Frank was still talking. ‘We were part of the BEF that sailed from Southampton. You know how short transport was, in those early days? Well, we went in an old removal van. The blasted thing broke down before we were two miles from Cherbourg, so we left it there.’ He sounded bitter, but as she pushed through the curtain and stepped down into the kitchen he winked at her. She stared, felt compelled to give a quick smile, and went through to the scullery. ‘We marched to Laval singing the Lambeth Walk,’ she heard him say, ‘daft buggers that we were.’
Mary twisted the knob on the Ascot and watched the water run into the sink. She didn’t know what to make of him; she didn’t understand men, but then the only ones she’d ever really known were her father and brothers. Pursing her lips, she swished the small piece of carbolic soap around in the inch of warm water and then used it to scrub at the stain. If Bill and Patrick were true examples of manhood then, as she had told herself many times, she was better off not knowing. She dropped the cap in the bowl of cold water on the draining board and stood swirling it round with one finger. But perhaps Frank didn’t know where he stood with her either; maybe he was too embarrassed to say anything in front of her father. Somehow she doubted that. She picked up the kettle to fill it but stopped as she heard her father’s voice.
‘Same for us … Infantry … part of the Ashford mob.’
Mary waited. Her father never mentioned his war. She held her breath. What would he say next? But he didn’t speak again. She turned the tap on, the pipes shrieked as the water gushed out then clanked as she shut off the flow. She carried the kettle across the kitchen and, going round the back of Frank’s chair, put it on top of the range. ‘The fire needs more coal,’ she said.
It was as though she hadn’t spoken. Bill was shaking his head and studying his fists, his knuckles pressed tightly together. ‘We marched out of town singin’ Tipperary to Ashford’s brass band.’ His sigh came from deep within his chest and finished with a breathless whistle. Mary realised they weren’t even aware she was listening. ‘Loaded up like mules with all sorts of shit.’
He slapped his hands on the table and pushed himself up. Grasping the poker he stabbed at the coals before throwing a few more bits on. Grey ash fell into the can below the grate. The fire began to breathe small yellow flames so that their shadows wavered on the back wall of the kitchen.
Mary took two mugs from the hooks under the shelf on the wall and put them on the blue checked oilcloth. In the scullery she emptied out the sludge of leaves from the last brew and rinsed the pot before carefully spooning out a small scoop of tea leaves. All the time she listened and watched through the open door as Frank talked and Bill listened. Every day she patched up the injuries men did to one another in war, but she would never experience what these two men shared.
‘When we got to Belgium we were told we would have two, maybe three weeks to get ready, but the Jerries were on us in four bloody days,’ Frank said. ‘At least the damn Luftwaffe was.’ He leaned back on the chair until it rested on two legs and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘They didn’t attack us though. They just let us know they were there and we soon found out why. They were waiting for the rest of the buggers to catch up, the ground forces.’ He tugged on his earlobe, his mouth twisted into an embittered line.
‘Bloody thousands of them.’ He banged the chair legs back down onto the floor and stood up. ‘We should have known.’
When she came back into the kitchen, Mary saw he was watching her.
‘All the time we were going further into Belgium, people were flooding past us, getting out. All loaded up to the gills carrying everything they owned.’ He moved restlessly around the table, stopping to light a cigarette. ‘We hadn’t a clue what was going on, not a clue, and they wouldn’t tell us.’ His voice was bleak. ‘The women stared like they hated us … and the wailing … all those kids.’ He whipped round towards Bill. ‘The soldiers just shuffled past with their heads down. We didn’t realise they were retreating, until we collared one who could speak a bit of English.’ He flopped back down in his chair, blowing out cigarette smoke through clenched teeth. ‘We heard nothing from the bloody bigwigs. Our orders were to just keep going. We had no idea what was in front of us. And them in charge hadn’t a clue either.’
In the silence, the lid on the kettle lifted and fell back with a soft click, at first slowly, then faster. Steam gushed out of the spout and sputtered on the hot plate. Mary wrapped the towel around the handle of the kettle and poured the water into the teapot, stirring at the same time.
Both men watched. Then Bill spoke. ‘Aye lad, it were the same for us. They were useless then. Gave it a grand title, mind, ‘The Big Push’. They even ordered fuckin’ bagpipes to play somewhere. I dreamt about that sodding miserable noise for years.’ He coughed and, leaning over, spat into the middle of the fire. ‘Our lot started shelling to get rid of the Hun’s front lines but what with the bloody smoke and dust we couldn’t see a thing.’ He waited until Mary poured the tea into the mugs and moved away from the table. ‘We couldn’t keep up the artillery fire an’ when we stopped the Germans left their lines and set up gun posts, cool as you like. It were like a wall of shells exploding all over the place, coming at us, and behind them their infantry. We didn’t stand a chance.’
In the pause that followed, each man picked up their mugs of tea and slurped. Bill banged his down on the table. Tea slopped out and both men watched the thin brown liquid spread over the oilcloth, turning the blue checks into a mucky green.
When her father spoke again, it was almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘The mustard gas got me, bloody gas masks were neither use nor ornament. My skin came up in great sodding blisters.’ Mary squeezed her hands tightly together. ‘Burns your eyes, you know … Christ, that hurts. In the end it did my lungs in. I’ve been a useless bastard ever since.’
For the first time in her life she wanted to go and put her arms around her father, but when he looked up at her there was something, almost a warning in his eyes that stopped her.
On the range, the kettle, almost empty, spluttered – a hollow boiling. Without moving they all stared towards the noise.
‘That’ll burn through,’ Bill said, but he didn’t get up. He blew his nose loudly and shoved the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket.
Mary moved quickly and grabbed the handle. It was hot and as she shifted it to the side of the plate a bubble of air burst out of the spout and sprayed boiling water. She jumped, flapping her hands.
‘Are you OK?’ Frank leapt up. ‘Here, stick them under the tap.’ Grasping her arm, he ushered her into the scullery.
‘I’m fine. Honestly, it’s fine.’
‘Stop your damn fussing, man. You heard what she said. She’s OK. She’s a nurse, she knows what to do.’ Bill pushed himself off his chair. ‘Anyhow, I’m off to The Crown, see if I can get in by the back door. Are you coming or what? Our Patrick might be there.’
‘No, thanks, I said I’d wait here. He’s supposed to be off the line by five.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Bill slapped his cap on to his head and grabbed his jacket off the hook. He was pushing his arms into the sleeves and winding his scarf around his neck as he left; it was as though he couldn’t wait to get out of the house.
Mary was the first to break away. Turning the water off, she picked up the towel and, carefully drying her hands, walked into the kitchen. ‘I haven’t seen you at the camp for a few days.’
Frank followed. ‘No. I had leave owed so I took it – my knee was a bit crock.’
‘I’m sorry. That was our fault.’
He put his arm over her shoulder. ‘It was worth it.’
Mary tensed, told herself not to be stupid, yet she was aware at the same time that she was on her own in the house with a man she hardly knew; not a situation she’d been in before. Frank moved the pad of his thumb on her skin just above the neck of her jumper. It was too much, too familiar. She moved away.
On the mantelpi
ece the mechanics inside the clock softly whirred as the spring tightened, then the hammer struck against the metal band, six muffled beats. ‘Oh heavens, is that the time?’ Mary walked over to the fireplace and picking up the clock, wiped it with the towel. ‘I wonder when Mam and Ellen will be back. And Patrick!’ She replaced the clock and walked to the other side of the table from Frank, forcing herself not to touch the part of her neck he’d stoked, reluctantly acknowledging the stirrings of an unfamiliar excitement. She held on to the back of the kitchen chair, her face burning.
Frank smiled, watching her. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, shall I? I haven’t seen Patrick all week. I just needed an excuse to see you.’
He was lying. He’d talked to her brother a couple of days before in The Crown. And if it was true what Patrick had said about her never having had a boyfriend as far as he knew, she was probably still a virgin. The thought excited Frank.
Mary was stuck for words. God she was hopeless; for someone who gave orders and could run a hospital ward with her eyes shut, she was bloody useless in this sort of situation. ‘I’ve never heard Dad talk to anyone about his time in the war before,’ she said eventually. ‘You were honoured.’
Frank shrugged. ‘I like your dad. I think he’s easy to get on with.’
The words hung between them, the angry figure of her father on the night she stood up to him an unwelcome image for Mary.
‘I will have another brew, if that’s all right with you,’ Frank said.
‘Right.’ Mary hurried to the scullery, relieved to be doing something that broke the tension between them. ‘Build the fire up a bit, will you? Use the wood in the bucket, there. Mam’ll probably be frozen when she gets in.’
They sat drinking the tea on opposite sides of the table. Frank’s other arm stretched out across the surface, so that his fingers almost touched her hand.
‘So it’s just you and your mother at home?’ Mary said.
Frank shuffled in his chair, his ruddy complexion deepening. ‘Yeah.’ He rubbed the bump on the bridge of his nose and looked across at her. ‘My father buggered off years ago so there’s just me and Ma, most of the time. We rub along all right. She takes in washing for the big houses on Manchester Road and with my bit of an army pension and wage from the camp we manage OK. We rent a little two up, two down on Barnes Street. It’s enough for us. George, that’s my brother, he’s in the National Fire Service in Manchester, comes home when he can, kips on the sofa. He … can be a bit hot headed, but can’t we all? Next time he’s home you’ll have to come and meet him and Ma.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ He was very sure of himself. Mary wasn’t certain if it excited or annoyed her.
‘All right if I put some more coal on the fire?’
Mary nodded. ‘We’d better keep it going ’til Mam gets back, but use that wood in the bucket first, they’re bits that Dad scrounged from a bombed-out house in Atherton Street. Save on the coal.’ She picked up the two empty mugs. ‘I hope Mam and Ellen are all right. I bet she forgot to take her torch. Perhaps I should have gone round to Mrs Booth’s earlier.’
‘Do you want me to walk you round there?’
‘No, it’s too late now, they could be home anytime. I’d better clear these pots away.’
When she came back into the kitchen, Frank had put the two wooden chairs side by side in front of the fire and was sitting smoking a cigarette. He pointed towards the seat next to him. ‘Come and sit down, you look all in.’
‘I am tired,’ she admitted.
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘I’ll wait with you then.’ The wood crackled in the heat of the fire as it began to burn. ‘Ted?’ he asked. ‘Where does he fit in?’
‘He’s a family friend, we all grew up together. Well, really he was more of a friend to Tom, they were nearer in age.’
He stared into the flames for a couple of minutes and then said, ‘Tell me about your brother.’
Mary hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he’s tall, got light hair, blue eyes, just like Mam’s. He doesn’t fuss as much as Patrick about how he looks, but he’s just as handsome.’
‘Patrick told me he’s a Conscientious Objector. There doesn’t seem much love lost there.’
The anger flared immediately. ‘Patrick has a big mouth. Tom’s a lovely bloke and entitled to his own beliefs.’
Frank held his hands up. ‘Whoa, I was only saying.’
‘Yes, well,’ Mary said, ‘for some reason, Patrick’s been jealous of him for as long as I can remember. Stupid really, Tom was fourteen when he was born, but Patrick could never stand him getting any attention. He used to play up all the time.’ She smiled, trying to lighten the moment. ‘Generally being a nuisance really, typical younger brother.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Look, I know what people think about COs. I’m not expecting you to feel any different. Let’s leave it for tonight.’
‘No. I want to know.’ Frank was insistent. ‘Tell me.’
Mary’s hands, pressed palm to palm, were held tight between her knees and she hunched her back, feeling the clench of her stomach muscles. ‘Tom was always the odd one out, the only one in the family who still went to church when the rest of us lapsed years ago. I think I still believe, but these days I find it difficult. Not Tom though.’ How many times had she tried to understand the depths of Tom’s unquestioning faith? ‘His beliefs rule his life. It would have been easier for him if they didn’t. After it all came out, we discovered he’d belonged to a group in Manchester for ages. You know, meetings, talks on pacifism and so on and distributing leaflets about how he felt about violence, how he felt it wrong to get involved with the war. When he first refused to sign up, he was given exemption, provided he continued to work in local government; he was in the Stationery Department. But he turned that down. He said he wouldn’t work for a government of a country at war.’ Mary leant back in her chair and met Frank’s stare. ‘He was sent to London to Wormwood Scrubs and he’s been there on and off ever since. They keep trying to make him do fire watching and he won’t do that either. They’ve extended his sentence loads of times. Dad won’t have his name mentioned in the house, won’t let Mam visit him, wouldn’t let him come home the times he’s been released.’
A memory of the last grubby bedsit Tom lived in flashed into her mind. It had been in a part of Bradlow she didn’t even know existed, a maze of narrow streets lined with shabby back-to-back terraced houses and filled with gangs of dirty kids and barking dogs. She’d studied the bit of paper with the address written on it before pushing her way past the two women smoking on the bottom step of a flight of stairs. The door to Tom’s room was open and for a moment she’d watched him sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his arms sticking out of the sleeves of a jacket too small for him, his back shuddering with sobs.
‘They keep saying he has to do work that involves the war and he refuses. I think they do it for spite.’ Sparks flew from the fire on to the hearthrug and Frank reached out with his foot and stamped down on them. She couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking. ‘I admire what he did. I think it took a lot of courage.’
Frank leant forward, his hands clasped in front of him. Then he pressed his thumb against the first knuckle of each finger until it cracked. The noise jarred in the silence between them.
The back door latch clicked loudly. Winifred and Ellen ushered the cold night into the kitchen. Ellen was pale, her eyelids pink and swollen. She barely glanced at Mary and Frank as she hung up her coat and took off her shoes. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke to her mother. ‘I’m going up.’
Winifred didn’t seem to hear her. She sat down in the chair Frank offered without comment and sighed, holding her hands out to the fire. ‘It’s such a shame, Mary, so unfair. Hannah Booth only had her Ted since her hubby died. Now he’s gone too. It’s just not fair.’
Ellen gave out a loud wail and ran upstairs. After a moment her mother gestured with her head
towards the ceiling, her voice broken with fatigue. ‘She’s taken it bad. I thought she would settle for Ted one day, when she was ready. But coming home she tells me she’d written to him, telling him she’d met this American soldier – silly little fool – and that she’d only ever thought of poor Ted as a friend. Wishes she hadn’t now. I told her, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Can’t undo what’s done.’
‘That’s true,’ Frank said.
Winifred looked up at him and then at Mary.
‘Patrick’s friend, Mam, remember?’ Mary said. ‘He’s waiting for him.’
Winifred shook her head. ‘Our Patrick’ll still be picketing. Some of the men are going back into work tonight, so they’re going to be ready for them. He’ll not be home until morning.’
‘In that case,’ Frank said, ‘I’ll get out of your way.’
Winifred gave him a faint smile.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Mary stood up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on in a minute, Mam.’
‘I’d rather have a stout, I think, Mary. Get me a mug, will you?’
At the door Frank bent his head and whispered, ‘See you tomorrow?’ His lips brushed her cheek.
There it was again; that small thrill of excitement. ‘Probably,’ she said.
Mary carefully slid her arm from under Ellen’s shoulder and folded the eiderdown around her neck, listening to the gulps and gradual slowing of her breath. Ellen had allowed Mary to comfort her and it had taken a while for her to calm down. Mary wasn’t sure whether it was genuine grief or guilt from the way she’d told Ted about the American soldier. She had suspected she was still seeing the Yank, tonight her mother had confirmed it.
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