The GI Bride

by Simantel, Iris Jones

  ‘Yeah, whatever you call it.’ I chuckled.

  ‘I’ll take you to Macy’s. You should be able to find what you’re looking for there,’ she said, and off we went.

  We found the less-expensive sweater department in the basement of what I now knew was one of New York’s most famous shops. I hadn’t expected to find merchandise down there but Mary Lou explained that most department stores had ‘bargain basements’. We soon found the sweater department and I stepped up to the counter where a young black woman was working. She smiled sweetly. ‘Good morning, ma’am, welcome to Macy’s. How may I help you today?’

  I smiled back at her. ‘Could you show me a nigger-brown jumper, please?’ I asked shyly.

  Immediately, I heard a loud choking sound from Mary Lou. At the same time, I noticed that the assistant was no longer smiling. Instead she looked shocked and visibly recoiled.

  I don’t know who was more aghast, the poor sales assistant or Mary Lou, as they both stood there, caught in a moment of disbelief at what they had just heard.

  ‘Let’s go,’ whispered Mary Lou, once she had gathered her senses. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away.

  ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’ I protested, but her lips were sealed and she was shaking her head.

  Once we were safely outside the store, I learned what a terrible faux pas I had made. I had had no idea that the word ‘nigger’ was a derogatory term in America and was mortified. Tears of embarrassment stung my eyes. The thought had entered my mind that I should have said ‘sweater’ instead of ‘jumper’, but I was completely unaware of the magnitude of my linguistic error.

  That incident was the first of many, especially during the first months of my life in America. In the 1950s, there were no such taboo words in England, or not that I was aware of, and I had never experienced the racial sensitivity that was so much a part of American life. There were then no such issues at home, as far as I knew, and I was in for a rude awakening: I was upset to learn that in many places African Americans did not have equal rights and were often segregated from white people.

  When we had recovered, we set off for the next item on our agenda: a trip to the top of the Empire State Building. The lift went up 102 floors, but we got out at the eighty-sixth for the viewing area. It was awesome, if a little scary, especially when I learned that the tower actually swayed in the wind, but it was exhilarating and I was breathless with wonder at the panorama before me. I squeezed Mary Lou’s hand until she yelped. Poor girl, I’d done the same thing to her when we were riding up in the lift, which she kept reminding me was an ‘elevator’.

  The following day we visited Radio City. We had received free tickets to attend a live show called Beat the Clock, hosted by the famous Bud Collyer. During the show, he announced that a group of GI brides from England was in the audience and we received a welcoming round of applause. Then he came out into the audience to chat with a few of the girls, and wanted to know what an English girl might have bought on her first visit to America.

  ‘What does this young lady have in her big shopping bag?’ he said, into the microphone. ‘Welcome to New York. Now, would you mind showing us what you’ve bought?’ he asked.

  She had purchased a silk scarf with a picture of New York on it. ‘It’s for me mum, back in England,’ she told him.

  ‘Very nice too,’ he said, and went on to another girl.

  ‘Hi, honey, and what do you have in your bag?’ he enquired.

  ‘I bought a pink jumper,’ she told him.

  ‘A pink jumper,’ he echoed. ‘That’s a strange colour for a kangaroo.’ The poor girl sank into her chair as the audience roared with laughter. Then, just when I thought I was safe, he stopped next to me.

  ‘And what American treasure does this young lady have?’ he asked, and thrust the microphone into my face.

  For a moment, I stared blankly into his eyes and my mouth became an arid wasteland. After swallowing hard and blushing ninety shades of red, I managed to conjure a squeak. ‘It’s nothing interesting, sir,’ I said, but he persisted and I had to let him peer into the bag. It was then his turn to blush. He faked a laugh and said something about English girls carrying their lunch around with them. In fact I had a large box of Kotex sanitary pads.

  When I told Bob about it that evening, I thought he was going to bust a gut laughing. ‘It’s not funny,’ I said. ‘I thought I was going to die, or at least faint.’

  ‘I’d better get you out of New York before you get into any more trouble,’ he said, having heard about the incident in the department store.

  I spent most of my time in New York oohing and aahing at the shop windows. At that time, pink, black and grey were in fashion, even in men’s clothing, which was a bit of a shock, considering the conservative black, grey, brown and tweed worn by most Englishmen. I was even more surprised to see several pink cars.

  One thing that had always been high on my list of ‘important things to do when I get to America’ was to have a banana split. I’d heard of them and seen them in movies and they looked like works of art. Mary Lou located a Walgreen’s drugstore with a soda fountain, and in we went. My eyes must have been as big as saucers I had never seen anything like it, except in the movies. You certainly would never have found food served in an English chemist’s or pharmacy. I could hardly wait to write and tell the family about all these weird and wonderful things.

  When the ‘soda jerk’ placed the banana split in front of me, all I could do was stare in disbelief. It was huge, enough for several people. I dug into that dish of decadence and did my best to finish it. After what seemed like an hour, it looked as though I had just rearranged it. Mary Lou was having a whale of a time watching me and laughing.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You’re just so funny,’ she replied, trying to get serious.

  At the end of our stay in New York, we were on the move again. This time a bus took us to a small airport where those of us going on to Chicago boarded a military plane for the onward flight. I had never flown before and I’m so glad that all planes are not like that one.

  There were no passenger seats: we had to sit on benches that ran lengthwise down the sides of the aircraft.

  ‘Blimey,’ I said to Bob. ‘I hope they give us all a parachute. This thing don’t look very safe to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure the pilot wouldn’t fly it if it wasn’t safe. Just relax, we’ll soon be there.’

  Easy for him to say, I thought, and had to remind myself that this, after all, was military transport and not a commercial airline. The flight to Chicago was bumpy. If we hadn’t been strapped to our seats, I’m sure we would have been injured. However, we survived, and I was relieved to arrive in one dishevelled piece.

  4: Chicago and the In-laws

  We arrived at Chicago’s Midway Airport in the small hours. It was freezing cold so we were glad that Bob’s parents were there, waiting to take us home to the suburb of Elmwood Park. We would stay with them until we could find our own apartment.

  I’d been excited about seeing Bob’s mother again we had met briefly when she was in England for our wedding. She had stayed only five days, during two of which Bob and I were away on our brief honeymoon in London. We’d had a longer honeymoon planned but had to cancel it because of Mother Irvine’s visit. Afraid of flying, she’d had to take the long journey from Chicago to New York by train to board the ship. After the wedding she’d had to get back to America for the birth of her first grandchild. Lucky her, I thought. Her voyage on the Queen Mary had taken five days, compared to our ten.

  There was an emotional reunion between the Irvines well, betwee
n mother and son. All his father did was grunt and shake hands. I was to learn later that he never had much to say unless he was complaining: he was a miserable, cigar-smoking curmudgeon and I was already intimidated by his abrupt manner.

  ‘Welcome home, son,’ Mother Irvine said, through squalls of tears. Then she turned to me. ‘Welcome to America, dear.’ She gave me a quick hug. ‘Oh, my, you look awful.’

  Thanks a lot, I thought. You don’t look too good yourself. Could this be the same gushing woman who had come to England for our wedding only months before? The first thing she said when she met me was how much prettier I was than I appeared in photographs, which had endeared me to her. She had hugged me and my parents and told us how happy she was to be there, meeting her son’s new family. She almost froze to death while she was with us, but she got on well with everyone she met and had nothing but praise for all that she experienced. She had even laughed at the craziness of the traditional dances at our wedding reception, especially ‘Knees Up, Mother Brown’ and ‘The Lambeth Walk’, although she wouldn’t join in. We had all thought she was warm and fun-loving, just like us. I saw nothing of that now. Perhaps she’s as tired as we are, I thought, giving her the benefit of the doubt. After all, it was the middle of the night.

  ‘Yeah, hi, Robert,’ grunted his dad, then grunted something else at me and shook my hand with just the tips of his cold, bony fingers.

  I’ll always remember my first impressions on the journey from Midway Airport to the Irvines’ house. First, we drove down Cicero Avenue, one of the city’s main thoroughfares, which still had streetcars running on overhead electric lines. They reminded me of the old British trolley buses, except they were not double-deckers. The streets were strewn with litter, which I hadn’t expected, and the apartment buildings were dreary, all with open, grey-painted back stairways. So far, what I had seen was ugly and disappointing. Also, the street lighting was dim, which added to my impression of a city that was old and tired.

  We were in an industrial area on the south side of the city, heavily populated by working-class people, but I was shocked to see so many people living on top of one another. I wondered where all the lovely white clapboard homes were, with their rolling lawns and white picket fences. I had expected congestion in New York but, for some reason, not in Chicago.

  Bob and his mother chatted on the drive home but his father clutched the steering wheel as though his life depended on it; he reminded me of a vulture, his head, atop a scrawny neck, thrust forward in grim determination as he pulled towards the kerb at each corner. I later learned that he had developed the habit during his years of driving buses and pulling over at the stops.

  Bob burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ his dad grunted.

  ‘Aw, nothin’,’ replied Bob, stifling his laughter. He told me later that his mom had elbowed him in the ribs. Her husband had a nasty temper when provoked.

  I felt relieved when we left Chicago’s inner city behind and entered the suburb of Elmwood Park. It was still drab and, although it was not yet full daylight, it was clear that these monotone neighbourhoods were unlike Hollywood movie suburbs. Here, the small square brick bungalows huddled together in row upon row of sameness. The garages, at the rear of each property, were accessed by way of alleyways that ran behind the properties; they’d been planned that way, I supposed, so that they could be built close together on the narrow plots of land. We had lived like that in England but in rented council housing. Somehow I’d thought it would be different in America, where people owned their own homes, and my heart sank a little. This place was definitely not in Technicolor.

  When at last we turned on to the street where the Irvines lived, and I saw their house, I gasped in delight: they had left the Christmas lights up to welcome us home even more of a surprise in that it was now early March.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘Holy cow,’ added Bob. ‘I sure didn’t think it would still be Christmas here.’ He looked happy.

  ‘We thought you’d like some brightness in your life after all that …’ She glanced across at me. I wondered what she would have said if I hadn’t been there, probably something about the lack of central heating and a telephone in my home, the British rain, and our rather low standard of living.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I murmured. ‘Thank you.’

  I had never seen the outside of a house decorated with lights before; back at home, we had never had any Christmas lights. In fact, last Christmas was the first time ever that we’d had a tree. Bob had bought us a tiny one and we’d sat it on top of the television, decorating it with homemade paper chains. Here, multicoloured lights outlined the windows, doors and roof. It was magical.

  Mr Irvine pulled up in front of the house, a bungalow, and parked there temporarily while we unloaded the luggage. I started towards the back of the car to help with the suitcases but Mrs Irvine elbowed me out of the way. ‘Go wait by the front door. Daddy will let you in while I help Robert with the bags,’ she said, somewhat dismissively. I did as I was told. My father-in-law lumbered up the front steps, fished around in his coat pocket and produced an enormous ring of keys. After some mumbling, he unlocked the door and let me in.

  ‘Just go on in, Ira,’ he said. Jeez, I thought. He doesn’t even know my name.

  Bob and his mother, who were both breathing heavily from lugging the cases up the steps, soon joined us.

  ‘Well, here we are at last,’ said Mrs Irvine. ‘I thought today would never come.’ Great tears began to cascade down her face, but she was smiling.

  ‘Yeah, you’ll be in your grandmother’s old room,’ grunted ‘Daddy’.

  ‘I did tell you Grandma’s gone to stay with Aunt Freda, didn’t I, Robert?’

  ‘Yes, you did, Mom. Hope she wasn’t upset that she had to move out.’

  ‘No. It was Freda’s turn to have her for a while anyway, but she’ll be down for a visit with the others soon. They’ll all want to see you, Robert.’

  ‘And meet my wife,’ Bob interjected.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ stuttered his mother.

  Inside the Irvines’ house, which reeked of cigar smoke, all the Christmas decorations were still up and an artificial tree was loaded with baubles and twinkling lights. There were piles of presents beneath it, and we were told they were all for us, but they would have to wait. I was exhausted and desperately needed sleep, and so, hoping the outside world would look less dreary and frightening in the daylight, I asked if I might be excused. At long last, I collapsed into bed.

  The following day, I slept until mid-afternoon, at which time Bob woke me. ‘Come on, sleepyhead, everyone’s waiting to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone?’ I groaned. ‘Who’s everyone?’ I felt as though I was about to be put on display, and I suppose, in a way, I was.

  ‘Just Mom and Dad so far, but I’m sure my sister and her family will be here soon.’ I scrambled to prepare for the inquisition, my stomach clenched. I was nervous to the point of nausea again.

  Bob showed me to the bathroom. He gently pushed me inside and followed me, closing the door behind us. He took me in his arms and held me close, whispering in my ear, ‘Remember, you’re my beautiful girl and I’m proud of you. Don’t be nervous about meeting the family, I’ll be holding your hand all the way. Try to remember that they’re probably nervous too. They’ve never had a daughter-in-law before.’ He chuckled, the way he always did, and, as always, it made me feel just that little bit better.

  I felt safe wrapped in his strong comforting arms, and at that moment, I almost cried tears of happiness. His caring and closeness reminded me of the love that had brought me
to this strange land of contrasts. His people were different from my own. I had to get used to that, and I hoped that my disappointment in them and their world would relax into familiarity, that I would soon feel at home with them.

  ‘Thank you for loving me, Bob. I just hope I’m not a disappointment to you or your family,’ I whispered into his neck, as I breathed in the familiar warm smell of his body. The scent of his Old Spice aftershave suddenly reminded me of my mother and I smiled on the inside; she had liked the smell so much she had started using Bob’s bottle as perfume and he had surprised her by buying her one of her own. We had all laughed about that, and about her blush when she realized she had been found out.

  ‘You’ll never be a disappointment to me, honey. I just hope you’re not disappointed with us.’ He gave me a reassuring hug. ‘Come out when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He smiled the smile that had drawn me to him in my other life, the life I had left behind for him. Now I was ready for anything.

  ‘Would you like something to eat, honey?’ asked my mother-in-law, when I came into the kitchen. ‘Waffles, eggs, bacon?’ I didn’t know what waffles were, and I certainly didn’t have the stomach for eggs and bacon at that time.

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Irvine, I’m not hungry, but could I have a cup of tea, please?’ I was desperate for a cup of tea. I needed a cup of tea.

  ‘Oh, my dear [it sounded like ‘deeyurr’], I’ve just made you a whole pot of coffee,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see if I have any tea bags oh, and you can call me “Mom”, if you like.’ Tea bags, I thought. Ugh.

  And so began my introduction to a completely new world of food and drink. It wasn’t something I had expected to cause problems, but it did and for a long time too.

  My mother-in-law did eventually produce some ancient tea bags but I would have killed for a ‘real’ cup of tea. She seemed quite distressed when I put two into my cup instead of the customary one, but it was the only way to get any flavour into the tea, and even then it left a lot to be desired. ‘When I have tea, usually if I’m ill, I use the same tea bag all day,’ she mumbled.