When I Was Yours

by Lizzie Page

  ‘Very well, off you go. And don’t worry about Olive, we’ll keep an eye on her.’

  * * *

  Early the next morning, I found myself green-faced on a packed ship in choppy waters. A queue of men offered to get me water or cigarettes before their sergeant shouted at them to ‘Leave the poor woman alone!’ and ‘Give her some bleeding air!’

  Then I was on the train to London and it was so tightly cramped that again, I found I could hardly breathe, but a soldier, who was as pale as I was, insisted I take his seat.

  ‘Just a little bit longer and I’ll be home,’ he said. ‘I can manage…’

  It turned out to be a lot longer than a little, because someone jumped on the line in front of the train. We took in this information and waited. I offered to swap my seat with someone else, but they too said it was all right.

  ‘Always liked sardines,’ he said wryly.

  We had been waiting for about an hour when the soldiers broke out into ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, and I could just imagine Olive’s face, her proud chin jutting forward, if she had heard: ‘Did you know the lyrics were written by a friend of mine? Her name is Lena Ford.’

  And I found tears filling my eyes as I sang along.

  There’s a silver lining

  Through the dark clouds shining,

  Turn the dark cloud inside out

  ’Til the boys come home.

  I thought longingly of those sing-along Sundays at the Fords’, watching the boys chopping wood in the garden, full of vim and vigour. Where were they all now? How could things have changed so quickly?

  I tried to focus on Christopher and Edmund. It had now been over a year since I’d seen Edmund. I hoped he’d kept something burning for me. His occasional letters were masterpieces of brevity, but then Edmund was never good at keeping still.

  Then, some people on the train started up on a very funny version of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and the mood changed from painfully sentimental to something jolly. By the time we pulled into London, I was almost shaking with laughter. Oh, it did me good to laugh.

  21

  1940 – Now

  One week later, she is here: my Pearl, back from London. She has been re-evacuated! Only a handful have returned, and then there are the five who have stayed here all along.

  ‘What about the other children?’ I ask. ‘Aren’t they coming back?’

  Pearl shrugs. Oh, how I’ve missed that shrug!

  ‘They’ll stay with their mums,’ she says, an indecipherable expression on her face. ‘Some are going to America on a massive ship. Mummy asked if I wanted to go.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I’d much rather come here.’

  I try not to smile but I can’t help it. I grab her round the waist and plump a kiss on the top of that pretty head.

  We go straight to the swings and there – while she is flying, suspended in the air – she tells me about the bombs, the shelters and the shivering in the underground. She says they sang songs to keep cheery and one time she recited ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’, and everyone applauded. An old man with rheumy eyes and gnarly hands said, ‘How do you know all that, Pearl?’ and she had told them, ‘My evacuation mother taught me.’

  * * *

  Back in our garden, helping me hang her tiny clothes out to dry, Pearl nods towards the shed.

  ‘Is he still in there?’

  ‘Who?’ I ask wearily. I don’t like the way she talks about Edmund, and yet, and yet… she’s not entirely wrong.

  ‘Your husband. The Mr Lowe.’

  ‘He’s at work,’ I say. I think he’s at work. ‘You’ll be able to say hello later.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. Pearl has no interest in saying hello to the Mister.

  Seeing her socks hanging in the breeze makes my heart zing with pride. Look at us, Mr Hitler, I feel like saying. We’re happy. And then I feel terrible because I know, all over the world, people are suffering and there is something obscene about being this delighted.

  Pearl tells me that, despite the bombs, she went to the London picture house every Saturday morning – it was only a penny – and she saw this film and that film and they were all brilliant.

  I ask, ‘Aren’t they too old for you, Pearl?’ and she responds haughtily, ‘I’m nine now,’ and I laugh and say, ‘Only just…’

  She says, ‘You should do your hair more like Lauren Bacall.’

  I say, ‘We’ll go to the picture house together soon, if you like?’ and my Pearl shrugs again. ‘S’all right, I just like being here with you.’

  * * *

  Charles the tortoise has acquired an unfortunate habit of turning over onto his shell and not being able to right himself again. I wonder if it’s an old age thing. The first couple of times he did it, I felt sick. It brought back dark memories somehow. But now I blot them out and Pearl and I race to restore him.

  ‘Silly Charles,’ she scolds. ‘Why does he keep making the same mistake again and again?’

  ‘That’s life,’ I say lightly.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Pearl says, collecting leaves for his snack.

  * * *

  Sometimes I take Pearl to Edmund’s parents’ home. At first, it was mostly so Mrs Harrison didn’t remark on the fact that I hadn’t been to visit. But as time has gone on, I go there because we have a good time and Pearl thinks the old people – not Edmund’s parents but the others – are brilliant.

  There is the man who gets up every time someone speaks on the wireless: ‘Stand up,’ he orders us, his knees wobbling. ‘Show some respect. There’s visitors here.’

  There is another old boy who everyone says is sweet on me. Sometimes we play dominoes, but his eyes are fading, and he thinks all the two-spots are four and the four-spots are eight. Sometimes, he throws the six across the room and says it’s a cheat.

  Sometimes the elderly people will make a comment about the Jews, but Pearl and I manage to ignore them, and nowadays, mostly it’s the Germans, the French, the Russians and the Japanese who get their ire. I try to explain that some of those are allies but they don’t listen or they don’t care. One lovely old woman folds paper into tiny boats and swans for Pearl. We listen to the wireless and commiserate about the poor people and the dreadful bombs: Newcastle, Leeds, even Cardiff. What did poor Cardiff ever do, we wonder.

  22

  1916 – Then

  I went to see my father at his office first; he was surprised, then delighted to see me and then saddened when I reminded him of the reason. He wanted us to have lunch together, but self-importantly, I said I didn’t have time and instead took a carriage to the hospital.

  Once I found the ward, it was easy to recognise the back of Edmund’s pretty golden head. And then I saw Christopher. Even from a distance, I knew he wasn’t in a good way.

  I stood at the end of the bed. ‘Hello, Christopher. Edmund.’

  Edmund spun round at my voice.

  ‘Good Lord, Vivienne, you are the last person I expected to see here!’

  I didn’t know why he’d said that. Why should I be the last person here? I ignored his outstretched hand and leaned over Christopher.

  ‘Christopher,’ I said. ‘It’s me, Vivi. Are they keeping you comfortable?’

  He said, ‘Vivienne? Well, well, well,’ and then he started laughing and then coughing. ‘I told you, Ed. There, what did I say?’

  Edmund stood up uneasily. He was in full uniform, down to his socks, and very handsome he looked too. Aunt Cecily used to say, Edmund would look dashing in a paper bag, and it was true.

  He said, ‘How did you know we were here?’ and when I explained, he swallowed and said, ‘Mother and Father will be pleased.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ said Christopher, coughing. ‘And when this poor girl’s Casanova wakes up, he’ll be pleased too.’

  Edmund scowled at his brother; I asked if he would prefer I left them to it, but he shook his head, then stalked off to get me a s
eat.

  ‘It’s a shock, that’s all.’

  It transpired that Christopher had been in a motor accident and ended up upside down in a ditch, stabbed in the chest by his own steering wheel. He’d been operated on, more than once, but there was nothing they could do about his lungs. It was a question of ‘wait and see’.

  Christopher asked me to talk to him. Conscious of Edmund next to me, I told him about the other FANYs, and I told him about my mistake over the King Leopold. I wanted to make him laugh, poor fellow, for he was in deep discomfort.

  Edmund kept raising his eyes to the ceiling and I wasn’t sure if it was exasperation or perhaps anxiety about Christopher’s condition. I reminded myself: Edmund does not behave emotionally, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel emotions.

  And Richard had said, He loves you, everyone knows it.

  But as I talked, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of shame. I was intruding on this most private of family moments. I had made assumptions and now it was clear I shouldn’t have come. What was I thinking? I couldn’t help but blame Aunt Cecily. She might be the sort to open her arms to anyone, but the Lowes were not. Why had I been so foolish? It was arrogance to think they needed me. I dreaded seeing Edmund’s mother. I couldn’t stand to think that she might be offended that I had come.

  Then a vicar came, and at once, Edmund rose up and looked more invigorated. The vicar spoke kindly with Christopher, who was half-dozing again, and then turned to me. I saw that under his overcoat, he wore a uniform and that there were several medals lined up on his chest.

  ‘Vanessa, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s Vivienne. Vivienne Mudie-Cooke.’

  I didn’t look at Edmund. It seemed like he had not even talked to his favourite clergyman about me.

  Pigeon arrived. She was a tall, heavyset girl from Cheltenham. She kept saying to me, ‘I knew Christopher and I should have got married, I knew it. He wouldn’t have taken any risks…,’ which didn’t seem to make any sense, but clearly meant something to her and I knew that this was the way it is at the bedside.

  Pigeon had never met Edmund’s family before and I thought, what an initiation, but try as I might, I couldn’t warm to her much. She was as haughty and cool as Christopher was, or used to be. Her real name was Beryl, she said, but everyone called her Pidge. I must call her Pidge. I feared I wouldn’t be able to.

  She said she volunteered at a hospital near her home. Five days a week. She was very particular about that. ‘You should see the men,’ she said, shaking her head at me. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the sights.’ She clearly thought I was a woman who did nothing.

  The vicar said he had connections in Cheltenham, and they talked animatedly about their shared acquaintances, the Searles and the Mongers.

  It all felt too much with poor Christopher just… just lying there, groaning, looking awfully poorly and left out, what with us all sharing our life stories.

  I touched Edmund’s arm. ‘I’ll be out in the corridor,’ and this time he turned round, and grasped my hands: ‘Thank you for coming.’ I was so surprised, I took a step back. He brushed his mouth to my ear. ‘I do appreciate it, Vivienne, I really do.’

  * * *

  Nurses clipped by me in the corridor, focused on their duty; it felt as though they saw me, but did not see me. They were carrying jugs of water and rolls of bandages, wheeling trolleys. The pace was slower here than at Lamarck Hospital, but no less intense for it. I felt slightly better after Edmund’s effusive thanks. Funny how just one kind word from him could allay my fears. He was pleased I came. Everyone was pleased I came. Maybe things wouldn’t be so much up in the air from now on.

  I watched a family come in, mother, father, two children, all clutching their hats, and the nurse – a young thing in a stained apron – awkwardly trying to warn them:

  ‘He might look very different.’

  They nodded eagerly. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘He might not be able to talk.’ The nurse glanced at me.

  They looked at each other; still nothing. ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘They told you he lost his sight?’

  Silence.

  * * *

  Next time I went back in, Christopher didn’t look well at all. He kept getting panicky. I said to Edmund, ‘Is he getting worse?’ and he said, ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s the same as before.’

  I talked to the nurse – maybe I was overstepping my place – but she agreed: we would tell Edmund he needed to call his mother and father now. He looked bewildered. ‘But they are coming this evening, isn’t that soon enough?’

  I whispered, ‘I don’t know what’s happening, an infection maybe, but to be… safe… let’s tell them to come now.’

  Christopher stopped writhing at one point and suddenly seemed amazingly lucid. ‘You should marry, Edmund!’ he called out. He patted the mattress for someone’s hand, and I gave him mine. ‘Life is short. Women like Vivienne, well, they don’t grow on trees.’

  I leaned over to him and wiped his brow. I was used to being among the sick and I found I could do it far more easily than Edmund, who mostly stood there in disbelief.

  ‘Do you want me to get Pigeon?’ Pigeon had gone back to her lodgings and wasn’t coming back until Wednesday.

  Christopher shook his head. ‘Not now, Vivienne. Don’t tell anyone but being near her is really… exhausting.’

  Edmund’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. How frail he looked then, even in his smart uniform, even with his broad shoulders. He was all cheekbones and shadows. I called the nurse over again and this time, she agreed she would call for a doctor.

  ‘Good-good,’ I said for Edmund’s benefit. As if the doctor was the panacea. We were pretending a cure was on its way.

  Christopher continued to twist and writhe. Edmund now held his hand, but any time I made to go to the bathroom, or offered to go to the tea stand, he whispered, ‘Please don’t leave us, Vi. I can’t stand it.’

  It wasn’t until about six that Edmund’s parents managed to get there. There had been a mix-up or something. They were all dressed up. Somehow, the effort they had gone to – the lipstick, the hair, the keeping up appearances – made me want to weep. Edmund’s mother greeted me warmly but formally. ‘You needn’t have come, Vivienne,’ she pronounced thickly.

  I said it was the least I could do, and she said accusingly, ‘Hmm’, and ‘But your sister didn’t?’ And it seemed I was in the wrong for coming, and Olive was in the wrong for not.

  ‘Olive sends her love.’

  Christopher raised his hand very lightly. ‘Olive is nuts…’ he murmured, and he and Edmund laughed loudly and although usually I’d be annoyed at such an insult, I laughed too. ‘She speaks highly of you too, Christopher.’

  Edmund looked at me gratefully.

  * * *

  Edmund and I walked outside to give the parents some time alone with Christopher, and he was more effusive than ever. I couldn’t help but think: This might be the making of us.

  There was a tea van outside; I told him it was a similar make to the ambulance I drove in France. I bought us both a cup of tea from a woman with no teeth, not a single one, in her mouth and Edmund said, ‘Well, she doesn’t look an inch like you, that’s for sure,’ and I think it was a compliment.

  The sun was setting and it was a beautiful evening, cold but bright. I imagined Olive readying herself for her shift in France. I hoped she would be all right without me. A million nasty incidents could befall her. What a time we were having: if we could only bring some good to those suffering around us, what more was there to life?

  We weren’t out for long before Edmund wanted to go back in, so we did, and he took off his coat, because he felt suddenly warm in the building, and I said I’d sit out in the corridor for a bit – for privacy – and he kissed me. It was only on the cheek, but it was spontaneous, and it felt heartfelt.

  ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  I waited i
n the corridor with his overcoat slung protectively over my knee. Ridiculous I know, but I thought of Charles, the tortoise, and if it really was true that he would outlive the lot of us. I thought of his shell-y back and his slug-like face and I thought, Well, perhaps there has to be some compensation for looking like that.

  When the next set of nurses had walked past, I pushed my fingers into the woollen warmth of Edmund’s pockets and felt them press against card. I pulled it out.

  I found a picture. It was of a woman. She was naked except for a black fur stole round her shoulders. Oh, and high-heeled shoes. She was kneeling on the floor. Must be cold on her knees… who was she? No girlfriend would ever pose like that. No photo studio would let her. I slipped it back into the pocket. I thought to myself, Just ask him, but at the same moment, I thought, I will never ask him.

  My heart was racing. I wished I could unsee what I had just seen. I tried to think of Charles the tortoise again, but that didn’t help.

  Edmund came out, not three minutes later, and the first thing he said was, ‘I’ll take my coat, Vivienne.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said clutching it tighter to me. I knew his game.

  Ignoring me, he scooped it up. Once it was on, that tightness around his mouth reduced. ‘So cold. You know hospitals.’

  * * *

  With Father, I ate fried egg on toast. Father wanted to do more than that – he couldn’t help wanting to celebrate having me home– but I couldn’t manage it, and he quickly understood why. I was waiting for news to come in the night, but it didn’t and I slept through seamlessly. I hadn’t been in such comfort for a while and the feather pillows and the fresh sheets that Molly had prepared felt like a balm to me.

  I left the house at first light, while the shops were still pulling up their shutters, and the milk cart was doing its round. You might think that all was still normal in the world. As I walked past the station, though, I thought of the poor person who had thrown him or herself onto the tracks, and wondered what sad story preceded such an action.