‘Oh, Winnie, it’s snowin’! Isn’t that lovely? You’re goin’ to have a white weddin’ after all.’
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God . . .’
The vicar was looking down his nose a bit as he recited the words in his thin voice. Winnie knew that he didn’t approve of her marrying an American, or of his church being full of them either. Lots of them had turned out to give Virgil a good send-off because he’d done the two tours.
Dad was swaying slightly on the other side of her. He’d had to fortify himself from the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the kitchen dresser before they set off, and when he’d held out his arm to her at the church he’d hissed: ‘I’m not doin’ this again for you, Winnie. This is the last time.’ He hated getting dressed up and all the fuss. She had walked down the aisle more holding him up than the other way around. Virgil had been there, waiting for her and the way he’d smiled at her had made her knees go as wobbly as Dad’s.
‘. . . into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.’ The vicar, mouth pursed, turned reluctantly to Virgil.
After the service she walked down the aisle on Virgil’s strong arm, between the rows of smiling faces that made up for the vicar’s long one, and to what wheezing notes Miss Hobson, the village school teacher, could coax out of the old organ. On her left hand was the gold wedding ring, sent from America, that had belonged to Virgil’s grandmother – the one who’d gone out west to homestead the new land in Ohio, and on her right was the amethyst ring that had been hers too. It gave Winnie a proud feeling to be wearing them when they had belonged to someone like that.
Ten American servicemen from the base and ten WAAFS from Flaxton had formed a guard of honour outside the church for them. The sun was shining, making the snow sparkle, and the sky was clear and blue. In the far corner of the churchyard the red berries in the holly wreath she had laid on Ken’s grave that morning stood out brightly. He would have been glad for me, she thought with certainty. I know he would.
As they reached the lych-gate there was the sound of a heavy bomber approaching. All eyes turned upwards as a B17 came into view, flying low. It roared straight over the church and dipped its wings in salute, and everyone could see Wattagal Winnie! in big letters on the nose and the painting of her in her blue dungarees and checked shirt.
‘That’s for you,’ Virgil said, grinning at her.
‘Oh, no,’ she told him. ‘It’s for you. For what you’ve done.’
‘Well, I guess, it’s for both of us.’ He put his arm round her shoulders.
Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes were strung together round the walls of the village hall and bunches of holly and mistletoe hung from the rafters. Up on the cramped little stage the band was getting ready, unpacking instruments and setting up music stands. Chairs had been placed in a regimented row at the edge of the room and near the door three trestle tables had been laden with food – with sandwiches and bridge rolls, cold turkey, spam and ham, big bowls of tinned fruit, shiny red, green and yellow jellies, blancmanges, biscuits, chocolates, candy and great tubs of American ice-cream. And from the centre of all this rose the glistening white three-tiered edifice of the wedding cake. To go with the feast there were jugs of orangeade, bottles of home-made wine donated from village larders, and a barrel of beer from the Pig and Whistle.
As the Elmbury villagers and the WAAFS from Flaxton crowded into the hall there was a long moment’s silence in appreciation of the sight that met their gaze. Then, with one accord, they fell upon the tables. The Americans, hanging back politely, watched in wonder.
Later, when the band began to play – softly at first – Virgil gathered Winnie in his arms. ‘Told you from the first you was the girl for me,’ he said in her ear. ‘Now you’ll always be mine.’
The lower the level in the beer barrel and bottles sank, the higher the noise level in the hall rose. And the faster the band played. Young and old took to the floor. Winnie, having a breather for a while, saw that even Dad was hopping about with Mum, waving his hands in the air. The WAAFS and the village girls were jiving wildly with the Americans and Nora squealed like a pig going to market as she was pitched over her partner’s broad shoulder.
‘Gee . . .’ The sergeant standing beside Winnie was chewing gum and clicking his fingers as he stared at the scene in disbelief. ‘This old joint’s really jumpin’!’
Gran had found herself a chair strategically close to the trestle tables and the plate on her lap was piled high with samples of everything within her reach. Winnie went to sit beside her. She smelled strongly of the camphor used to keep the moths away from her best dress, and the lace bib that had been clean on that morning was well-spotted now. Her black straw bonnet was tied with a ribbon under her chin and must have been very old.
‘You all right, Gran?’ Winnie shouted in her ear.
‘Whoi wouldn’t oi be? T’ain’t the fust party oi’ve bin ta, yew know. Gideon an’ me liked a bit o’ fun an’ dancin’ at Chrissmus.’
She was tapping her foot to the music and Winnie saw that she had put on the nylon stockings that Virgil had given her instead of her black woollen ones – only they were on the wrong way round, with the seams in front and the heels hanging like pouches round her ankles.
‘’Tis good to see our boys enjoyin’ thareselves so finely.’
She meant the Americans, Winnie realized. Our boys, she’d called them. Other people in the village called them that too, in spite of the vicar. They weren’t those Yanks any more. They were our boys.
She watched Virgil dancing with Ruth, bending down to teach her how to jive, twisting her gently this way and that. Laura was jumping about close by, wanting to be taught too. As he swung Ruth round he caught sight of Winnie and gave her a huge wink just like the one he’d given her the very first time she’d seen him at the dance.
Gran had been quaffing her elderberry wine and now she jabbed a bridge roll in Virgil’s direction. ‘Knew he was the one fur yew, soon as I set eyes on’m. Alus puts me in moind o’ Gideon.’
Winnie knew why. Virgil was not only tall and strong like Grandad had been, he was very brave too, and Grandad must have had plenty of courage. He had gone off to fight on the North-West Frontier in India in his youth and been wounded, and been given a medal that Gran kept in a matchbox. Virgil had been wounded too and he had been given two medals for what he’d done. She’d sewn the ribbons on for him and she’d never felt so proud of anyone.
They went to Cambridge for their honeymoon and because of the snow and the slow train it was very late by the time they arrived at the Garden House Hotel. The manager looked at them with open suspicion, fingering the register.
‘I’m not sure that we have a room after all, sir.’
Virgil leaned one arm on the reception counter. ‘This here’s my wife, ’case you was wonderin’, mister. We’re just married. She’s done me the honour.’
The manager smiled then. He turned the book round and pushed it forward. ‘Congratulations, sir. I’m sorry . . . we get so many who aren’t.’
He brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses up to their room and opened it for them with a flourish. ‘May I wish you both every happiness.’
‘Nice guy,’ Virgil said when he had left the room, wishing them a good night. ‘I ain’t never drunk champagne before.’ He was taking off his jacket and loosening his tie.
Nor had Winnie but she took several big swallows. It was now or never. ‘Virgil, there’s somethin’ I’ve got to tell you.’
He picked up his glass. ‘Sure . . . fire away.’
‘Well . . . well . . . well . . .’
‘Aw, come on, honey,’ he grinned. ‘Can’t be that bad.’
She swallowed some more champagne and burped. ‘Well, you know I told you that Ken, my first husband died . . .’
‘No disrespect to him, but I sure hope he did else we’re breakin’ the law, an’ that guy downstairs is gonna want his champagne back.’<
br />
‘Yes, he did. Just like I told you. But you see, before that he was ill – for a long time.’
‘Yeah, I remember you said. Poor guy.’
‘Right from the day we got married he was poorly. He had a bad chest an’ cough, an’ he was very weak ’cos of his heart. I knew he was dyin’ – that’s really why I married him. We were goin’ to wait ’til after the war otherwise.’
‘Gee. Kind’ve a tough situation.’
She nodded. ‘The thing is Ken was so poorly most of the time that he never . . . we never . . . he never . . .’
Virgil put down his glass slowly, staring at her. Then he went and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Wait a second, Winnie. Am I receivin’ you right? You tryin’ to tell me he ain’t never made love to you? That it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Jeez . . . I feel real sorry for the guy, but to tell the truth I’m kinda glad too. Can’t help feelin’ like that. So, you ain’t never –’
She shook her head.
‘With nobody?’
‘No.’
‘Not even that Welsh guy?’
‘Specially not him.’ She shivered. He tried, though.’
‘Wish I’d punched him harder.’ There was a smile lurking round the corners of Virgil’s mouth. ‘An’ I guess you’ve been worryin’. Thinkin’ I’d figure you’d know the score?’
‘Somethin’ like that.’
‘Well, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry ’bout, Winnie. Never had. But I’m glad you told me.’ The smile broadened. ‘Say, that’s a real cute hat, but I can’t get at you with all that nettin’ in the way. You plannin’ on keepin’ it on all night?’
‘Oh.’ She took off the little hat and veil.
‘That’s better.’ He bent and kissed her gently. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, see.’
After a moment or two he said: ‘This suit you’re wearin’ sure is pretty too, but I reckon it’s ’bout time that came off as well.’
He unbuttoned the jacket for her, and then the blouse underneath, and then her skirt, and soon she was standing there in her petticoat.
‘Mum made this for me,’ she faltered, looking at the floor. ‘It’s parachute silk. We got some damaged from Flaxton.’
‘It’s real pretty too.’ He lifted her chin and held it in his hand, looking into her eyes. ‘But I ain’t gonna let you keep that on neither.’
He picked her up easily and cradled her against him, and kissed her again. ‘Nor what’s under there. Fact is, Winifred Gillies, I ain’t lettin’ you keep anythin’ on at all.’
The Dakota gathered speed down the runway and rose into the air. Anne watched RAF Northolt and England drop away in a hazy pattern of little houses and roads and fields, with splashes of new spring green and the bright glint of a river.
The American army officer in the seat beside her leaned across. ‘Isn’t that Windsor Castle down there?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I went to see it once,’ he said. ‘Wonderful place. And that famous school there where they wear top hats and tails . . .’
‘Eton.’
My brother went there, she wanted to tell him. We used to visit him and every summer they have this wonderful day in June . . . But she couldn’t bring herself to talk about Kit to a stranger. He was nice looking and polite and very friendly, and he’d helped her to get her luggage on board, but she couldn’t talk to him about Kit.
She watched the castle fade into the distance and presently the Dakota flew into cloud and England vanished from view. Liberated Brussels lay ahead. It was only the second time that she had been abroad in her life – the first was a family holiday in France – and she felt as eager about it as she had then. She had volunteered to be sent to Europe soon after D-Day but it had been early March before her posting had come through. The Americans had just crossed the Rhine that very day. It had been announced on the wireless and the newspapers had carried the simple headline: They’re Over! Cologne had been taken. The Allies were advancing fast. And in the Far East the Yanks had been setting fire to Japanese cities with incendiary bombs. The final act of the war was being played out. Some of the newspapers had printed photographs of the ruins of Cologne. She had been shocked, at first, by the total devastation, by the mountains of rubble and by the carnage until she had reminded herself of what the Luftwaffe had done to London and English cities.
The American was offering her a cigarette. Philip Morris – the same brand that Frank had smoked. He reminded her quite a bit of Frank; he had similar coloured eyes and the same direct look. That brass thing on his shoulder meant that he was a major, if she’d got it right.
‘Will you be based in Brussels?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘At our 2nd TAF HQ there.’
‘That’ll be in the Rue de la Loi.’
‘Do you know Brussels, then?’
‘Pretty well. I’ve been there on and off ever since your people liberated it.’
He’d know where to go and where not to go, how to get things done and how not to get things done – all the gen. She bent her head towards his lighter flame.
‘Do tell me all about it.’
Brussels was lovely old buildings and cobbled streets and squares and very grateful Belgians. We’re liberators, she thought, as yet another one smiled at her. They’ve lived through five years of German occupation, and that’s something we’ve never had to suffer – though we came close to it. The civilians looked hungry and poorly-nourished and she felt embarrassed by the good service rations. There was, naturally enough, a flourishing Black Market.
The 2nd Tactical Air Force Headquarters was in a tall building in the Rue de la Loi known as the Palais Residence, while RAF airmen and WAAF airwomen were billeted in separate blocks in a large barracks in the city called the Caserne Baudouin, previously occupied by the Luftwaffe. The walls inside the barracks were decorated with huge paintings of Dorniers and Heinkels and Messerschmitts in dramatic flight and the Mess had well-polished refectory tables. The Germans had considerately installed a completely new plumbing system that worked wonderfully and as Anne made a tour of inspection of the airwomen’s quarters she marvelled at the shining taps that gushed forth constant hot water, compared with the lukewarm dribblings in many WAAF ablutions in England. Here were no cracked basins or missing plugs, no slimy duckboards or sacking partitions, no rust-streaked baths painted with a black line to mark the permitted five inches of tepid water. The WAAF slept in light and airy dormitories and on good beds, though one airwoman complained to her.
‘I don’t like the idea that I’m sleeping in some German’s bed, ma’am. It gives me goose-pimples.’ She was a wireless operator and had a plain, rather sour face that reminded Anne of Maureen. ‘I don’t think it’s right.’
And that was just the sort of thing that Maureen had always said. It’s disgusting. It oughtn’t to be allowed. And Gloria had always teased her, like the time when they thought England was going to be invaded any moment. Storm troopers . . . just think of that, Maureen, something for you to look forward to. You’ll be ’aving the bloody time of your life. If Gloria had been here she would have given a tart answer: Pity he’s not still in it. Might take that lemon look off your face. Anne found that she was starting to smile and hurriedly changed her expression.
‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to be sensible about it, airwoman. We can’t provide a different bed specially for you. We mustn’t allow our personal feelings to interfere in any way with the job we’re here to do. There’s still a war to be won.’
The American major from the Dakota drove her round in a jeep, pointing out the sights. The city seemed to have escaped serious damage and the shops stocked goods unobtainable in England. They’re going to recover much quicker than us, she thought. It will probably be years before we finish re-building and rationing and making-do-and-mending.
One residential street was blocked by a huge bonfire in the roadway. People were carrying furniture out of a hous
e and tossing it onto the fire – chairs, carpets, cupboards, pictures. Anne watched in astonishment as two men added a valuable-looking table to the flames.
‘What on earth are they doing?’
‘The house belongs to a collaborator,’ the major told her. ‘You’ll see that happening quite often. The citizens are taking their revenge on anyone who got too friendly with the Nazis during the Occupation. And the POWs are coming back. They often know who denounced them to the Gestapo . . .’ He turned the jeep round. ‘Speaking of returning POWs, some Belgian friends of mine have asked me to a party this evening. It’s to celebrate the release of their son. Would you like to come?’
‘Will it be a good party?’
He smiled at her. ‘I guarantee it.’
If a good party was to be measured by the amount of noise that everyone there was making, then he was right. The long drawing-room was crowded with people shouting at each other in French and English. She was introduced to the major’s friends and to their army captain son, a pale young man who seemed overwhelmed by the fuss being made of him. She talked to him for a while, dredging up some rusty school French, and then to a British army lieutenant who seemed to resent her being in Brussels at all.
‘You WAAFS have had it pretty easy, haven’t you?’
‘Easy?’ She eyed his flushed, perspiring face.
‘All very well for you. I mean to say, us chaps came over here the hard way. My lot landed in Normandy on D-Day plus thirteen.’
‘Really,’ she said coldly. ‘What kept you?’
She moved away from him and headed for the far corner of the room where someone had sat down to play a grand piano. The pianist, a Belgian civilian, was playing with his eyes half shut, a cigarette drooping from his lips, his hands drifting over the keys. She leaned on the lid and listened while he picked his way softly through a song, and sang a few of the words with him.
He squinted at her through a spiral of smoke. ‘You like to sing, mademoiselle?’
‘Love to.’
‘Ah . . .’ He played a few bars of another song. ‘You know this one?’
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