The Street of Broken Dreams

by Tania Crosse

  The noise around them was tumultuous, and watching Jake and Mildred frantically waving their little flags and cheering for all they were worth, Cissie joined in. She, too, would relish telling her family all about it. For it was a moment she would never forget.

  The hullabaloo eventually died down, the balcony now seeming empty again, and the crowd began to thin out a little.

  ‘D’you think they’ll come out again?’ Mildred asked.

  Jake gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. They must’ve come out more than half a dozen times, so that’s probably it. It’s getting late and people are starting to move away. I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to feel it’s been a long day. How about you, Cissie? Are you ready to start making our way home?’

  ‘It’s been fantastic, but yes, I am. Thank you so much. I certainly wouldn’t have had the confidence to come on my own. And it’s been wonderful sharing it with you two. But I am really tired now.’

  ‘Well, it’ll take us a while to get home, even on public transport. The buses and trains are going to be packed, but it suddenly seems a long walk back.’

  ‘Best foot forward, then!’ Mildred grinned.

  They set off, almost drunk with elation and weariness, smiles pinned on their faces. Jake glanced down at Cissie. He wondered quite what had triggered her reaction with the GI that morning, but he wasn’t going to press her.

  ‘Here, ain’t that Princess Elizabeth over there in the WRAC uniform?’ Mildred suddenly interrupted his thoughts. ‘And Princess Margaret with her?’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Well, I dunno. If they can do their bit for the war, maybe they wanted to mingle with the crowd and managed to get permission. Be a shame for them to miss out on all this. Bet you any money it’ll be in the papers tomorrow that they was allowed out.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ Jake agreed. ‘But for now, I think we should be heading home.’

  They decided in the end to make use of the transport system anyway, even though it was so crowded. When they finally turned into Banbury Street, utterly exhausted, they found bunting strung between lamp posts and across the street ready for the street party the following day.

  ‘It’ll be mainly over by the time I get back off me shift,’ Mildred grumbled.

  ‘Not sure it’ll be my cup of tea,’ Jake decided. ‘More of a women’s and children’s thing. Think I’ll be calling on some of my mates from work. See what they’re doing for the day.’

  Cissie’s heart fell. Oh, she hadn’t realised, but she must have been looking forward to the party. Especially if she could sit next to Jake. When she was with him, she was beginning to feel a strange release from the darkness.

  ‘Well, have a nice time,’ she said, fixing a smile on her face. ‘And thank you both so much for today. You don’t know what it’s meant to me.’ More than they could ever imagine, she thought to herself.

  They wished each other goodnight and went off to their relevant homes. Cissie went straight inside and closed the front door, but as Jake and Mildred turned into Number Eight, a big blackout blind, followed instantly by a second one, heaved its way outside. A pair of hands was visible around each one, and as the first one was launched onto the pavement, Eva’s body appeared behind it.

  ‘Well, we won’t be needing them things no more!’ she declared as Stan threw his out as well. ‘Gonna break up the frames and have a bonfire at the end of the street tomorrow night. You two have a good time, then? Now, go on, Stan. Go and turn on the lights inside and let’s see what our house looks like all lit up!’

  She stood back, arms crossed determinedly over her grubby apron. You’d think her little house was a palace, Jake considered, and yet there was his mum in her curlers and slippers. He just couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

  *

  ‘Now don’t you go disappearing off to your pals before you help set things up,’ Eva admonished the following morning as Jake got up from the table after eating his breakfast – such as it was. ‘I need you to help move tables and chairs out into the street for those what can’t do it themselves, and anything else what needs a bit of muscle. No point having a strapping son if you can’t make use of him now and then.’

  Despite her chiding tone, there was a strong element of pride in Eva’s voice, and Stan threw his son a surreptitious wink. ‘The brewery’s giving us several quart jugs of beer that’ll be a bit heavy for some of the women to carry, so you can help fetch those, too. Pity you won’t get to drink any of it, mind,’ he teased. ‘I know there ain’t many of us men, but we’ll have got through it by the time you get back.’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t stay long with my mates, then,’ Jake replied, equally as jovial.

  ‘Yeah, do come back early.’ Eva stood up, jabbing her head at him with a wistful smile. ‘We’re kicking off at twelve, so Milly’ll miss the first couple of hours or so. Would’ve been nice to have at least one of me kids there for the start.’

  ‘Yeah, ’specially as your mum’s done most of the organising,’ Stan agreed.

  ‘Well, I’ll just stay for the very start, then. And when I get back, I’ll come and play my guitar out in the street to make up for it.’

  ‘Oh, would you, love?’

  ‘Be happy to. Oh, is that rice pudding for the party?’ Jake asked, eyeing up the large, chipped enamel dish on the table, the congealed contents of which looked thick enough to put a knife through. ‘Probably need two of us to carry that outside, too,’ he grinned wickedly.

  ‘Cheeky devil!’ Eva flapped a handy tea towel around Jake’s head, and he laughed as he pretended to fend her off.

  ‘Right. If you want this table outside, we’d better get it cleared.’

  They all set to work. Outside in the street, the bunting that had been put up the previous day, zigzagging overhead between lamp posts, fluttered in the light breeze. Neighbours were hanging out of upstairs windows, calling instructions to each other as they strung Union Jacks and more bunting across the front of their houses.

  The Smith family, swelled by their resident relatives – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – had spilled out of Number Five. Even Eva, who’d brought up six children in their two-bedroomed house while she’d had Old Sal living with them as well, wondered how on earth they all fitted in the one house. Among them were two adolescent boys who were known to get up to mischief. But Jake roped them in to lining up the tables and chairs in the middle of the street as he and Stan helped to carry them outside. Given jobs to channel their energies into, the boys proved quite useful and kept coming back to ask what they could do next.

  ‘Morning, Jake.’

  He turned round, and there was Cissie, smiling a little shyly at him despite having spent the whole of the previous day together and looking just as lovely. Jake gulped, almost wishing he hadn’t said he’d meet up with his workmates. But he didn’t want his attraction towards her to appear too obvious. He had the feeling after that odd incident yesterday that he would need to tread very carefully.

  ‘Hello, Cissie,’ he beamed back at her. ‘Smashing day yesterday, wasn’t it? Did you sleep OK last night, or were you still too excited?’

  ‘Come on, you two, no time to chat. Work to do.’

  Jake was actually glad of his dad’s joking reprimand, though he pulled a face behind Stan’s back and then grinned at Cissie as he went back to the task in hand. Either tablecloths or old sheets were laid on the assortment of tables, which were then set out with crockery and cutlery. Vases with little flags standing in them ready for waving later on were placed along the tables at intervals.

  Miss Chalfont had obviously purloined some supplies from her school and was busy keeping the younger children occupied with making hats, crowns for the girls and tricorns for the boys, although the latter were made from newspaper. A couple of women sported Union Jack aprons, and everyone was dressed in patriotic colours as best they could. Stan even wore a red, white and blue tie Eva had cobbled together for him from the offcuts
from the bunting. It was a mess, but he hadn’t the heart to refuse to wear it.

  Finally, the food was brought out. A complete hotchpotch of whatever everyone could spare. Lots of sandwiches with just a smear of margarine and fish paste, or a wafer-thin slither of cucumber from an allotment or American tinned spam. The ‘sausage’ rolls, jam tarts and other cakes – sweetened with grated carrots to save sugar – that the cooking party had concocted the previous morning in Ellen’s kitchen. Eva’s rice pudding, several jellies and even a trifle, though where some of the ingredients for that had come from, Eva couldn’t guess. Probably the black market!

  They’d decided to keep separate at one end the jugs of beer donated by the brewery – Eva noted that Mrs Smith had her beady eye on that rather than the two bottles of port that had mysteriously appeared as well. Then there were bottles of lemonade and Tizer, and jugs of milk and water, whatever people had been able to get hold of. A few of the adults had volunteered to walk up and down, refilling the children’s cups and generally keeping an eye on things.

  ‘Right, everyone!’ Stan shouted, clapping his hands to gain everybody’s attention above the happy clamour. ‘Children, take your seats, and adults gather round behind. Photograph time!’

  It took a few minutes to organise, and then Ellen produced her late husband’s Brownie camera and took several formal photographs. Stan noted a tear in her eye. He guessed she was remembering how her husband loved taking pictures, and he patted her shoulder to comfort her.

  ‘I’ll use the rest of the roll on informal shots,’ she told him with a watery smile.

  ‘Yeah, you do that, Ellen,’ Stan said softly, and then he raised his voice again. ‘OK, before we start, God Save the King!’

  ‘God Save the King!’ everyone chorused enthusiastically.

  It was spontaneous, but Jake began to sing. At once, the whole street, apart from the very small children, joined in the National Anthem. And when it was over, the walls of the houses reverberated with three ear-splitting cheers. And then another three when someone shouted out in praise of Winston Churchill.

  ‘Right, I think we can begin now!’ Eva declared.

  Everyone dived in. This mightn’t exactly be a banquet, but it was the best they’d seen in six long years.

  ‘Well, I’m off now, Mum,’ Jake said to Eva as she turned – as had many of the women – to go inside and brew a pot of tea to bring out.

  ‘OK, love. And thanks for your help.’

  ‘Have a wonderful time, and I’ll see you later.’

  Eva waited to watch her son turn out of the street. She thanked the Good Lord for this day. Jake would turn eighteen in a few short weeks, and if the war hadn’t ended, he could well have been conscripted to go and fight. She shuddered at the thought, a cold iciness trickling through her veins. For what if she’d lost him?

  She mustn’t think like that. It was over. This street party was proof of that. She turned back to observe the festivities, much of which she’d organised. There were sixteen houses in the street, and with all the displaced relatives of the Smith family, they’d counted nearly seventy people. Mrs Duncan from next door whose husband was away in the army had three young children. The older couple from Number Sixteen. The Gamlin sisters from Number Seven. The list went on. And there were Ron, Bridie with Jane, the only baby, on her lap, Zac and Cissie being welcomed by all the neighbours and chatting away like old friends.

  Oh, yes. This is what it should be like. This was peace. They’d planned games for both children and adults when everyone had eaten their fill. The men had struggled and sweated but between them had managed to drag a piano outside, and they were going to have a proper knees-up with singing and dancing. Cissie had offered to bring out her gramophone later on. And, of course, Jake had promised to play his guitar and sing when he got back.

  Ah, Eva released a deep, contented sigh. This was the beginning. A new life for them all. Whatever the future held, it could only get better.

  *

  At the same moment that Eva was surveying the Banbury Street party, two American soldiers were perched on the edge of a fountain in the square of a small French town in the middle of liberated France.

  ‘Never mind victory. I sure as hell can’t wait to get back home.’ The sergeant in his once smart uniform – now somewhat the worse for wear after a year’s fighting in France – smoothed down his hair and placed his cap at a jaunty angle on his head. ‘These Froggy girls aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Think they’d be darned grateful to be liberated an’ pay us in kind, wouldn’t ya?’

  ‘Is that all ya ever think about?’ The black GI sitting next to him frowned at his companion in disgust. Saul Williams had prayed nightly that he’d be transferred to a different squad. After all, forces were constantly being rearranged. But no. Fate seemed to have decreed that he should remain under Chuck Masters’ command.

  They had been among the infantry assault on the first day of the invasion of the occupied French coast and had been met with a hail of enemy fire as they’d fought their way up the beach, trying to avoid the wooden spikes, barbed wire and buried mines that had only been partially cleared. Utah Beach hadn’t been quite as well defended as others, but it was still hell on earth. Chuck, it had to be said, had led his squad fearlessly, obeying every preordained command. When one of his men fell next to him, he’d pushed on without looking back.

  But Saul couldn’t leave the young GI. He had a bullet in his leg and, given the chance, would survive to fight again, but would surely be killed if he was left where he was. So Saul had risked his own life to get the youngster to relative safety before he somehow managed to meet up with the rest of his squad in the utter chaos.

  They’d fought on. The high hedgerows and marshy nature of the land behind the coast had made for vicious battles. Ambushes were frequent, nerves jangled at every moment. It might have been easy to get lost and confused. They battled on through war-ravaged, shell-pocked towns and villages, sometimes building by building, dodging bullets, creeping up and lobbing grenades into machine-gun posts. Saul was good at that. He seemed to be blessed with natural stealth, and, as Chuck put it, his ‘nigger’ skin gave him added camouflage. He didn’t like killing people. But it was kill or be killed.

  Days turned to weeks. The Allies had pressed on against fierce resistance, slowly nibbling away. Villages began to fall. They heard horrific stories of innocent people – the elderly, women and children – being taken out and shot in reprisal for action by the French Resistance, or captured SOE operatives being brutally tortured. It had all brought tears to Saul’s eyes, but Chuck always appeared unmoved. All he was interested in was saving his own neck, Saul considered bitterly.

  Whenever they’d been part of a force that liberated a town or village, and the residents came out to thank them with gifts of wine or valuables or whatever they had, Chuck took everything that was on offer. Saul, on the other hand, delighted in dishing out cigarettes or candy and seeing the gratitude on the faces of those who’d suffered so much under the occupation. Once, when separated from the main division, their squad had freed a besieged farmhouse on its own. Chuck had at once taken up the offer of the old farmer’s own bed for the night. Saul had slept with his fellow GIs in the barn. He’d hardly been surprised when on guard duty later that night, he’d seen Chuck lurch drunkenly outside, no doubt having worked his way through several bottles of the farmer’s wine. But at least, as far as Saul knew, he’d had the decency to stagger outside before he threw up.

  They’d been there at the liberation of Paris back in the previous August, although the worst of the fighting had been over by the time they arrived. While they were still stationed in the French capital, Chuck had taken himself off several times to the delights of the Bois de Boulogne – hangout of the local prostitutes. Saul hoped he’d get a good dose of the clap and be put out of action. Serve him right. But he never did, so he must have used the protection the US Army handed out to every soldier.

  ‘Y
eah, an’ why not?’ Chuck’s hated voice snapped Saul back to the present.

  ‘Ya know why not.’

  The whites of Saul’s large eyes glinted in the evening light that streamed across the square. He hadn’t forgotten; the memory of that night in London made him feel sick with shame.

  But his sergeant obviously hadn’t forgotten either. He thrust his nose almost into his subordinate’s face. ‘I told ya before, ya mention one word an’ I’ll bring some charge against ya.’

  ‘Huh. We’re not gonna be in the army much longer. I’ll go back to London, tell the authorities. I’m not gonna lie for you no more.’

  ‘Ya do that an’ I’ll say it was you, an’ then ya’ll hang for it. An’ I know where your family live, remember. Pity if their house burnt down an’ them inside it. So ya just remember to keep your big mouth shut! No one’s gonna believe a nigger over me. Ya not even supposed to be in my company. So shove off. I’d watch your own back from now on, if I was you!’ He jumped to his feet and swaggered away across the square.

  Saul clenched his full lips together, his heart enraged. He was never meant to be a soldier. He was a quiet man. Loved his mam and his dad and his sisters. How the hell had he got tied up with Chuck Masters? He rued the day they ever met.

  Fourteen

  ‘Hello, Bridie, love. Nice to see you. Wanna come in for a cuppa? Not too tidy, mind.’

  Eva had been surprised to discover Bridie on her doorstep, since it was the first time her new friend had accepted her open invitation to pop round whenever she liked. Eva was still in her curlers and slippers as she wasn’t expecting to go out, but Bridie would have to get used to taking her as she found her. And somehow she didn’t think Bridie would mind one jot.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying about that,’ the Irishwoman beamed, following as Eva beckoned her down the hallway. ‘Just thought I’d get out the house for a few minutes while Jane’s asleep. Sure, I don’t know how my poor Ron stands it, staring at the four walls like that. He can’t walk that far, so he can’t. And it’s getting even worse as he gets older.’