‘I have no intention of taking Wayne from you. You’ll still see him and maybe he’d like to have parents who aren’t fighting all the time.’ The arguments went back and forth for hours, but we were both aware that the conversation was going nowhere. In the end we just sat there, holding hands across the table, and cried until there were no tears left.
We had those conversations more than once, and I’m sure he knew we couldn’t go on as we were, but when I finally told him I was taking action, he took it badly. Again, we cried together but I told him we had shed enough tears and that it was time for both of us to have another chance at happiness.
The divorce went through with no complications since Bob did not contest it; he hadn’t liked the reference to physical abuse but, of course, he knew it was true. There was nothing in the decree to prevent me taking my son out of the country and I received full custody of Wayne. Bob was granted ‘reasonable visitation rights’, but he and his family told me to remember that it would be illegal for me to return to live in England; if I tried to do so, they would fight for custody of Wayne. I believed them. With our marriage over, Bob went to live with his parents while he sorted out his life, and I had to decide what I was going to do.
Bob and I amicably divided furniture and household items, each claiming odds and ends that were uniquely our own. His parents demanded the return of anything valuable they had given us, particularly the silverware they were buying for us, piece by piece. By then, I believe we had two place settings, in a pattern they had selected, which was the same as theirs. I returned them happily. I would have hated going through the rigmarole of washing and wrapping each piece separately every time I used it, as they always did. I’d much rather have some good old stainless steel that I could just throw into a drawer; I certainly didn’t feel the need to impress anyone with such pretentious nonsense.
Then I planned my next move. I wanted to go to England for a while. When I told the Ballmaiers, who had recently moved into a big old rambling house nearby, they offered to store my furniture and put me up until I left. Wayne and I shared a bed in one of their spare rooms.
At around that time, my lawyer, Charles B., called and asked me to have lunch with him. He said he had to talk to me about something and, wondering what the mystery was, I agreed.
‘You’d better start looking for a new job,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Well, no one knows it yet, but my brother-in-law [who owned the employment agency where I worked] is bankrupt. You won’t be getting any more pay cheques, and even if you do, they’ll bounce.’
‘Thank you for warning me, but maybe it’s not as bad as you think. I want to go to England anyway so I’ll take off sooner rather than later.’ I was extremely grateful that I had been warned I’m not sure I could have handled working for nothing: I’d already had enough bad news.
10: Divorce, and Home for Christmas
It was almost Christmas and, I thought, a good time for me to be with my family. My divorce would not be final until January but I didn’t need to be in Chicago for that since we’d already had our court appearance and had signed the papers. Each Christmas since I had left England I had longed to spend it with my parents; I had cried whenever I heard such songs as ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ played on the radio or television. Christmas had never been a grand affair at home. My family couldn’t afford to spend much but we always had a bottle of sherry on the sideboard, a bowl of fresh fruit and nuts, and a roast chicken for dinner followed by Christmas pudding. Before digging into the feast, we pulled the traditional crackers and enjoyed the meal wearing paper hats. No, it had nothing to do with all those trimmings: it was the thought of being at home with my own family whom by now I hadn’t seen for two and a half years. This would be my dream come true, and I arranged for Wayne and I to leave Chicago on 22 December 1959 and arrive in London the next day.
My plan was soon shattered.
In the late afternoon of 21 December, even though it was still light outside, I tucked Wayne into bed.
‘It’s not dark,’ he said. ‘Why do I have to go to bed?’
‘We have to go to bed early because we have a big day tomorrow. We’re going on a plane to see your nanny and granddad and they live far, far away,’ I told him. He looked satisfied and snuggled down to sleep … or so I thought.
I went downstairs to watch TV and have a snack before I joined him. Eventually, knowing I probably wouldn’t sleep, with my stomach in knots of excitement, I said goodnight to Cindy and Phil and went upstairs. When I opened our bedroom door, I screamed. ‘Oh, my God, what have you done?’ My head felt as though it was about to explode.
Cindy and Phil came running up the stairs to see what had happened, and when they did, they pulled me away from the room. They were afraid of what I might do.
My darling child had not gone to sleep. Instead, he had decided to play. He had torn up our passport (a parent and child shared one in those days) and painted everything on the dressing-table with red nail polish. I thought I’d go mad. Wayne, who had been grinning when I opened that door, was now howling. Phil gathered him up in his arms and removed him from my sight. By now, I was crying wailing might be more accurate. Cindy dragged me downstairs and made me drink a shot of whiskey, telling me that we would sort it out, but at that moment, I couldn’t see how. I just wanted to die.
When I had calmed down to some degree, I realized we would need a new passport, and a plan began to form in my head. First things first, I thought. I phoned Ebert Photography Studio, which had taken our passport photo, but it had closed for the day. Fortunately, I had become friends with the studio owner, Will Ebert: he had taken the photos for my modelling portfolio and had used one of my portraits in his advertisements. I looked his name up in the telephone directory and, luckily, it was listed. Taking the bull by the horns, I phoned him. Stifling sobs, I explained what had happened and that I had to be at the passport office first thing the following morning. Could he possibly go to the studio and print some copies of the passport photo for me? With no hesitation, he agreed to do so and I arranged to meet him there. I already knew that, no matter what, we would not catch the booked flight; I called the airline and asked that they put our reservations on hold until I had the new passport.
After what seemed an eternity, I had the new photographs. There were no words to express my gratitude to Will Ebert for his kindness, but I’ve never forgotten it.
The next morning I was at the passport office in downtown Chicago when it opened its doors. With tears streaming down my face, I showed them the damaged passport and explained what had happened. At first, they said there was no way they could help me, but a senior clerk overheard our conversation and stepped in. ‘Don’t panic,’ she said. ‘Let me call Washington to see if we can get around it. I seem to remember doing this for someone before.’ She vanished into an inner office. When she reappeared, there was a grin on her face.
‘Good news! I’ve been given permission to issue you an emergency status passport and we can have it ready for you by late this afternoon.’ I thought I would implode with relief as I thanked her and cried some more. I wanted to leap over the counter to hug that wonderful woman.
Back home, Cindy made cups of tea and encouraged me to be positive. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ she told me. ‘You’ll see. The worst part’s over. You’ll soon be on a plane heading for England.’ I wanted and needed to believe her so I just gave her a hug and told her how much I appreciated her. Then I went and put my arms around Wayne.
He had been sitting quietly, just staring at the floor while Cindy and I talked. Now, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,
Mommy,’ he whispered, and I just held him in my arms and rocked him, knowing how awful the little fellow must feel and how frightened he must have been at my reaction to what he had done.
‘It’s okay,’ I told him. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine.’
The next step was to contact the airline again, to see when they could get us on a flight. They gave me little hope since it was Christmas and everything was booked solid, but they promised to call me if anything opened up. I sat beside the telephone, willing it to ring. When it did, I jumped a foot in the air, and my heart was in my throat. It was good news. They had us booked on a flight that left Chicago on Christmas Eve and would get us to London on Christmas Day. It wasn’t perfect but it would do. We were finally on our way home.
The flight was long and I was exhausted, but as we approached my beautiful England, my heart was bursting with joy: I would soon be with my family. Then, after we’d begun our descent into Heathrow Airport, the captain made an announcement that changed my joy to despair: ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve been informed that we cannot land at London’s Heathrow due to heavy fog. We’re going on to Frankfurt, Germany, where we’ll stay until weather conditions in London change.’ Groans came from all around but none was more desolate than my own. How could this be happening after all we had already gone through? I was numb with disappointment.
We landed in freezing Frankfurt, where buses transported us through heavy rain to a small, luxurious hotel. Here we were to remain until further notice. Our stranded group appeared to be the only people staying there. Of course we are, I thought. Everyone else is enjoying Christmas at home with their families. A thoughtful older man offered to help me with Wayne but I declined. I had sat next to him on the plane and, looking over his shoulder, I’d seen in his passport his profession listed as ‘Executor’. Just the thought that he might be a hangman gave me the willies. I felt a bit silly when I later learned that he was an executor of estates and wills.
The hotel’s limited staff were kind to us, understanding our plight, and we passengers tried to enjoy our delightful surroundings, but we were frustrated and frazzled. The most memorable part of my stay was being served pheasant-under-glass for our Christmas dinner. I had never had it before, and have never had it since.
The following day, we had been cleared to fly, but this time to Glasgow; more groans. From there we would travel by train to London. Could it get any worse? We trundled back to the airport and were soon in the air again, this time filled with dread at the thought of the circuitous journey that still lay ahead.
It was inky black as we flew over England. My eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep but Wayne had slept all the way. Suddenly I was wide awake. The captain was making another announcement: ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have good news for you. The fog has lifted at Heathrow and we will be landing there shortly.’ A great cheer went up throughout the aircraft. We were no longer on our way to Scotland. We were finally going home.
I looked down at my little boy, who grinned up at me. ‘Are we nearly there, Mommy?’
‘Yes, we are.’
Theoretically, that was true, but the adventure, or misadventure, was not yet over. After gathering our luggage and clearing Customs, we emerged into the airport. I scanned the few people waiting there but saw no familiar faces. By now, it was after midnight. Where was my family? The airline and hotel had promised to send telegrams, notifying them of our new arrival time. My family still had no telephone so I couldn’t call them. What could have happened? We sat on our suitcases and waited until we were the only two people left in the terminal. It was an eerie feeling, sitting alone in that alien place. I found a member of the airport staff; few were working at that time of the night it was the wee hours of 27 December.
‘Sorry, love, there ain’t no transport at this time of night. You’ll have to wait till mornin’ unless you can get a taxi willin’ to take ya,’ he informed me.
Where are they? Have they forgotten we’re coming? My emotions ran the gamut, from anger to disappointment and back again. What about my poor child? Didn’t anyone care about him? I’d been sure they were as excited as I was. Could I have been wrong? I sat Wayne on a bench just inside the terminal door, went outside and vomited. The stress had finally got to me and at that moment I wanted to scream. As I stood at the kerb, wiping tears, snot and vomit from my chin, a small miracle happened. A taxi pulled up in front of me and the driver rolled down his window. ‘You look like you need ’elp, mate,’ he said, and I proceeded to explain my predicament. ‘Where do you need to go?’ he asked, and I gave him the address.
‘I know just about where that is, and it ain’t all that far. Do you want me to take you?’
Oh, my God, did I! ‘Yes, please,’ I replied. He got out of the cab and helped me gather up my son and the luggage, and off we went. I hadn’t a clue how much it would cost, and at that point I didn’t care.
With little traffic on the road, it was about half an hour later when we arrived at Little Oxhey Lane, where Mum and Dad had recently moved into a new council house.
‘What number is it?’ the driver asked.
‘A hundred and three,’ I replied.
There were very few houses on this new residential stretch of road but it was pitch dark and we couldn’t read the numbers. The taxi stopped. ‘I’ll wait while you find the right ’ouse, mate,’ he offered. ‘I can’t just drop you off and leave, can I?’
I left Wayne in the taxi and went to find number 103. It wasn’t there. None of the houses had numbers. The doors were freshly painted and all the numbers had been removed. I went back to the taxi and told the driver, who agreed to wait a little longer. My only hope now was to peer through any open-curtained windows to see if I could recognize anything inside. Why was this happening to me? I wondered. Did they still not care enough to be there for me? Had nothing changed? Then, at last, I noticed something on the windowsill inside one of the houses that I was sure I remembered.
‘This is it,’ I called to the driver.
‘Hooray.’
The kindly taxi driver unloaded our luggage, brought Wayne to me and perched him on a suitcase, while I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I told the driver it was okay for him to leave, that it might take a while to wake someone, and I felt sure everything would be fine. I paid him, thanked him for his help and patience, and he drove off into the night, leaving a forlorn twosome standing in the lonely darkness. The cold began to penetrate my coat and I started to shiver. I crouched down, unlocked our large suitcase and, after rummaging for a while, found what I was looking for, a thick woollen cardigan, which I wrapped around Wayne he was shaking with cold, too.
I continued hammering on the front door, then went around to the back and pounded on that. I tried calling through the letterbox and throwing gravel up at the bedroom windows but to no avail. By now, Wayne was crying so I sat next to him, put my arms around him and tried to comfort him by telling him what a grand adventure we were having. It occurred to me that with my big woolly cardigan wrapped around him, he looked like a little old man as he sat there, trying to be brave. I had dressed him in the American style of the day: he was wearing long grey flannel trousers, a red blazer with a crest on the breast pocket, a white shirt complete with clip-on tie, all topped off with a little fedora hat. The poor lad still looked amazingly fresh and smart while I’m sure I looked, as my mother would have said, like something the cat had dragged in.
‘I’m sorry, Wayne, are you warm enough? I can get something else out of the case if you like,’ I told him.
‘It’s okay, Mommy. I’m just tired and I want to go to sleep.’ He choked back a sob. He’ll get pne
umonia if I don’t do something soon, I thought, but what could I do? My teeth were chattering so I knew Wayne must be freezing.
Fear gripped me. What if no one’s at home? I thought. What if we’d passed each other on the road and they’d gone to the airport and wouldn’t be back for hours? What if they’d had an accident? Perhaps I should start knocking on other doors. Maybe someone would have a telephone and I could call the police. Just as that thought entered my mind, a car pulled into the driveway, which was shared with the house next door. I jumped up, my heart almost leaping out of my chest.
‘They’re home, Wayne! Nanny and Granddad are home!’ I shouted to him, but I was wrong: it was the neighbours coming home from a late-night party and they were very drunk.
When they learned who we were, they invited us into their house, made me a cup of tea, then laid Wayne on their sofa and covered him with a blanket. In seconds, he was asleep. They told me that they knew we were expected and that Mum and Dad had made two trips to the airport to meet us but each time they’d been told that there was no information as to when our plane would arrive. In fact, they’d been led to believe that we were still in Germany. The airline had promised to phone them when more information became available but, of course, Mum and Dad had no telephone: they’d had to rely on calling the airport or airline from the corner phone box. By that time, and completely exhausted, they had gone to bed, planning to start ringing for information early the next morning. No wonder I hadn’t been able to rouse them.
It was several hours before we managed to wake Mum and Dad. There were lots of apologies and tears, but they were tears of joy: I was home. The last thing I remember from that traumatic night was Mum telling me how sorry she was that they’d already eaten our Christmas dinner.
The GI Bride Page 10