The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  ‘I’ve wanted to see that show for the longest time,’ Joan said. She was delighted with the prospect, made more attractive by the fact that Mother, who would never consent, need not know.

  The outing to the Palladium went ahead in November, Colin somehow managing to secure five seats together and a sixth just behind. As it turned out, that lone seat wasn’t needed. By then Joan was involved with Ralph and they were ensconced together in his dark study. The following morning, Edward and Eileen performed a great take on one of the showstoppers and Joan encouraged Colin to top it, but he shook his head and chastised her for wasting a ticket. He avoided her after that and she was left trying to shake off the touch of shame she felt when he walked away from her, hands in pockets.

  Things would have been very different, she supposed, if she’d stuck with Colin and his crowd. She thought they must be wondering how she was recovering from the acute gastroenteritis Mother had alerted the company to in a letter. She’d finished with a postscript, advising that for the sake of their health, they shouldn’t visit and none went against her warning. Much to Joan’s alarm, that included Ralph.

  *

  The invitations from Sir Ralph had appeared in their pigeonholes, as promised, the day formal rehearsals began. Joan’s slot was the last, Friday week at three o’clock. She would have liked to get it over and done with earlier but at least this way she could grasp the format of the meetings from the others and be prepared. As the fortnight progressed, everyone reported back on the more or less identical fifteen-minute discussion with Sir Ralph. With the exception of Colin, who wiped his brow and contorted himself into a sham fit, everyone came out looking brighter than they had going in.

  Having watched all of this take place, Joan was feeling less anxious by the time she knocked on Sir Ralph’s door at the allotted time. ‘Enter,’ he called. Joan closed the door behind her and stood with her back to it, waiting to be summoned forward. Without looking up from what he was reading, Sir Ralph pointed to a hard, straight-backed chair across the desk from him. Hands clasped in her lap and her back as rigid as the unwelcoming chair she perched on, Joan sat and waited. Not daring to move her head in case she distracted him, she looked out the corner of her eye at the certificates on the wall next to her. Then she took in some of the photos on the drinks cabinet to the right, all of them picturing Sir Ralph shaking some dignitary’s hand and smiling with reticence, as if he had something more pressing to undertake elsewhere. A woman with sleek hair and sharp features stood behind his right shoulder in two of the photos, wearing a different stylish hat in each shot.

  ‘Don’t mind those,’ Sir Ralph said. Joan pivoted her eyes back towards him and felt herself start to colour, knowing he’d observed her prying. ‘They’re nothing. Nothing important, that is.’

  ‘Pardon me, Sir Ralph,’ she said, shifting in her chair and looking, she was sure, as awkward as she felt.

  ‘You have nothing to be pardoned for, Miss…’ He made a show of rooting amongst his papers for one particular sheet.

  ‘Abbott,’ Joan said.

  ‘Yes. Miss Abbott,’ he repeated, letting the page drop from his hand. ‘Now, tell me a bit about yourself. And please, don’t tell me what I already know. All the others did that, spewed out a repetitious reflux of the information on their application forms, or what they told us at audition. You’re my last interviewee and I’m bored with it now. Be different. Impress me.’

  Joan felt bewildered and could think of nothing to say. This was not going to the plan she’d drawn up based on reports from the others. She half-rose from the chair and said, ‘I think perhaps I should come in again and start over.’

  It had been a serious suggestion, so she was surprised at the laughter that followed and which went on for some time. Sir Ralph rocked backwards and forwards with delight like the torso of a laughing policeman at the fun fair. Watching him, Joan experienced the same mixture of fear, repulsion and fascination she’d felt as a child, having fed her last penny to the strange marionette.

  When his amusement ebbed, he leaned back in his chair and studied Joan for a few uncomfortable moments. ‘Well, let me ask you this, perhaps safer, question. What has been the highlight of your career to date?’

  Joan felt as though she’d lost her place in a score and was the only musician playing on the incorrect page. ‘I suppose getting my place here, at the Hall, Sir Ralph.’

  ‘And suppose you hadn’t. What would your answer have been then?’

  Joan thought back through her musical achievements. ‘Well, Sir Ralph, it would have to be playing first violin at the RCM Leaving Ceremony.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded. ‘A great honour. We’ve had more than one first from that particular concert playing here, you know.’

  Joan hadn’t known that and felt rather short-changed to be reminded that she was one of many.

  ‘But tell me, when you played in that performance, did you wear your hair as it is now?’

  Joan felt she was again sifting through her muddled sheet music with desperation. Her hand went without thinking to her head, to check the pins that held the coiled rolls off her face. Everything was in place, held fast with a dollop of Amami. Sir Ralph watched her agitation, a smile beginning to form on his face. She thought she might have to bolt for the door if his unnerving mirth surfaced again. ‘I’m sure I can’t remember.’

  ‘I certainly hope you did – it’s most becoming.’ His voice was softer, more kindly. ‘In fact, there is nothing about your aspect that isn’t.’

  Joan felt compelled to go with the course of the conversation. ‘Well, now I think about it, I probably dressed it in a knot, which is much less distracting than having it down when playing.’

  He held his hand up to stop her. ‘Miss Abbott, I’m paying you a compliment and as I don’t do so often, allow me to continue.’

  ‘Pardon me again, Sir Ralph.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to be flattered.’

  But she wasn’t. She was more mystified than anything. She’d always considered herself rather plain. Unlike Eileen, who managed to have every man’s eyes on her whenever she walked into a room. Next to her, Joan felt her lack of curves and the thin legs that barely filled her stockings. Her hair was the same shade of brown as stewed tea and she knew her eyes to be small – which was just as well, as their colour was an indistinct grey, like the seaside on a rainy Bank Holiday: nothing to get excited about.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Sir Ralph said with some hesitation, as if he were struggling for the right words, ‘that you are admired as a matter of course by every young man you meet. Accolades from a man approaching middle age probably mean nothing to you.’

  Joan dismissed the idea with a short laugh, as she hadn’t socialised with many young men, Mother saying there was enough time for all that after her career had been established. The young men she did come into contact with never commented on her within hearing, so Joan assumed there was nothing much attractive about her and concentrated on looking neat rather than glamorous. Besides, she told herself, these young men whose compliments were supposed to be so longed for and highly prized were mere boys, gangly and clumsy. Good fun, like Colin and Edward she had to admit, but no more than that.

  ‘You seem so level-headed, too,’ Sir Ralph continued, looking down at his folded hands. ‘The majority of good-looking women are frivolous and prone to histrionics. You give the impression, however, of judiciousness. That, together with your beguiling demeanour, compels me to ask you to join me from time to time for a sherry and a chat about your burgeoning career. Would there be any chance of that, or am I asking too much?’

  Joan didn’t know what she had been expecting to find in Sir Ralph’s face when he looked up, but it was not the sincerity she saw there. Of course it was Mother’s fault that Joan jumped in feet first. Mother with her incessant nagging about strict routines and the future, a future that Joan felt she hadn’t had a chance to decide upon for herself. If the idea of seeing Top of the World
behind Mother’s back was exciting, the thought of being with Ralph, and all the furtiveness that went with it, was thrilling. ‘I’d like that very much,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ Sir Ralph nodded. ‘Let’s start now. Dry or sweet?’ He turned to the cabinet and moved the photos to one side to reach the bottles behind.

  She didn’t know the difference but plumped for the one she thought would be most palatable. ‘Sweet, please. Is that your wife? She’s very elegant.’

  He hesitated before picking up and studying one of the photos in which Lady Myers stood beside him. When he placed it back, he angled it so Joan couldn’t see it with ease. ‘Yes. She spends a great deal of time keeping in vogue.’

  Joan started to ask whether Ralph’s wife was involved in music but Ralph held up his hand to silence her, once more the director. ‘I invited you to have a sherry with me, not to discuss my wife.’ So she wasn’t mentioned again. Joan pushed her and Mother to the back of her mind and relished the time she spent with Ralph, instigating their meetings as often as he did, and feeling more free than she had ever felt before. Besides all that, after the briefest of times, she was in love with Ralph and thought he must feel the same about her.

  *

  Mother was fussing now, having perceived that Joan was shamming sleep, and tried to hoist her up with one arm around her shoulder and the other wedged under her armpit. ‘Are you able?’ Mother asked. ‘I think you should try to sit up now and eat something.’

  Joan turned her pillows and punched them into shape, seeking a spot that wasn’t slick with sweat. A square on the edge of the top pillowcase brought her some comfort and she bunched it under her head, turning her back on Mother. Beneath the bedclothes, dishevelled and clammy around her legs and arms, she sought out her stomach and stroked its hollows. It was gone. She knew it with fevered clarity. Without the baby, so too were her fragile hopes for a future with Ralph. At very best they would go back to how they were, better than nothing but not enough.

  Mother appeared again, carrying a tray around the bed. ‘This won’t do, Joan dear. At least have a look. There’s a lovely bowl of oxtail soup, a bread roll with both our rations of butter, a bit of cake and jelly. It’s all very nutritious.’

  ‘Please leave me alone, Mother,’ Joan said.

  She heard the chink of crockery as Mother placed the tray on the bedside table, smoothed the bedclothes and sat down next to her. Tentatively, Mother lifted the sheets from Joan’s hands where they lay, one on each side of her head, and with gentle strokes began to massage them, starting with the fingers. Joan thought Mother must have mistaken her inertia for compliance, perhaps even solace, because her pummelling became more firm and confident. Joan kept her eyes closed, willing Mother to stop and leave the room.

  With a slight movement of impatience, Joan slipped her grip. Mother’s hands fumbled for hers again and clung on, the thumbs finding the spaces between the joints and digging down, seeking out sore spots she could worry away at. Something liquid trickled between Joan’s legs and she knew she needed to get up and see to herself but felt weighted to the bed. Unable to move from the shape she’d created by her own damp, she felt a fury building up that she hadn’t realised she had the energy to release.

  In the silence, Joan felt Mother lean towards her and suck in her breath, ready to speak. ‘Joan,’ she whispered. Joan shuddered when she felt Mother so close and drew herself up on one elbow, intending to make the effort to get up. ‘This doesn’t have to be the end of everything you’ve worked for.’

  ‘Move. Please, Mother. Move out of my way.’

  ‘Everything you’ve always wanted.’ Mother’s voice was modulated and calm, as if she was trying to hypnotise Joan into agreement.

  ‘Surely you can see you’ve got that the wrong way round, Mother.’ Joan emphasised her words with sarcasm, balling the bed sheets in her fists to keep her composure. ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted. I haven’t had a choice.’

  ‘Release the tension,’ Mother said, unclenching Joan’s hands.

  ‘I have to get up.’ Joan felt feeble and shaky. She prodded Mother’s arm, giving her an opportunity to stand and let her pass. Mother wouldn’t take the hint and with her last vestige of strength Joan lashed out, slapping the back of her hand against Mother’s cheek. Mother let out a cry and protected her face with her arm. Joan went to push her from the bed, shouting for her to get away, but Mother jumped back and stood staring at Joan in horror. The Westminster clock chimed six and rather than distract Joan, it spurred her on and she gained momentum as the first explosion of the night struck. With one swing, Joan swept the tea tray in Mother’s direction, making sure that shards of china and bits of food reached her intended target.

  ‘Joan, stop!’ Mother screamed. ‘Have you gone mad? I don’t know you anymore.’

  Next Joan tackled the vanity table, throwing bottles and jars at the door Mother scrabbled towards to make her escape. Behind her eyes, bright floating lights were appearing and Mother’s voice sounded thin and distant. With one last effort, Joan wrenched the oil painting of a violinist from the wall and hurled it to the floor, catching the side of her hand on a nail that protruded from the frame. ‘Your hand. Joan, how could you?’ Mother let out a sob as they watched the blood trail down Joan’s arm from the jagged tear.

  *

  A couple of weeks later, as Joan and Mother sat looking at each other over dinner, Mother related the excuses she had given to Dr Thompson when she had called him out after the events of that contentious evening. Joan tried to stop the narrative, embarrassed by the memory of her conduct, but Mother insisted Joan needed to be able to piece things together. Joan let her gabble on. What difference did it make now? The doctor had given her something for the fever as well as a tonic for the long, heavy cycle Mother told him Joan was experiencing.

  ‘You might well look as if you couldn’t care less one way or another at the moment, Joan dear. But you’ll thank me in time for protecting your reputation, believe me. Father, of course, knows nothing and he never will, will he? I’ll tell him what I told the doctor and leave it at that. As for the wreckage in your bedroom, well, the bombing was terrible that night. I wrote and explained that the foundations of the house had been shaken by a particularly nasty raid. We’ll stick with that, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. And what did you tell them about my hand?’ she asked, looking down at the bandage.

  ‘I said you slipped and fell on a broken cup.’

  Joan nodded. Mother could have told Father that Joan had sliced her hand open shaving her beard. Or that she had been helping a friend train as a knife thrower and had her hand pinned to the rotating board. Or had been scything wheat or disembowelling a partridge. Or she could have told him the truth. It would not have mattered or made any difference. Father would not have come home to enquire about her health. She could not remember him once touching her face or stroking her hair and he would never question Mother about anything, accepting her rules and directions without a murmur.

  Sometimes, on the rare occasions he was home, he would look with pity at Joan when Mother started her endless nagging about rehearsals and lessons and her career, but when Joan begged him with her eyes for help or intervention, he just looked the other way. It was a wonder to Joan that he had made it to captain during his career in the RAF. She laughed to herself when she pictured the looks on the faces of his men if they could see him acquiescing to Mother on each and every minor point of their lives.

  But, remorse overwhelmed Joan. She tried to hold back the images of her dreadful behaviour but they pushed their way through with harsh persistence. She recoiled away from them into a corner of the chair, but still they came on, making her feel hot with chagrin. She thought about saying something, perhaps asking Mother’s forgiveness, but felt that Mother had much to apologise for first and as she, no doubt, felt the same way, neither of them made a move towards the other.

  ‘Well,’ Mother said. ‘You’re looking better these past few days
. I believe there’s some colour in your face. Are you feeling stronger?’

  ‘A bit,’ Joan said, turning her face to the weak sun managing to seep through the clouds, stout with snow.

  Mother looked at Joan for a time. ‘You must think me awfully heartless.’

  Joan was glad when Mother didn’t give her time to answer. Mother came to kneel beside her, brushing the serviette from her lap and looking up into Joan’s eyes. ‘I’m going to show you something now that you have to know about. I hope after you see it, you’ll be able to face the truth and get on with things as before.’

  ‘What can you mean?’ Joan asked, already imagining a letter from Ralph that perhaps Mother had opened and hidden from her.

  Mother unlocked a drawer in the sideboard and took out a folded newspaper. She took a deep breath and placed it on Joan’s lap. ‘Page twenty-four,’ she said. Then she turned and left the room with soft, quick footsteps.

  For a moment Joan sat very still. A bird pecked through the wintry garden mire then flew, disappointed, to try its luck in the barren hedge. In the distance a man shouted followed by the loud noise of something heavy falling. Clouds engulfed the sunshine and a few darts of rain gave way to spatterings of snow. Joan turned the paper over and saw that it was dated Friday 30th December 1940; the day after that terrible scene with Mother. The Second Fire of London, the headline read.

  With controlled movements, she leafed through each sheet until she arrived at the instructed page, in the middle of the Arts and Entertainment section. She peeled the pages apart and there was a photo of Ralph, smiling through the grainy newsprint, his hand lifted as if to fend off the reporters. On his left was his wife, looking sophisticated in a feathery hat that swept low over one eye. Sir Ralph to be new Musical Director of the ABC SSO, the headline read. Sydney. He’d never mentioned the possibility.

  Joan let the paper fall. Then she scrambled for it again and read through the first paragraph. Ralph had been in negotiations for this post for ages. With a jolt she realised that she would have made no difference to his taking it up, pregnant or not. She couldn’t bear to read the rest of the article, learn about his new beginnings and his aspirations for the musical life of Sydney. She crumpled the paper and threw it towards the fire. Mother appeared holding out a handkerchief. Joan snatched it and wiped it around her face as they stood facing each other in the pallid light from the thickening snow.