The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Tell Betty I will write to her tomorrow after my homework and chores.

  Will XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Gwen folded it over and tucked it away with the postcard. She’d felt uneasy when she’d first read it yesterday but couldn’t think why. She had no argument with getting the kids to help out; she and George had always insisted all three of them do their fair share according to their ages. No, it wasn’t that or the fact that Will and Marty were sent to their room early. She’d already gathered that Mrs Morgan was no Auntie Peggy, and she told herself that George was right, better off tucked up in bed early than never tucked up in bed again.

  And he had his pal with him for company, which must have made things seem a bit more bearable as he and Marty had always been a pair, a right little pair, for as long as she could remember. Sitting on the same bench at school, playing conkers and football and chase, always in and out of each other’s houses. But now it struck her. It was the kisses. She’d been pleased to get so many; she’d counted them and pressed her lips to the sheet of paper that many times over. Once there had been three, for her birthday, but other than that, two was his limit. She didn’t like it. By the end of the day Gwen had made up her mind. She’d get herself to Llansaint to visit Ruth and Will. Plenty of mothers had made the trip, some of them more than once.

  It was dark when Gwen arrived home. Betty’s blackouts were drawn as usual, but the familiar clatter of pots and pans, the smell of boiling greens and stewing meat was missing. She turned the back-door knob and put her shoulder to the sticking wood but it jarred against her. She tried harder, then realised it was locked. Gwen couldn’t remember Betty ever locking her back door. With shaking fingers she searched for her key and turned the lock.

  The kitchen was cold. ‘Betty?’ she called. ‘Bet?’ The words echoed back to her. She closed the door and turned on a light. Propped against the brown teapot was a note addressed to her in George’s writing telling her that Betty and Len’s daughter-in-law was having trouble with the baby. George was helping them to Clapham to be with her. She was a lovely girl, Annie. And their Ray was gentle and quiet, like Len; had his cheeky sense of humour, too. Ray was away with his mob and this was their first little one. When was it due? Gwen wondered.

  Shame washed over her for not remembering. Betty would know the expected date to the minute if it had been the other way around. She turned the note over and scribbled a message to George. She would be going to Wales that evening and be home in a few days. She didn’t tell him she might have the kids in tow.

  *

  Somewhere between London and Swansea, during the early hours of the morning, Gwen woke with a start; she could see the icy mist of her breath but her palms and underarms were clammy with sweat. She’d been to Southend on the train but never any further and never by herself. She tucked the ends of her scarf under her collar and glanced into the little mirror above the opposite seats to check on her case in the rack, then nestled her head into the scratchy red seat cover. A woman in the corner, a large brown bag on her lap, was snoring softly through a blocked nose. She peeped around the stiff window blind, hoping that dawn would be breaking, but the sky was as inky as the blackout shade. She closed her eyes again and fell into an agitated sleep.

  At Swansea she had almost two hours to wait for the train to Kidwelly. Finding the ladies’ waiting room, she bought a cup of tea and a Welsh cake and sat looking at the rain that fell in torrents, as if someone was throwing bucketsful down from a height. She’d never complain about the drizzle in London again. She kept her eye on the station clock, worried she’d miss the train as she couldn’t understand a word the station announcer said. As soon as the 6:39 to Kidwelly flipped into view on the departure board she hurried to the platform and heaved her case into the first empty compartment she came across. This part of the journey was an hour and after that, two miles or so to Llansaint.

  A woman with dark hair escaping from clips behind her ears opened the compartment door and flopped down next to Gwen. ‘Llansaint?’ she asked.

  Gwen nodded, relieved to hear a London voice.

  ‘Thought so. You look how I feel.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t far now.’

  ‘Just the two-mile trek.’

  ‘A trek. Can’t we catch a bus?’

  The woman chuckled without changing the set of her mouth. ‘Is this your first visit?’

  ‘Yeah. You’ve been before, have you?’

  ‘Twice. And no, there’s no such thing as a bus out here. I got a lift on the back of a cart first visit, but the next time I walked.’

  Despite being soaked already, they fished out umbrellas and, cowering under them, started down a muddy lane together. Through the curtain of rain Gwen saw rolling fields, trees, stone walls and the odd pinprick of a cottage or barn; no sign of a town. A pungent smell rose up around them, a fresh, green fragrance mixed with a more feral, rotting odour. The quiet was daunting, too. Gwen strained every muscle waiting for the siren, or the screeching of a bomb, or the racket of machinery.

  On the outskirts of the town they stopped. ‘I’m going this way,’ the woman said, pushing her dripping hair off her face. ‘Where are yours?’

  ‘My little girl’s in Parky Saint,’ Gwen answered, having decided it would be better to surprise Auntie Peggy than Mrs Morgan. She held out a bit of paper for the other woman to read.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Parc Y Saint. Mine have left the side door open for me. But if yours don’t know you’re coming you’d be best to wait outside the church.’ She indicated a white tower that loomed over the village. ‘Everyone’ll be in there this morning. If you fancy some company, I’m going home on Wednesday.’

  ‘I’ll have to be getting back myself then,’ Gwen said. They made plans to meet at the same place in three days’ time.

  Gwen had expected the town to be as open as the countryside, with space between and around each house. Instead, the terraces were as tightly packed together as they were in London except that they were made from rough, deep blue stone. Coils of black smoke twisted from chimney pots and disappeared into the grey sky. A cat watched her from the steps of The Joiners Arms.

  There was a bakery, an ironmonger, a butcher, a little school, the churchyard of All Saints. From behind the graves came the swell of singing, rising to a thunderous crescendo. She opened the gate and sheltered under a yew tree, waiting for the service to finish.

  For a second, Ruth didn’t know her. Her little girl stared with wide eyes, a frown on her face, then broke away from Auntie Peggy’s hand and ran towards her.

  ‘Ruth,’ Peggy called. ‘Stay with me here, there’s a good girl.’

  Gwen and Ruth clung to each other, muttering each other’s names over and over.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Peggy strode across the grass with purpose. ‘I don’t think we know you.’

  Gwen produced the postcard from Ruth and said, ‘Ruthie’s Mum.’

  Auntie Peggy’s hand covered her mouth, as if to stop herself from calling out. ‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming to visit?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Gwen’s voice quivered. ‘It was spur of the moment.’

  ‘Well. Well, well, well,’ Peggy said, her hands on her narrow hips. ‘Shall we get Mammy home and get her dry?’

  Ruth’s head bobbed up and down, the ribbons in her plaits bouncing. Her hair had grown and so had she. A couple of inches taller at least. Ruth put one hand in her mother’s, the other in Auntie Peggy’s.

  ‘Please,’ Gwen said. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance, but Will?’

  ‘He’s not here, Mum,’ Ruth said. ‘I looked for him in church.’ There was the slightest lilt in Ruth’s voice. Endearing and troubling at the same time.

  ‘Ah. Mr and Mrs Morgan.’ Peggy shook her head, her thin lips a taut line. ‘They don’t attend morning service; they wait until the evening.’

  ‘Perhaps I should go there now. I can’t wait to see Will, too.’

 
‘Let me send word with Bryn, Mrs Gregson. He’ll bring Will round to ours for you. That would be the best idea.’

  ‘Ta,’ Gwen said. ‘I really am so grateful to you.’

  ‘Now don’t be silly. Everyone has to do war work, don’t they? And I dare say ours is much more pleasant than most.’ She took Gwen’s case.

  ‘Please call me Gwen.’

  ‘Gwen? Now, there’s a lovely old Welsh name.’

  ‘Yeah I suppose it is. I’d never thought before.’

  *

  Will burst through the door followed by a stocky man dressed completely in black, limping heavily on his left leg. ‘Mum.’ He flung himself on her lap and they smothered each other in kisses. ‘Is the war over? Have you come to take us home?’

  Gwen saw Bryn and Peggy exchange a worried look. ‘I’ve come to visit,’ she said. ‘See how you’re getting on.’

  A feeling of warmth cloaked her as both children moulded themselves into her, exactly like they used to. She longed to hold on to the sense of calm they gave her, but within a few short minutes she was more aware of the hollow, empty space that was the size and shape of Johnny, and the comfort slipped away. They gabbled on about school, what they did in the country that they couldn’t do at home, their teachers’ names, the friends they’d made and the ones they’d fallen out with. Then Ruth remembered her puppy and jumped up. ‘Come and see Dot,’ she said, pulling on Gwen’s sleeve.

  ‘I ain’t seen him yet,’ Will said.

  ‘Dot’s a girl,’ Ruth said. ‘Ain’t she, Uncle Bryn?’

  ‘She certainly is, my lovely,’ Bryn answered, turning from the bowl of carrots he was peeling.

  ‘She’s still in the yard during the day,’ Peggy said, taking them through the cool, flagged pantry. ‘We’ll bring her in soon, now it’s getting colder.’

  The puppy jumped up at them, spinning and licking and burying its head in Ruth’s lap.

  ‘She’s great fun,’ Will said, stroking the white spot on the dog’s black head. ‘I wish we had one. Me and Marty.’

  ‘Well, you can come and see Dot any time you like, can’t he, Ruth?’

  Ruth nodded.

  ‘I’ve told him that before,’ Peggy said, turning to Gwen. ‘And I’ve mentioned it to Mrs Morgan, but…’ She rolled her eyes.

  Gwen looked down at the kids standing side by side, passing the puppy backwards and forwards. Ruth was pristine, so clean that the parting in her hair shone pink. Her clothes looked handmade but were neat and serviceable, exactly right for playing. She smelled lovely, too, like fresh air, and while she wasn’t plump, she had a good covering on her that boded well for the winter months ahead.

  Will was shivering; he was wearing a school jersey, the sleeves two inches shy of his wrists and grey woollen shorts that were stained with ink and gravy. His thin knees were grubby and Gwen could see black in and behind his ears. She raked her hand through his thick hair and he winced when it snagged on a knot. Her fingers came away covered in a sticky film. Auntie Peggy had been watching her and Gwen saw her shudder, either at the dirt or the state of her hands or both.

  Gwen squatted between the children and put her arms around them. ‘Will,’ she said. ‘Why are you playing in your school clothes?’

  Will shrugged and threw a rubber ball across the yard. ‘Fetch, Dot,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a clean set for tomorrow?’

  Will raced across the paving slabs to retrieve the ball from the vegetable patch. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Did you bring the socks I asked for, Mum? And the comics?’

  Gwen laughed. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I did. And a few other bits and bobs.’

  ‘Now then,’ Peggy said. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’

  Will stopped, the ball in his hands. His eyes looked huge in his pale face. ‘It smells good,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll put up a plate for you, so you can eat with Mam. If Mrs Morgan doesn’t mind.’

  ‘She won’t care.’ Will threw the ball to one side. ‘I’ll run and tell her.’

  ‘Bring your friend back with you,’ Peggy said. ‘There’s plenty for him.’

  ‘I think,’ Gwen said, standing up and straightening her skirt. ‘I’ll walk round with you, Will. I’d like to meet Mr and Mrs Morgan myself. Say ta for their kindness.’

  Peggy set her lips again and nodded.

  For a little while Will held her hand. Next he faced her, skipping backwards through narrow lanes and tight alleyways. Then he hugged her and ran ahead, stopping at quite a large stone cottage that seemed to be on the outskirts of the village. ‘Come round the back,’ he said, winding his way through an obstacle course of broken machinery.

  ‘What does Mr Morgan do?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘He fixes things.’

  Gwen didn’t think he could be very successful, judging from the rusting harrows and shears lying about.

  Rapping on the door, Will called out. ‘Mrs Morgan. It’s me.’

  ‘Why’s he back so soon?’ a thick, deep voice called out.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ a woman answered.

  The door was pulled open by a small woman in a faded tabard that might once have been pink or mauve or blue. Her greying hair was crossed in two plaits over her head; her arms were crossed over her bulging chest; her face set in cross lines. ‘What now?’ Her voice trailed off when she saw Gwen.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Morgan,’ Gwen said. ‘I’m Will’s Mum.’

  By the time Gwen found Marty in the chicken coop that he and Will kept in a cleaner state than the house and gathered together their things, she was determined to take them back with her to London. Then she began to doubt her decision. She couldn’t take Will and not Ruth, but Ruth was happy and well cared for. If only Auntie Peggy could take the boys, but she hadn’t the space. As it was, Gwen had to share a tiny bed with Ruth, Susie squeezed in between them; the boys slept on the sitting-room floor, more comfortable and warm there than they had ever been with the Morgans.

  She was desperate for sleep but instead she lay awake most of the night, sweating about what to do for the best. She was up early, helping to organise the kids for school, washing and scrubbing at Will and Marty, dabbing the worst off their uniforms, cutting their bread, checking their copybooks. They were about to leave when there was a knock at the door. Bryn answered it and came into the kitchen with a telegram for Gwen. He handed it to her and said, ‘I hope nothing’s the matter.’

  Gwen stared at it for a minute. It might be alright; it wasn’t bordered in black. She tore it open.

  DO NOT BRING KIDS HOME STOP BETTY NEEDS YOU HERE STOP GEORGE STOP

  ‘It’s from Dad,’ Gwen said. ‘He wants to make sure I give you a hug from him.’ She kissed them both and ruffled Marty’s hair.

  Surely George would understand if she went against his wishes and took them home with her; he wasn’t a cruel man. But he would insist they be sent elsewhere: Cornwall, Scotland, Norfolk. They would be separated from their friends and the school they’d settled into and instead of billeting with an Auntie Peggy they might both get a Mrs Morgan. Or worse. She made up her mind to get Will and Marty moved and be firm about it. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘Good for you, Mrs Gregson,’ Peggy said. ‘I’ll take you to Jenkins myself.’

  For a moment Gwen was puzzled. Then she said, ‘He’s the billeting officer, ain’t he?’

  Peggy nodded and marched her through the rain-slick streets, oblivious to the incessant downpour. On the way, she untethered her opinion of Mrs Morgan who, she said, let Wales down with her slapdash approach. ‘Trouble is,’ she said, ‘we have been pushed here. That’s no excuse, I know, but every available bed has been taken and at least the boys have been safe from the bombing.’

  ‘That’s what George would say.’

  Peggy looked at her from under the plaid shawl covering her hair. ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘I used to think…’ Gwen hesitated, surprised by how easily she was talking ‘…they could only ever be safe w
ith me. Now I know different.’

  Peggy took her arm and squeezed it. ‘I think you’re doing a grand job,’ she said.

  By Tuesday bedtime, Will and Marty were ensconced with the Gwilts in their smart cottage near the town green. The two little ones who’d billeted with them had gone to stay with relatives in Herefordshire, so they were delighted with the prospect of having a couple of boys around the place. Gwen left them in the warm kitchen, sitting shyly on benches at the scrubbed table, waiting for Mr Gwilt to come home so they could have their tea. She spent one last evening with Ruth, reading to her, brushing her hair, tucking her up. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said, turning down the wick in the oil lamp. She’d said the same thing to Will and hoped that was the case, although she was glad neither of them asked her to promise.

  *

  She and the other London mum talked a bit on the journey home, but for most of the way Gwen watched the darkening sky, reminded that in another month it would be Christmas and, soon after, a year since that terrible night. She mulled over everything that had happened during the previous few days, satisfied that she’d made the best decision she could for Will and Ruth under the circumstances. She felt different, as if she’d done something she could congratulate herself about, as if she might start to trust herself again. Perhaps.

  Betty was scrubbing pans at the sink when Gwen dragged herself into the kitchen. ‘Gwen,’ she said, drying her hands on her apron and taking the case. ‘You look done in. Are the kids alright?’

  ‘They are now,’ she said. ‘I’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘First things first. Let me get you a bit of toast and tea. And you get yourself warm.’ She made to help Gwen off with her coat, but Gwen pulled her arms free of the sleeves by herself.

  ‘It’s okay, Bet,’ she said, trying to avoid the guilty feeling she’d had last week, when she realised that she wasn’t as good to Betty as Betty was to her. ‘You’ve enough to do. How’s Annie?’