by Anne Douglas
‘Look, we’ll be opening soon,’ she told him. ‘Folk will be arriving – we don’t want to see them yet, do we?’
‘I just want to go back home, Jess. If that’s all right?’
‘Of course it’s all right! I’ll phone for a taxi.’
‘Haven’t been too well, you see. Had a flare-up of an old problem in the transit camp here – not quite over it.’ Rusty ran his hand over his brutally cropped hair. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. None of this is how I’d planned it.’
So he was feeling the same? Jess had guessed it. And it was clear he’d been ill. More than ever, she longed to get him out of the cinema and home, and pulling forward a chair, asked him to wait while she told Edie she’d be out for the rest of the day and booked the taxi.
‘I don’t need a taxi, Jess. I came on the tram – I can go home on the tram.’
‘No, no, we don’t want to be taking the tram. But I’ll just speak to Edie and then we can go to the rank, if you like. Will you just wait here?’
‘Sure. I’m not going anywhere, except with you.’
When she had phoned Edie on the intercom from the box office and cut short her squeals of joy, Jess returned to Rusty.
‘Quick, let’s go – we’ve just got time, before everyone starts arriving.’
‘You seem very worried about getting away, Jess.’
‘I only want to be with you, that’s why. At least for today. Tomorrow, they can all see you, if you feel like coming in.’
‘I’ll be OK after a good night’s sleep.’
‘In your own bed,’ she said softly.
‘Now, that won’t seem real.’
They exchanged tentative smiles, then left the cinema, hurrying, as though on the run, as though they’d something to hide, scarcely seeing the people beginning to gather for the matinee, only feeling safe in the taxi they found waiting at the rank.
‘You’ll feel better at home,’ Jess whispered. ‘Everyone does.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘Just hope I can find you something to eat.’
‘Don’t feel hungry.’
‘I have some tinned soup. Isn’t that disgraceful? Offering you tinned soup for your first meal home?’ Jess tried to smile. ‘What would Ma say?’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing your ma again.’
‘Oh, she’ll be so glad to hear you’re back! I might try to slip out to the phone box and ring her at work.’
‘Do that,’ Rusty murmured, and lying back, closed his eyes. ‘Tell me when we’re home.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ Jess said and, leaning against his shoulder, took his hand.
Forty-Five
The soup was pea and ham, which, as Rusty said, was an improvement on the cabbage broth of the prison camp. But he didn’t want the omelette Jess said she could make him, courtesy of Derry, who had let her have a few fresh eggs from one of his sources.
‘Are you sure?’ she pressed. ‘You’ve lost so much weight, Rusty, you really need to eat to get your strength back.’
He shook his head. ‘I have to go carefully, don’t want to risk more problems. Wouldn’t mind a glass of milk, though, if you could manage it.’
‘Oh, yes, yes!’ Relieved she could give him something he wanted, Jess raced off to the kitchen, returning with the milk which he slowly began to sip. For a while she watched, then came to kneel beside his chair.
‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell me what’s causing the trouble.’
‘Just a stomach thing. Relic of camp food, I guess. The doctor who checked us out said it’d gradually go.’
‘You were pretty ill, weren’t you? In the transit camp? That’s why you didn’t get in touch?’
‘I’m better now.’ He ran his fingers down her cheek. ‘Now I’m home, with you.’
‘You must have had a terrible time, all those years,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You never really said – in your letters.’
‘Honestly, it wasn’t too bad. Could have been a lot worse. Provided you didn’t try to escape, and I never did, you weren’t badly treated.’ Rusty’s gaze was soft, melting with concern. ‘Look, I don’t want you being upset, Jess. I survived – that’s what matters.’
‘Yes, you’re right, it’s all that matters.’ She held him tight for a moment, protesting as he tried to pull her to his knee. ‘No, Rusty, I’m too heavy. Look, I’ll go back to my own chair.’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not as much of an invalid as all that!’ he cried. ‘If I can’t even have you on my knee, I might as well give up.’
‘No, just think about getting better. Stronger. Maybe we should see our local doctor – see if there’s anything he can do.’
‘All it needs is rest and time. Then I’ll be as I used to be. All the guys are pretty much in the same boat.’
‘If only you could have let me know how you were, though.’ She sat facing him, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘Or just that you were back. I’d no idea what was happening – no way of finding out. I even thought the Russians might have spirited you away.’
‘The Russians?’ He gave a rare smile. ‘They weren’t around us, though I did hear they hadn’t done much to help guys to get out from other camps. We just had to wait till the powers that be decided we could go. Then there was more hanging about and the journey back to the UK. Spending time in the transit camp, where I was ill – getting checked up and demobbed, sent on our way. Even got a gratuity, you know – a present from a grateful government.’
‘Well, they are grateful,’ Jess said seriously. She kissed Rusty on the cheek. ‘We all are – God knows we are.’
He was silent, before saying lightly, ‘Don’t suppose Marguerite was too pleased about her leaving present. I believe the women got less than the men.’
‘Never!’
‘Knew you’d be annoyed. But how is Marguerite? And Ben? And George and Sally?’
‘I told you about Sally having the baby? She’s back at the Princes, working part time. Wee Magnus is so cute – four years old now, her mother takes him. And George is keeping going with his brother-in-law. Seems resigned to it. Often pops in to the circle to see a film.’ Jess sighed. ‘I think he still misses us, to be honest.’
‘Poor old George. And Marguerite’s back at the cafe?’
‘Yes, and Ben’s back in the projection box. Missing you, he says. Keeps complaining about old Ron, but I’m grateful to Ron and the others who came in while you folk were away. They did a good job, they kept us going.’
‘Now you sound like the manager,’ Rusty remarked. ‘Which, of course, you are. Strange, that.’
‘What’s strange?’
‘Why, that when I come back . . . you’ll be my boss.’
‘Does that bother you?’ she asked, after a pause.
‘No, of course not. I’m proud of you, Jess.’
Was he? She stood up.
‘Rusty, you look all in. I think you should try to get some sleep.’
‘Shall I help you clear away?’
‘Two soup bowls and a glass?’ She laughed. ‘I think I can manage, thanks. No, I’ll just see if the geyser’s working – you might like a bath.’
‘Oh, God, yes. Most of us back from the camps take baths all the time. To remind us we can.’
Some time later, when Rusty was in their double bed, wearing a pair of ancient pyjamas Jess had found for him, she unpacked his bag and hung up his few clothes. All were new, for he’d had nothing but his old uniform to wear on his journey from the prison camp, and had been kitted out at the transit camp. There were some shirts and underclothes, a sweater and his demob suit, plus a hat she knew he would never wear, and some socks.
‘Pretty good, eh?’ he called from the bed. ‘More presents from the government?’
‘Well, at least you’ve something to wear.’
‘Better not put any weight on, or that suit won’t fit.’
‘Never mind the suit, you‘re going to put on weight. Ma said on the
phone, she’s already thinking out meals for you.’
‘Can’t wait.’ He laughed, then closed his eyes and lay back against his pillows. ‘Are you coming to bed, Jess?’
‘Just going to put your case away.’
The last time she’d unpacked a bag for Rusty, it had contained a bottle of whisky. There was no whisky now, and no mention of his earlier drinking had passed between them. Please God, there would be no need to speak of it ever again, Jess prayed, along with sending a thank you for Rusty’s safe return. Was it a bit of a cheek, sending up prayers of gratitude, when she’d never been to the kirk for years? Never mind, it seemed right. When she was so grateful.
Grateful, and happy. Yet, when she slipped into bed and lay beside Rusty for the first time since that last leave long ago, she was filled again with feelings of unreality. Was he really here, in their bed, as she’d so often imagined him? Or was she still in dreamland, wishing him home, clinging only to hope?
Stretching out her hand, she very gently laid it on his chest, at which he stirred and sighed and she too sighed, for she knew now that this was no dream, he was here, he was with her, in their own bed.
‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.
‘Never thought I’d be wearing pyjamas,’ he muttered. ‘On my first night home.’
Suddenly he turned and held her for a moment.
‘Jess, I’m sorry. It’ll be all right, I promise, but . . . tonight . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Rusty, I understand. There’s no need to say anything.’
‘Feel so bad.’
‘Look, you shouldn’t. This will all sort itself out. And like you said – you survived. We both survived. That’s what matters.’
‘That’s what matters.’
Soon, she could tell by his breathing that he was asleep, but there seemed no prospect of sleep for her. Time passed, while she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, until she got out of bed and moved to the window.
No blackout curtains now, of course, and the street outside was plainly visible, washed by the light of the moon. For a long time, she stood, watching the night birds in the trees opposite, and the movement of the leaves, thinking about the momentous day. How things had changed, in just a few hours! Rusty was home and everything in her life had taken on a new colour, a new meaning.
But how would it all work out? She’d thought his return would bring an end to anxiety, yet she seemed to have exchanged one set of worries for another, and somehow along the line had lost confidence. The truth was, she couldn’t tell how things would work out. Whether they ever would. For, if Rusty was real enough, he was not yet the Rusty who had gone away.
‘All the guys are pretty much in the same boat,’ he had said, and she was sure that that was true. It was going to take time for him, and men like him, to come back to what they had been. Take up a life they’d left, while living with memories of a life no one at home could share.
She held the curtain, still looking out at the silent street. How much time, though? She must just be patient, let things take their course.
‘Jess?’
There was his voice again, and turning, she found him beside her, bony arms outstretched.
‘Jess, can’t you sleep?’
‘Bit overwrought. So much happening.’
‘Poor girl. It’s been too much, hasn’t it? But true what I said, you know.’ He put his arms around her. ‘It will be all right.’
In the pale light surrounding their two figures at the window, she looked into his face.
‘I know,’ she said simply.
And as they went back to bed, arms entwined, she suddenly felt – perhaps it would be true.
Part Three
Forty-Six
On a warm June Sunday in 1946, Addie Raeburn’s family – Jess and Rusty, Ben and Marguerite – had gathered for one of her famous roast lunches. (How does she do it? Ben had asked Marguerite – not in the black market, is she? And then had laughed shortly, as she only looked at him pityingly, for he’d learned long ago not to be surprised at Marguerite’s own sweet-hearting of the butcher into letting her have something over the ration.) Anyway, the roast lamb was excellent, and so were the green peas provided by Derry, also a guest. And that was no surprise either, the way things were.
Addie, however, was not in a good mood, and as soon as the meal had been cleared away and the washing up done, had continued to grumble about the latest bad news to hit the British people.
‘Would you credit it?’ she cried, as Jess moved around, serving cups of tea or the new instant coffee she’d found. ‘Bread rationing! Yes, it’s official. Bread’s to be rationed from next month, cakes, scones and flour as well. How am I going to do my baking if I canna get enough flour?’
‘You’ll manage, Addie,’ Derry told her proudly. ‘You always do.’
‘Aye, but think about it. We’ve just been through a terrible war, and put up with every shortage going, but we never ever had our bread rationed. Now we’re at peace, they tell us we can have nine ounces a day! Fifteen for a manual worker, nine for the rest of us – I mean, what’s gone wrong?’
‘They say there’s a wheat shortage,’ Ben remarked. ‘But the rumours are that there’s more to it than that.’
‘Seemingly, it’s all to do with negotiations with America and Canada,’ Derry said. ‘Other countries in the world are in a bad way and food has to be found, so we’ve shown willing by offering to save grain and ration bread.’
‘Where’d you hear all this?’ asked Jess, as though interested, but her eyes were only on Rusty who was taking no part in the discussion.
‘Evening paper,’ Derry answered. ‘And I bet it’s true. I mean, would the government make itself unpopular if they’d any choice?’
‘Canna trust governments,’ Addie said darkly. ‘I heard that while we’re going to have our bread rationed, some farmers abroad have been feeding too much grain to their animals. Now that’s a piece of nonsense, eh?’
‘All I know is that it’s going to be a nuisance, having to worry about more stupid little bits of paper,’ Marguerite declared. ‘We’ve already got ration books and points and clothing coupons, and now we’ve got bread units as well. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Wonder how much nine ounces of bread actually is,’ Ben murmured thoughtfully. ‘How many slices, do you think?’
‘What the hell does it matter how many slices it is?’ Rusty shouted, suddenly clashing down his coffee cup and jumping to his feet. ‘Who cares? When you remember what’s happened in this world, haven’t we got something better to think about than how many slices of bread we’re going to eat, for God’s sake?’
‘Rusty!’ Jess cried. ‘There’s no need to speak to Ben like that!’
‘Not to worry,’ Ben said coolly. ‘We know Rusty’s not himself.’
‘I’d like to know why,’ Marguerite put in, her blue eyes glacial. ‘It’s time he got over what happened in the war, like the rest of us are having to do.’
‘We weren’t all in prison camps,’ Derry said sharply.
‘That’s right,’ Jess chimed, glaring fiercely at her sister.
‘Let’s all calm down,’ Addie said, gathering up cups. ‘Let’s no’ spoil a nice day.’
‘I’m going, anyway,’ Rusty muttered. ‘Sorry if I snapped, Ben.’
‘I said not to worry.’
‘And we’re going, too.’ Marguerite draped a pale blue cardigan around her elegant shoulders. ‘Come on, Ben, we’ve work to do.’
‘Work?’ Addie repeated. ‘On a Sunday?’
‘I’m taking a couple of days off to paint our living room,’ Ben said morosely. ‘Marguerite wants us to clear out my mother’s stuff today.’
‘No need to make it sound as though I’m throwing it away!’ Marguerite cried. ‘It can all go in boxes in the attic, if you want to keep it.’
‘Of course I want to keep it!’ Ben’s dark eyes were smouldering. ‘My mother’s things – what do you think?’
‘Do
n’t be upset, Ben,’ Addie said soothingly. ‘It’s natural for Marguerite to want to do the house her way. Every woman does.’
‘I’ve been wanting to do it for ages,’ Marguerite murmured, moving to the door. ‘Only I knew Ben would make a fuss.’
‘I am not making a fuss!’ he cried. ‘Just don’t want to see my mother’s stuff pushed out.’
‘I tell you, it’s going in the attic!’
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.’ Rusty, not looking at anyone, unhooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Many thanks, Ma, for a wonderful meal. Jess, are you coming?’
‘You’ll be back for a cup of tea?’ Addie cried. ‘Marguerite – I thought you’d stay on, too. I’ve a lovely Victoria sponge and there won’t be many more of them, after this bread rationing sets in!’
‘Sorry, Ma, got to get on. Ben, let’s away. Lovely dinner, eh?’
‘Grand,’ Ben muttered. ‘Thanks, Ma, Derry. Rusty, I’ll see you.’
‘Fine,’ Rusty answered, clearly desperate to get himself out of the door. ‘Come on, Jess.’
‘We might look in for tea,’ Jess told her mother. ‘If you’ve managed to make a cake.’ She let her eyes slide quickly over her sister and brother-in-law, then looked away. ‘Goodbye, Ben . . . goodbye, Marguerite.’
‘Don’t get mad at me, Jess,’ Marguerite said swiftly. ‘I only said what’s true.’
‘Why does the truth have to be so hurtful?’ Jess asked, and hurried down the stairs.
Forty-Seven
He might at least have waited for her, Jess thought, following Rusty towards the Shore, but there was his still thin figure striding ahead through the Sunday crowds, not even looking back.
‘Rusty, wait!’ she called, and he did then stop until she’d reached him, but made no apology for leaving her, only pushed back his now thick, waving hair and kept his eyes looking straight ahead.
‘What’s got into you this afternoon?’ she asked breathlessly, though even as she put the question, knew it was pointless. The way he’d been that afternoon was the way he was so often nowadays. Spiky, thorny, difficult. Quite different from the sweet-natured Rusty she used to know and had married. Sometimes, she reminded herself, it was only what she’d expected. When he’d first returned, it had been obvious that it would take some time for him, and men like him, to adjust to life back home. What she hadn’t expected was that it would take so long.