by Annie Groves
‘Good,’ said Evelyn, her eyes flashing now with resolve. ‘My mind is set on it. I’m going to do it first thing in the morning.’
‘Pass me her bib, will you, Billy?’ Kathleen prepared to spoon mashed carrot and potatoes into Barbara’s hungry mouth. She didn’t want her daughter to begin to grizzle during the carol concert. A good feed before they left was the best way to avoid that problem.
Kathleen loved the carol concert and was always filled with warm anticipation when asked to come along. It had become a tradition, a way of starting the festive season, even better because the children were welcome. When Brian was younger she had worried that the nurses were just saying that to be kind, but now she knew they meant it. All the same, there was no sense in taking Barbara along without feeding her first. If she began to cry in earnest, it would try anyone’s patience.
Billy found the bib and then checked his watch. ‘I hope I done the right thing, asking Ron. He’s a bit low at the moment. Ever since Kenny started walking out with that girl he met, he’s been on his lonesome.’
Kathleen put down her spoon and looked fondly at her husband. ‘Of course you did. We can’t have someone feeling lonely at Christmas. I know he’s got his ma and auntie, but they don’t get out much. When are we going to meet this girl of Kenny’s, then?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, I’m not sure how long it’ll last,’ Billy predicted. ‘It’s cruel to say it, but I reckon she’s just passing the time till she can snare some bloke in uniform. Still, he’s having fun while it lasts, so we can’t begrudge him that.’
Kathleen nodded and returned to her task. She still had to pinch herself sometimes, to believe this was real. The room glowed with light and warmth from the fire, making the tinsel she’d pinned up sparkle. Billy had brought back a little tree after work one night and she and Brian had made decorations for it. They had carefully cut strips of paper and painted them – all sorts of paper, saved from envelopes, notices, newspaper, whatever they could find. Then they had made them into chains. They had had some left over and decided to loop them through the banisters. She could not have been happier if she had been given the finest decorations from Harrods. The love that had gone into her home-made versions was beyond price.
There was a knock and Ron came in before either of them could open the door. ‘Too cold out there to wait,’ he explained, rubbing his hands and heading straight for the fire. ‘Oh, this is nice, this is. You got it looking lovely, Kath. Warms the cockles of me heart, it does.’
‘You silly sausage,’ protested Kathleen, but her cheeks glowed pink at the praise. ‘Right, my girl, let’s get your winter coat on now you’re full up. You ready, Billy? Brian, where are your gloves? Well, you’d better find them or you’ll get cold hands like Ron here.’
‘Yep, you don’t want that,’ grinned Ron. ‘Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. Mine were in my trouser pockets all the time. How daft am I?’
‘Daft as a brush!’ Brian shouted in delight, chuckling wildly, as Billy passed him his small duffel coat and stripy knitted scarf. Kathleen watched with amusement, deeply thankful that her boy had turned out so well. Instead of taking after his actual father, he seemed to be closer to Billy’s sunny nature, and enjoyed meeting his friends. She had held a long-unspoken fear that he might be nervous of grown men after witnessing Ray’s violence, but perhaps he had been too young to absorb it. Now he was showing Ron the way out, keen to get to the music. Kathleen carefully bundled Barbara into her pram, and knew that she was blessed. What she had might not look like much to some; yet to have a home, friends, family and a loving husband were, to her, riches beyond measure.
Gladys stood still as the final chords from the piano faded away, and then ducked her head in a little bow before returning to her seat in the front row. She had done it. The clapping was for her. At first she had thought that nerves would get the better of her but she had concentrated on her breathing, just like Mary had told her to, and her voice had come out steady and strong. Mary had persuaded her to sing not only the opening verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, but also the whole of ‘O Holy Night’. ‘I love that one,’ Mary had explained, ‘but it’s no good for everyone to join in. It works best as a solo. Then I can play all those lovely chords and the notes over the top as you sing – do say you’ll try it, Gladys.’
Gladys had surprised even herself by how well that tune suited her voice. Mary had helped her to practise and encouraged her to hold the long high notes, until she was confident enough to sing it in front of the whole gathering. Now that she was back in her chair she found she was shaking, all those strong feelings returning in a rush, but this time she recognised it was excitement. She could do it. She really could sing. ‘Well done,’ Fiona murmured from the row behind. Beside her, Alice patted her arm. Gladys shut her eyes and wished this moment could go on for ever. It was possibly the best of her life.
Then everyone got to their feet to join in the last carol. Mary played the opening bars of ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ and Gladys prepared to sing again, this time with less force and certainly less trepidation. She didn’t need to look at the words; she had learnt them by heart for the very first carol concert at the start of the war. Alice was singing along, and on her other side Edith was making an effort, although not much sound was coming out.
Behind her, Fiona was putting all her considerable energy into the chorus, her Scottish accent still strong. Gwen was much more controlled, missing out the high notes, as if she wouldn’t attempt anything she wasn’t sure she could succeed at. From further back came some male voices: that would be Billy, and Stan had a fine bass voice. Gladys had seen Brian and Gillian take their seats together and they could be heard trying to remember the chorus, mixing the words with la-la-las when they failed to recall the detail but evidently didn’t want to stop singing. Gladys smiled. She was glad they were allowed to participate and not shushed, as she had been when young. This evening was as much for them as for the grown-ups.
Mary tried to prolong the final chord as long as she could, but eventually it came to an end and the concert was over. Gladys was besieged by people coming up to her to congratulate and thank her, many of whom she did not know. The common room was packed, as the event grew in popularity every year. Nurses asked their friends and colleagues; there was Dr Patcham, his eyes glinting merrily as he held out his hand to shake hers. There was Brendan, the ARP warden, making his swift excuses as he was due back on duty. Janet, the teacher from St Benedict’s, was making her way over to Alice. Gladys gave a gentle sigh.
This evening brought everyone together in a way that sometimes only music could. She had been a key part of it. A wonderful sense of belonging flooded through her, buoying her up. Yes, they were in the middle of a terrible war and they had every reason to be fearful and sad. Yet on this, one of the darkest days of the year, they had come to this place and sung. While such things were possible, there would always be hope. It filled her with confidence that nobody here could be kept down for long.
‘Gladys?’ A male voice interrupted her train of thought, and she turned around to come face to face with someone she had not seen in the rows before her.
‘Oh.’ For a moment she was dumbstruck. ‘Ron. I didn’t notice you come in.’
Ron shuffled a little awkwardly. ‘I came with Billy and Kath and the kids. I was at the back. I didn’t want to block anyone’s view,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘I never knew you could sing like that. You were really good. Honest.’
‘Thank you.’ All at once Gladys was tongue-tied. She could tell her face was flaming red, and not only because the crowds of people had made the common room unusually hot. ‘I … I didn’t either. Mary taught me. If it hadn’t been for her …’ She trailed off, uncomfortable at so much attention and yet not wanting to run away.
‘I know you’re busy and everyone wants to talk to you tonight,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but, if you got any free time, and don’t worry if not, but I was just wondering … Gladys, would y
ou like to come out with me, for a drink, or a cuppa, or something?’
Gladys gasped, completely taken by surprise. No man had ever shown any interest in her. Was this a joke? But no, Ron wasn’t like that. He was kind, and helpful – and she remembered how strong his muscles had felt as she held on to him that dreadful night on the bike. ‘Yes,’ she said decisively, amazing herself at her sudden daring. ‘As long as it ain’t the Boatman’s.’
Ron grinned and held her gaze. ‘No, I promise, anywhere but the Boatman’s.’
Gladys smiled up at him. ‘Then yes.’ Before she could say anything else, one of the church hall committee touched her arm and started to congratulate her effusively, and Ron had merged back into the crowd. Gladys nodded politely to the woman, who had always seemed too grand to approach before, but her mind was whirling. Ron had asked her out. He liked her – from his expression she could tell this was no joke. He liked her a lot. The best evening of her life had just got even better.
Harry spiked another completed requisition form onto the pile, trying not to shiver as he did so. The hut in which he worked was freezing. Some of the civilian staff, mostly women, wore fingerless mittens, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. That would seem like an admission of defeat. He’d never been one to feel the cold before; but then again he’d never had to sit at a desk for an entire working day before, let alone at one in an unheated hut with a tin roof.
At least he had a warm layer on underneath his jacket. The thought made him smile, as Edith had sent it to him: a long-sleeved, thick cotton collarless shirt that she had found in a shop near Limehouse. Apparently all the men on the docks wore them during the winter. She’d written to say it wasn’t from the black market, but Harry wouldn’t have cared by that point. He liked the idea of being in the same gear as Billy and Ron and their mates.
‘Something amusing you, Banham?’ The hatchet-faced supervisor was on his case again. ‘Care to share it?’
She really did have it in for him, Harry thought. ‘No, just remembering Ma’s roast dinner,’ he said solemnly, looking down at his desk again before anyone else in the office caught his eye and made him laugh out loud.
‘Very well.’ She didn’t look convinced but she could hardly prove it otherwise.
Silence fell as they all diligently filled in more forms, filed them, passed them along to the appropriate pile. Harry wondered if it really was the cold or whether he was actually dying of boredom. He knew he should be grateful that he was alive at all, when so many with him at Dunkirk had not made it safely home, but it was hard to be grateful all day every day.
A messenger boy went past his desk, barely old enough to have left school. He handed something to the supervisor and almost ran out again, terrified by her glare. Harry felt sorry for him. This was probably his first job and he most likely had had little choice about what he did. Who in their right mind would have volunteered to deal with the supervisor? She was reading the message now, her brow contorting into a deep frown. ‘Carry on,’ she said, rising abruptly and making for the door at the back of the hut, which led to the captain’s office. ‘Sanders, you are in charge for the time being.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the young woman in the corner, smiling sycophantically.
Harry reflected that she had joined their team more recently than him and he might well take that as an insult, but she obviously welcomed the responsibility. The supervisor clearly rewarded those who agreed with whatever she told them and caused no trouble. He avoided the young woman’s stare and turned once more to the task of deciphering which vehicles had flat tyres and who had been driving them at the time.
His mind wandered again to Edith, and this time he bit on the inside of his mouth to stop the automatic smile from breaking through. He didn’t know how he would have coped in these last months without her. Her letters reminded him that she was always thinking of him, even if they were hours apart. She always sounded so cheerful, assuring him that they would be together again soon and this dreary interlude would pass. He tried to imagine what she would be doing at the moment. Cycling around Dalston, or in a patient’s home, or maybe making a quick visit to the market.
He had applied for leave at Christmas, hoping to celebrate their first anniversary in the sanctuary of his parents’ house, but he had had to do so via his supervisor, who had bluntly told him that he did not stand much of a chance. Harry had nodded and not revealed his disappointment. He had, after all, been at home for the previous festive season, which was more than many could say. He should not be surprised if he was turned down.
Yet nobody would be using the army vehicles for their regular day-to-day purposes over the Christmas period itself, and so there was no real need for an office full of clerical staff to be stuck here at the ready in case more tyres had to be ordered. They could just as easily order extra in readiness, and all go home. It came down to the spiteful attitude of the supervisor. He tried not to take it personally, but he strongly suspected that this was exactly what was behind it. If she could make his life more difficult, then she would.
Five minutes passed, and then ten. Harry was beginning to think she had disappeared for the morning.
After a quarter of an hour, she returned, her face like thunder. Harry registered this with some alarm. Somebody was for it, that was certain. A look like that could not bode well.
‘Banham,’ she barked, with no preamble. ‘You are to come with me to the captain’s office, immediately. Look sharp.’
All eyes in the room turned towards him. The young woman who had been temporarily in charge raised her eyebrows and all but smirked in mock sympathy.
With as much dignity as he could muster, Harry rose. He could not think what he might have done to deserve this, but his heart was in his boots as he wound his way through the assortment of battered desks. He might as well kiss goodbye to Christmas at home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Peggy pulled her scarf up over her nose and breathed out, trying to warm the lower half of her face. Liverpool Street Station was no place to be standing around for ages, and yet there was nowhere else she could possibly be. James had got two days’ leave and she was not going to waste a second of it. The moment he stepped off his train, she would be there to greet him.
The trains were delayed, of course. She had already waited for an hour. She had worn her one new piece of winter clothing, her astrakhan-trimmed ankle boots, which had good thick soles on them, but even so she could hardly feel her feet. She had thought about putting on her best pair of woollen stockings, but they were darned. Even though she was fairly sure nobody would see, she herself would know. Then Clarrie had come good, lending her a pair of nylons.
‘Wherever did you get them?’ Peggy had asked, her eyes wide with wonder. They were like gold dust.
‘Don’t ask,’ Clarrie had said darkly.
There had been no choice but to wear her old coat, as Peggy had not had enough points to buy a replacement; it had been more important to buy the boots, as her previous pair were beyond mending. She hoped that the bright scarf and smart footwear would distract from the coat’s worn elbows and shabby bobbled fabric.
She was far from the only one there craning her neck to see if there was any change to the arrivals, or any unexpected movement. Plenty of people of all ages crowded the concourse, some in uniform, all with the same air of expectation. Many carried bags or boxes of gifts. Christmas was only a few days away now.
She hugged her handbag more closely to her, conscious of the pushing and shoving in which a pickpocket could have a field day. She had no intention of letting one make off with the contents of her bag; she had put lots of thought into her gift for James and nobody was going to deny her the sight of his face when he opened the little box.
An older woman, shorter than her, tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, but can you tell me when the next Cambridge train is due in?’
Peggy turned around to face her. ‘Sorry, I don’t know,’ she said.
&n
bsp; ‘Only my husband is travelling from there, you see.’ The woman was obviously worried. ‘He’s coming home for Christmas. He hasn’t managed to do that since the war began. I do hope he gets here.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Peggy said hurriedly. ‘The trains all seem to be getting through, they’re just late.’ She felt sorry for the woman in her obvious anxiety, but also a little resentful; James would have to return before Christmas itself. And wasn’t Cambridge just up the line? It was no distance at all, in comparison to his journey.
Then she told herself not to be mean. All those years without spending Christmas together must have been hard for them. The woman was dressed in what would have been smart clothes, had they not so clearly been worn many times. Before the war, their paths might never have crossed; she looked like the type who might have gone to the first-class lounge. Now the pair of them were in the same boat, struggling to see above the throng.
A gap in the crowd opened up and there was his train pulling in. ‘Excuse me, I must go,’ Peggy said, pointing. The woman nodded in understanding. Peggy ducked and wove her way through to the end of the platform, determined to find the best position before any of the passengers went past. Men in khaki hoisted kitbags on their shoulders; groups of young women in WAAF attire linked arms as they strode along, faces rosy with the cold. A few Land Girls laughed and pointed at friends further down the platform. There was a holiday atmosphere but Peggy shut it out, eyes focused in concentration.
There were so many men in GI uniform. What if she missed him? After all he had gone through since they last saw one another, that would be unbearable. Her heart beat faster. It must not happen. She had to look more carefully.
After another agonising minute that felt like an hour, there he was. A little cry broke from her throat and she broke into a run, dodging soldiers, Land Girls and civilians, her coat falling open as she did so.