’ She had no intention of selling her baby for cash.

  They moved to Caerdovey on the first Sunday in February, arriving by car at midday. It was a bitterly cold day, but the woman who lived in the house next door, Nerys Jones, who’d been engaged as a cook and cleaner, already had a stew prepared, and fires had been lit in both the downstairs rooms.

  Iris rubbed her hands together. ‘It’s nice and warm in here,’ she said gratefully. She seemed to feel the cold more intensely than most people.

  Nell wandered about the house admiring the wallpaper – plain and pale, as Iris had requested. The creams and light greys made the rooms appear bigger, and the flowered curtains looked dead pretty. The linoleum was an unobtrusive mottled pattern. The Irish Sea could be seen from the upstairs windows, a not particularly attractive sight today – the water was leaden and the sky a depressing mixture of black and grey clouds.

  Tom shouted that he’d like to have lunch immediately, so he could get back to Liverpool before it got dark.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Tom said after they had eaten and he was ready to leave, ‘if this place isn’t satisfactory, we’ll find somewhere better. In case of emergency, you can ring me from the telephone in the post office.’ He kissed his wife on the lips and Nell on her cheek. ‘I’ll be back again next Sunday,’ he promised and was gone.

  Nell surveyed the range of items spread out on the table, brought to keep them occupied during the forthcoming months: baby knitting wool, needles and crochet hooks, tiny gowns to be embroidered along with the coloured thread to do it, books, writing pads, drawing pads, crayons . . . There was also a wireless with an acid battery.

  ‘I suggest we go for a walk on the sands every morning, as long as the weather is nice, that is.’ Iris began to put the books in a row on the new sideboard. ‘I must say,’ she added, smoothing her hand along the sideboard top, ‘I really like this utility furniture. I much prefer it without beading and curly bits and fancy knobs. It looks really expensive.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Nell murmured. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘Yes, but this tea is all you’ll be allowed to make,’ Iris said sternly. ‘Nerys is going to cook all our meals except for breakfast. I must give her our ration books later, so she can register us with the local grocer.’

  ‘I would have been happy to do the cooking.’ Nell was worried she would become bored with nothing to do. She wasn’t much good at needlework. She liked reading at bedtime, but it seemed self-indulgent to do it during the day.

  ‘Tom has ordered you to do nothing but rest. Are you wearing your wedding ring, Nell?’

  Nell displayed the ring on her left hand that she’d bought for sixpence from Woolworth’s in Bootle. ‘It’s brass. I bet it turns me finger green.’

  ‘Perhaps you should take it off at night.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember.’ Nell twisted the ring around. She’d been introduced to Nerys as Mrs Nell Desmond. She said the words out loud. ‘Mrs Nell Desmond.’

  Iris looked up and smiled. ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me and Tom, Mrs Nell Desmond.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Nell said lightly. She didn’t know what else to say, or how to explain that she felt just as grateful to Iris and Tom for taking her baby as they were to her for giving it to them. She’d known girls in the army who’d got into her position and had abortions, but as far as Nell was concerned, an abortion was out-and-out murder. She could never have lived with herself had she had her baby murdered. Giving it away to strangers was almost as bad, knowing that somewhere in the world she had a son or a daughter she’d never see again and who wouldn’t know who its real mother was. Letting it go to people she loved was the perfect solution. She went into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make that tea.’

  Iris had insisted that Nell sleep in the front bedroom. ‘It has the best view. In fact you’re to have the best of everything.’

  When Nell pulled back the curtain next morning, the Irish Sea looked just as miserable as the day before and the sky just as leaden. She was about to turn away when she glanced downwards and shouted, ‘Iris!’

  ‘I know,’ Iris yelled back. ‘I’ve just opened the curtains and seen the hills behind – they’re covered in snow!’

  ‘It’s deep, really deep.’ Nell put on her new extra-warm dressing gown and slippers and went downstairs. She pulled back the curtains and gasped. A snowdrift covered half the window.

  Iris came in. ‘It’s been this deep down south for days,’ she said.

  ‘And now it’s this deep in Wales.’ Nell shuddered. ‘I don’t like it – it makes me feel trapped.’ It was like being in a giant white coffin.

  ‘When Nerys comes, I’ll ask if she knows someone who will clear it away.’

  Although Nerys only lived next door, she’d still have to battle through the thick snow to reach them. ‘Can we turn the wireless on?’ Nell asked.

  ‘You can do anything you want,’ Iris insisted.

  Nell switched on the wireless. A cultured male voice on the BBC was reading the eight o’clock news. Heavy snow had reached the Midlands, he announced, and was due to spread further north that very night.

  ‘I suppose it’s about time the north had its share.’ Iris knelt down and began to brush the ashes out of the grate. ‘This still feels warm.’

  Nell had only just discovered that she hated snow, this sort of snow, the sort that stopped you from leaving the house. The voice on the wireless was at least confirmation that she and Iris weren’t the only two people on earth left alive. Coming from a city, she wasn’t used to being isolated.
She pulled the dressing gown around her as if it offered protection, not just warmth, whilst saying a little silent prayer that the snow would soon go away and never come back. ‘We didn’t bring wellies,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Iris sneezed. The ash must have got up her nose.

  ‘Wellies – wellingtons, we didn’t bring any. We won’t be able to go out in the snow.’

  ‘We couldn’t anyway, Nell. The boots would be full of snow before we’d gone a few feet.’

  The back door opened and Nerys burst in covered with clumps of white and carrying a brown muggin teapot. She was a well-built woman of about sixty, with red cheeks and a determined face, who would prove to be worth her weight in gold in the near future.

  ‘I could hear you from next door cleaning the fireplace,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But that’s my job, luvvies. You both sit down now in the other room and have a cup of tea while I light the fire.’

  Nell hadn’t thought she was frightened of anything apart from obvious things like axe murderers and escaped lunatics. The loudest thunder didn’t bother her, nor the sharpest cracks of lightning. She wasn’t a hypochondriac, never became hysterical, wasn’t afraid of the dark, but being shut in a house surrounded by snow, unable to get out, she had discovered was quite terrifying.

  ‘This is cosy,’ Iris would say when darkness fell and they sat down to read or sew or knit.

  Within a few days, it became obvious that the entire country was covered by a thick blanket of white and there was no sign that the snow would soon stop falling. Blizzards came, lasting forty-eight hours. Winds lashed the unprotected houses, screaming down the chimneys and round the edges of windows and doors.