‘Tell me about Fourways,’ she said.
So he told her about the drugstore and the diner and the movie theatres. Everything in the U.S. sounded bigger and brighter and more exciting than anything Wittlesham had to offer. Annie sighed with longing.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said.
Bobby Joe’s arm was round her shoulders. He offered her more drink. She swallowed some. She was feeling very odd.
‘It’s nothing to Chicago,’ Bobby Joe said. ‘Now there’s a place. You should just see Chicago.’
And then his mouth was on hers and his hands were all over her and Annie was powerless to resist. Need fed on pleasure fed on need, surging through her body, so that she didn’t even notice when two of the precious mother-of-pearl buttons burst off and were lost beneath the seat of the Jeep. She only made the feeblest of protests when his hand went up her skirt, and when he touched between her legs she groaned out loud.
‘You like it, don’t you? It’s good. You want more, baby?’
A tiny part of her knew she should say no, but somehow it came out as yes, and when Bobby Joe took her hand and closed it round himself, this time she didn’t draw back. It was his turn to groan.
‘Oh, baby, you drive me crazy—come in the back, honey? C’mon—where it’s more comfortable—?’
Danger signals at last got through to her.
‘No—we mustn’t—’
‘What’s the problem? It’s better in the back.’
‘No, no—’
This was what all the warnings were about. Even in her drunken state, Annie knew that stretching out in the back was what Nice Girls didn’t do. As long as she stayed in the passenger seat of the Jeep, it was only necking, and that was all right.
‘Ah, c’mon, honey,’ Bobby Joe coaxed. ‘I won’t do anything you don’t want. You know I love you, baby. We’ll get married. You can come to the States with me.’
‘America? Really?’
A vision of perfect happiness opened up in front of her. She would stop being Annie Cross, unpaid farmhand and drudge, and turn into Mrs Bobby Joe Foster of Fourways, Illinois.
‘Yeah, why not? What do you say? You love me, don’t you?’
Right at that moment, she was convinced that she did.
It was like a dream come true.
‘Yes—’ she breathed. ‘But—we’ll really go to America?’
She couldn’t believe it. Things like this didn’t happen to her.
‘As soon as the war’s over,’ Bobby Joe assured her. ‘You and me. I’ll take you to Chicago. Now, come on, baby, you know I’m dying for you. Come in the back with me, yeah?’
Dazzled, Annie agreed.
It was all over very quickly. They had hardly laid down in the cramped well of the Jeep before Bobby Joe had her skirt up and her knickers off. And then he was inside her and it hurt, and he was pumping and grunting and it wasn’t hot and exciting and delicious any more, but painful and uncomfortable. Bobby Joe cried out and collapsed on her, telling her he loved her, then, to her amazement, he fell asleep.
Annie was squashed and bruised and unsatisfied. Something warm and sticky was trickling out of her. But it was all right. Bobby Joe had said he would marry her. She was going to fly over the rainbow. She was going to the Emerald City.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AT FIVE to three on Tuesday the eighth of May, Walter, Edna and Annie Cross gathered in the kitchen of Marsh Edge farmhouse. It was a quite unprecedented occasion. Annie couldn’t remember ever having been allowed an afternoon break before. But today was different. Mr Churchill was due to make an announcement at three o’clock. They all knew, or hoped they knew, what it would be, but still they had to listen to it. Walter turned on the wireless, waited for it to warm up and tuned it to the Home Service.
They stood frozen as the rich voice of the Prime Minister flowed out of the fretwork front of the set, explaining what had happened.
‘The German war is at an end,’ he concluded. ‘Advance Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Edna cried.
Of one accord, she and Annie turned to each other and hugged. Great sobs of joy and relief tore from Annie’s chest. Edna was weeping too.
‘No more dreadful bombs. Those poor people! Those awful doodlebugs! It’s all over.’
‘Ha,’ Walter grunted. ‘Given those bastard Huns what for again, then. Better make sure we wipe them out completely this time. Make sure they’ll never try it again.’
‘And all those boys will be coming home. There’ll be some happy mothers today, and wives too. All their menfolk will be safe now.’
Tom would be safe. But Tom would be going home to his fiancée in Noresley.
‘They can send all them flaming Yanks back where they came from, for a start,’ Walter said.
Hope flared in Annie’s heart. Bobby Joe would be back. He hadn’t even said goodbye. She had heard from somebody else that the Americans had left camp and were on their way to Europe. She’d sent him a letter, addressing it to him at his regiment, but she had had no reply. She had comforted herself with the thought that he must be far too busy to write. The trouble was, other girls had heard from GIs, girls who hadn’t even been proposed to. Soon, she told herself. Now that it was over, she would hear from him.
In Noresley, Amber Drive was alive with people. Chairs and tables were being hauled into the street, flags were being hung from windows and lampposts, precious rations that had been hoarded over the last few weeks were being turned into fare for a party to end all parties.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Moira enthused. ‘It’s all over at last. I can hardly believe it!’
‘Wonderful,’ Tom echoed.
He had hardly believed it, at first. Could hardly believe anything—that he was still alive, that he was out of the Stalag, that the Russians had handed him over, that he was back home. Back home. Really home now, in Amber Drive, with his family around him and Moira thrilled to see him and everybody happy.
And today, finally, the war in Europe was officially ended. At three o’clock the whole street had been silent as families gathered round their wireless sets to hear Mr Churchill make the announcement.
Moira clung to Tom’s arm with both hands, pressing her breast against him.
‘Now you’re really safe. You’ll be de-mobbed in no time and back for good.’
‘Wonderful,’ Tom repeated.
He wished he felt as ecstatic as Moira sounded. All that time in the camp, all he had wanted was just to get back to England. Now he was here and, of course, nothing was as simple as it had seemed from a distance. England wasn’t just a dream, it was real life starting up again, with all the dilemmas that brought.
‘Best go and help,’ he said.
As one of the very few younger men around during the day, he was needed to do the heavy lifting, so everything would be ready for when the workers came home. His own father would not be back until the last bus had run and the garage was locked up.
Moira gave him one last squeeze.
‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s get those chairs organised.’
He watched her as she arranged the seating. She was attractive, capable, strong, good fun—excellent wife material. She had, according to her and everyone else who knew her, been waiting faithfully for him ever since the day his plane had gone down. And he was fond of her. But … But there was something missing. It wasn’t like he remembered it with Annie. There was no magic. She didn’t make a simple walk along the street special, the way Annie had. Maybe that was just part of growing up, maybe you only felt like that when you were a kid who knew nothing about life. Maybe he was reaching for a fairy tale. He didn’t know.
‘Wake up, lad, you’ll have us over!’
The man on the other end of the table he was lifting, a gunner on leave, was trying to manoeuvre the heavy carved legs round the railings at the side of the steps.
‘Sorry, mate.’
He gave his attention to the job in hand. The man grinned at him.
‘Plenty of time for that later, lad.’
The words were oddly comforting. Plenty of time. He didn’t have to make his mind up yet. He wasn’t committed to anything. Reassured, Tom concentrated on making sure the party was one to remember.
Several hours later, all the sandwiches had been eaten, the toasts had been drunk, all the old favourite songs had been sung and the last drop of beer had been drained. Young children were in bed, older ones were still racing round taking advantage of the grown-ups’ lax attention, and the adults were either flopped on chairs with cups of tea or dancing to the gramophone. As the record finished, Moira pulled Tom out of the circle of light thrown by lanterns and hurricane lamps to the protection of a solid privet hedge. She wrapped her arms around him and sighed deeply.
‘Hasn’t it been the most heavenly day?’
‘Mmm,’ Tom agreed.
He was pleasantly drunk and it was getting on for heavenly having Moira’s shapely body pressed against his. She nestled her head on his shoulder.
‘Are you happy?’
‘Of course.’
He couldn’t not be, could he? Not when six years of war had come to an end. Not when he had a lovely girl in his arms.
‘You don’t sound very certain.’
There was arch disappointment in Moira’s voice.
‘I am. It’s just—’
He was lucky to be alive, he knew that. Bloody lucky. Alive with nothing worse than a slightly misshapen leg and anaemia. A lot of his old oppos were in a far worse state. A lot of them were dead.
‘Just what?’ Moira prompted.
‘I was thinking of the others,’ he said.
‘Ah—’ Moira sighed in understanding. ‘Of course. But, darling, you can’t do anything about them, you know. Being sad about them doesn’t help. You’ve got to look to the future now. Now the war’s over we’ve got all the rest of our lives to look forward to.’
She raised her face so her lips were just a fraction away from his. He could feel her warm breath.
‘That’s something to celebrate, isn’t it?’ she whispered, and kissed him before he could reply.
Her soft mouth was irresistible. Kissing her, running his hands over her luscious body drove away all thought. Tom gave himself up to the pleasure of the moment. Moira gave every sign of enjoying it just as much as he did. It was only when he tried to get his hand under her skirt that she gave him a playful slap.
‘Naughty! That’s not allowed till later.’
‘Later?’ Tom questioned.
‘You know,’ Moira said.
He knew. And he was not going to be cornered that way.
‘We’ve just won the war. We’re celebrating,’ he coaxed, sliding his hand down her thigh.
She had the most gorgeous long legs.
‘That’s as maybe,’ she said, moving his hand and placing it in the small of her back.
Tom put both hands on her buttocks and pulled her towards him. This she didn’t object to.
As they surfaced from another long kiss, Moira sighed with pleasure.
‘It’s so wonderful that you’re here for this. Aren’t we lucky? There’s nobody else I’d rather be with today.’
Tom knew what she wanted to hear. He was supposed to tell her that he felt the same. But he couldn’t quite do it.
‘We’re very lucky,’ he said, and stopped any further questions with a kiss.
The bonfire on the spare building plot behind the holiday chalets was dying down, the drinks were long since gone and the mood had subsided from euphoric to nostalgic. Earlier, they had all been singing and dancing—Knees Up, Mother Brown, The Hokey-Cokey, The Lambeth Walk. Now everyone was sitting round, looking into the last flames and the glowing ashes and the song was one from the last war, the yearning notes of ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail’.
They were a mixed bunch. There were squatters from the holiday chalets, families from the nearby streets, one or two guest house owners—and Annie. Normally, the regular families and the squatters disliked and mistrusted each other, but tonight everyone was friends, joined in the joy and relief of the war’s end.
Annie was sitting with a couple of the Sutton’s girls who lived in the last terrace of houses before the chalets began.
‘Did you say Gwen was getting married?’
‘Yes, I heard from her the other day,’ Annie said. ‘She’s marrying this Reggie she met six months ago, and they’re going to live near his parents in London. I’m going to miss her.’
It had been quite a blow, hearing that from Gwen. Annie had been counting on her best friend coming back to Wittlesham once the war was over.
‘But you’ll be off to the States with your Bobby Joe now, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Annie said.
She wished she’d never said anything about it. She had only mentioned to one girl, as a strict secret, that Bobby Joe had asked her to marry him, and now the whole town seemed to know.
‘All that chewing gum and doughnuts and nylons! Bit different to here. Still, my Sid’ll be home soon, and then we can get married and all. Mind you, we’ll have to stop at his mum’s for a bit, till we can get a place. His mum’s a bit of an old Tartar, but what can you do …?’
Annie wasn’t really listening. She hugged her stomach. She was feeling sick again. She hadn’t had any of the beer because it made her want to throw up. She hoped she would feel better when she had started the curse, as she and her mother always called it. She always felt ill before that, all bloated and out of sorts, and this month it was much worse. Her breasts were horribly tender and there was this sickness. She supposed it was because it was so late starting. As her friend chattered on, Annie tried to work out just how overdue she was, and was shocked to discover that it must be over three weeks.
‘So where’s your Bobby Joe now?’
Annie jerked her attention back.
‘Oh—in Germany. You know—liberating people. Mopping up, that sort of thing,’ she improvised.
The truth was, she had no idea. But the war was over now. Bobby Joe would have time to write to her. Soon, he would get round to telling her when he was coming back and she would start the curse and everything would be all right.
The last notes of ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail’ faded away. Annie took a breath deep into her chest and started to sing her favourite song—’Somewhere Over The Rainbow’. All round the bonfire, people joined in, murdering the high notes but putting their all into the spirit of the song. Annie’s voice faltered towards the end as tears rose in her throat. She couldn’t go on. Her friend put an arm round her. She wasn’t the only one. There had been plenty of weeping that evening, along with the laughter and the celebrations.
‘What’s the matter, Annie?’
‘Oh, nothing, everything—you know—’
Annie hardly knew herself. It was all just too much. She got up and stumbled away from the party.
It was chilly once she was out of range of the fire. Still brushing away tears with her fingers, Annie hurried up the unmade track, past the chalets, past Silver Sands, till she reached the sea wall. Scrambling up, she reached the top and slid down the far side till she was sitting with her feet on the sand, staring through the barbed wire. She knew now what she was crying for. It was for those far-off magical days when Tom had sat here with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS Edna who first noticed, but she was so horrified by the thought of all that it would mean that for a month she tried to convince herself that she was wrong. By July, though, she could ignore it no longer. She braced herself to speak to her daughter.
Annie was cleaning out the hen house when she saw her mother coming across the yard. She knew just by the way she held herself that the moment had arrived. It was a relief in some ways. She put down her brush and straightened up. Edna stopped a couple of paces away from her, her eyes drawn to Annie’s belly. Automatically, Annie tried
to suck it in.
‘Hello,’ Annie said, to fill the silence.
Her mother pressed a hand to her face, her fingers spreading over her mouth.
‘Annie love, there’s something … I mean, I couldn’t help noticing … it’s just … well, you haven’t had the curse for a while, have you?’
There was a pause, in which both women took in all that this meant. Around them, the life of the farmyard went on. Hens scratched for food around the steaming midden, the pigs rootled and grunted in their sty, a duck led a line of ducklings towards the cart shed.
‘No,’ Annie agreed.
‘How many have you missed?’
‘Three—or four, really, if you count this month.’
Edna closed her eyes briefly and sighed. ‘And—you were feeling sick, weren’t you?’
‘Yes—but that’s better now. I’m fine, not sick at all,’ Annie said in the vain hope that this would change everything.
It didn’t. Her mother merely nodded.
‘It doesn’t usually last more than two or three months.’
The feeling of doom that had been hovering over her for weeks settled in Annie’s entrails.
‘Oh,’ she whispered. It was all she could think of to say.
So it was true, what she had suspected. The worst thing that could possibly happen to a girl had happened to her. She looked at her mother’s face and felt crushed by the weight of what she had done. For now she had made her mother’s burden ten times worse. They were both going to be for it when—
Her mother glanced fearfully over her shoulder. ‘What are we going to tell him?’ she asked.
Annie shook her head. The impossibility of it haunted her night and day. Soon her father would see for himself, like her mother had.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Edna gave a little moan. ‘Was it—I mean—it was this American, was it? The—the father, I mean?’
The father. Now it was really out in the open. Bobby Joe was the father of her child.
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