The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Hazel pressed her hand over her heart. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘It sounds very bad.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joan agreed. ‘I’m afraid it is. Not just Germany now. Japan, too.’

  With a small scrape, the door opened and Alice tiptoed in. ‘Alice.’ Hazel jumped up to greet her.

  ‘Shh.’ Alice put her finger to her mouth and pointed to the wireless. ‘You’ve heard then?’

  Joan and Hazel nodded.

  Then Churchill told them that diplomatic relations with Japan had come to an end, which meant the British Ambassador and his staff in Tokyo were being recalled and expulsion of the Japanese Ambassador from London was underway.

  The PM’s voice trailed off and was lost in a crackle that sounded like distant thunder. Hazel fiddled with the knob but couldn’t retrieve the signal so clicked off. Alice kissed Ivy’s head with genuine affection and Joan could see why she was such a favourite.

  ‘Sorry I were late,’ Alice said, the attack on Pearl Harbour soon forgotten. ‘We’ll go to the pictures another night this week, alright?’

  ‘Of course. No need to worry.’

  ‘Is your room proper? Come and show me.’

  Joan thanked Hazel for the evening and followed Alice who went racing ahead, her unruly, wavy hair working loose from precarious pins. The parlour door was closed behind them and Joan heard Hazel take up her singsong commentary again. That and the muffled click of knitting needles.

  *

  Mother wrote a clipped note asking Joan to spend Christmas Day with her and Father. Joan replied that she had already accepted an invitation from her landlady, sure the occasion would be jollier with Hazel than it would be at home. On the day, Alice carried Ivy into the kitchen and they sat around the table, four of them with the addition of another lodger named Ethel who worked as a pool typist for the War Office but was waiting to join the ATS. Alice was a big girl, rounded and fleshy, but Joan thought there was nothing soft about Ethel’s large frame, flat features, square shoulders leading to a thick waist, with blunt manners to match.

  ‘This is handsome,’ Ethel said. She’d slurped her way through two bowls of potato and watercress soup and was attacking the chicken that Hazel had bartered for with a neighbour. In return, Hazel had given up a saucepan full of carrots and sprouts from the garden, the last of which sat on their plates swamped in gravy. There were two dishes of potatoes in the middle of the table: one roasted, the other mashed with parsnip. Suet plum duff was steaming on the stove. Paper crowns cut from old newspapers perched on their heads. Joan and Alice waited for Hazel to take her place next to Ivy but Ethel ploughed ahead. ‘You’re a marvel with the rations,’ she said, talking with a full mouth. ‘It’s a wonder you never married.’

  And it will be a miracle if you ever do, Joan thought. What a topic of conversation for Christmas dinner.

  Hazel must have been surprised by the remark, perhaps as embarrassed as Joan was for her. But she didn’t falter in her usual mealtime rhythm: a forkful for Ivy, wipe Ivy’s chin, a mouthful for herself. ‘I would have liked to, but it was all over for me after the War, sweetheart.’

  Ethel pulled a face, squashing her nose and flaring her nostrils. ‘The war?’ she mouthed behind Hazel’s back.

  ‘You know, the Great War.’

  Joan was interested now, wanting to hear more but afraid to ask when Alice looked so despondent, fixing a sprout to her fork with a morsel of stuffing. With a bit of luck, the fingers of sherry that Hazel refilled for them should help Ethel to blunder on, asking the questions that Joan didn’t dare.

  ‘Did you lose anybody?’

  Hazel nodded as she held the sticky liquid to Ivy’s lips. ‘Daddy and two of my brothers never came back. Nor did Eric. Or the boys down the road.’

  ‘Who was Eric?’

  ‘My intended. I watched him go. Watched all of them go.’ She motioned towards the high street beyond the door. ‘Marched down the road they did, horses and carts in tow. Everyone was cheering them on, waving little flags and hankies in the air, calling out the names of their husbands or brothers. No one imagined we’d never see them again. I jumped up and down, flapping my gloves when Eric marched past. He turned in my direction and to this day I swear he winked. He could be a one. Then it was as if, as soon as they were out of view, the marching columns simply disappeared, line by line, never to be seen again.’

  Hazel’s retelling was so vivid that when she stopped, staring into the distance, Joan felt as if she was there amongst the crowd. ‘Blimey,’ Ethel said. ‘So you’ve carried a torch for him all these years?’

  ‘I would have married someone else, but no one came calling for me again. My sister was lucky, being that bit younger. She got her husband and children, but there was nobody left for me.’

  The afternoon was darkening. The garden, through the kitchen window, was obscured by shadows. The five women sat still in the gloom, the atmosphere thick with the biding of time.

  ‘Let’s have pudding.’ Hazel jumped up. ‘And another drink if I can squeeze one out.’

  Joan and Alice stacked plates and took them to the sink. ‘Take your chances while you can, that’s what I say,’ Ethel said.

  Alice rolled her eyes, a spot of annoyed colour on each cheek. She must be thinking the same as me, Joan thought; Ethel would be more than lucky to get one chance. But had Ralph been Joan’s only opportunity at the life that had eluded Hazel?

  ‘Let me show you something.’ Hazel went into the parlour and came back carrying a small blue box. ‘I thought I would burst when Eric’s mum gave this to me. To think, Eric must have told her we were sweethearts. She passed the medal around and when Joan took it, she read aloud the inscription on the reverse. 1914–1918 The Great War for Civilisation.

  ‘So-called,’ Hazel said. ‘Not that you’d know it now. I mean, what did all those boys die for? And Daddy? We’ve asked ourselves that over and over, haven’t we, Mummy?’ She shook her head. ‘I doubt if any of those men would recognise this as the civilisation they fought for in France. That’s why we don’t shed a single tear now, do we, Mummy? We’ve cried ourselves dry.’

  There was a truce that night, but they drew the blackouts all the same, as did everyone else; only a fool would trust Hitler. Joan washed and Alice dried. Then they played a few rounds of put-take with buttons for currency and wrung the sherry bottle dry.

  *

  By the middle of February, it seemed as though they would be able to reach out and touch the women working on the other side of the bridge. The spans being concreted on either side were the last, and when the pre-cast middle piece was lowered into place, the two sides would meet. It was coming together like a symphony, each section doing their ordinary, tedious little bit to create one solid, extraordinary piece of work. Joan worried that the pieces might not fit. An orchestra rehearsed time and again if a part wasn’t right, but what would happen if the two sides didn’t align? Would some or all of the building work have to be demolished and started again? She had no idea, but none of the supervisors seemed worried, so perhaps she shouldn’t be either.

  A group of women hung around as close to the edge as they dared, trying to get the attention of their friends on the other side. A risky thing to do, as they were still jumpy after a woman had slipped and drowned last week. That was the eleventh gone the same way. Setting down her wheelbarrow, Joan motioned to Alice to have a look.

  ‘Not me,’ Alice said.

  ‘Nor me,’ Joan agreed.

  They stood to the side of the baying women, clinging on to each other as they gawped over the gap. A gauze of mist whipped across the river, the dirty water beneath it cold and forbidding.

  ‘Ladies, ladies.’ Jim bustled out of his hut that served as an office. ‘Please.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Come away from there.’

  The crowd dispersed and took up their tools again. ‘Joan,’ he said. ‘Come with me a minute, would you?’ Alice put down her shovel and made to follow. ‘You carry on here, Alice,’ he said. ‘Joan
won’t be a minute.’

  Binders with uninspiring titles like Testing Shearing Force and Concrete Fatigue lined the shelves surrounding Jim’s desk. Account books and an alphabetical list of employees stood next to them. Pinned to the walls and laying across a wooden table were blueprints, charts and drawings. ‘This is Mr Ware.’ Jim gestured toward a middle-aged man in a dark suit and tie who stood up and shook Joan’s hand. ‘Mr Ware, Miss Abbott.’

  ‘How do you do,’ Joan said, momentarily unnerved at being in such close proximity to a man who was about the same age and height as Ralph. He had his bearing, too, but a less elegant way of dressing to flaunt his station in life.

  ‘Please, sit here.’ Mr Ware dusted the seat of his chair with a cambric blue handkerchief.

  Jim stood at the window for a minute, surveying the workforce before joining them. ‘We’re gathering a group of ladies together to train on the cranes. Thought you might be interested, Joan.’

  The crane cabs were a male domain. The men who worked them were paid more and everyone thought they were a cut above, or maybe it was the men who created that aura for themselves. ‘Aren’t those positions filled already?’ Joan asked, bemused by the situation.

  ‘The men are joining up and we can’t replace them.’ His sigh was almost inaudible. ‘The decision’s been made to promote a few women.’

  ‘Hand-picked.’ Mr Ware smiled at her. ‘You’re well thought of.’

  Joan had often thought it would be exhilarating to operate one of the cranes that hovered above them. And, after playing in an orchestra, the concentration and responsibility needed wouldn’t be onerous. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you for asking me,’ she said.

  ‘Monday morning start, then,’ Mr Ware said. ‘I’ll see you on the South pier.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Joan didn’t understand where Mr Ware fitted in.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jim said. ‘Apologies. Cyril, I mean Mr Ware’s, the instructor.’

  The two men stood to signal the end of the interview, but Joan hesitated. ‘What about Alice?’ she asked.

  ‘Not this time,’ Jim said. ‘But we could shift her to banksman?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Bankswoman. You know, crane driver’s mate.’

  Joan bit her lip. ‘Yes, that would be good. Can I tell her?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jim looked weary as he opened the door for her. Joan supposed he’d never had that sort of request from a man.

  *

  Joan and Alice sang the theme song from Woman of the Year all the way home from the Gaumont Palace. Joan was Allen; Alice was Flanagan. Hazel would get a rendition when they got in; she’d love that. They’d asked her to go to the pictures with them a number of times but she wouldn’t leave Ivy, not even when her sister was visiting.

  Hazel met them in the hall, her eyes bright and glistening, her hands fluttering. ‘Oh what a shame,’ she said. ‘You’ve only just missed her, sweetheart.’

  ‘Who?’ Joan asked, unable to prevent an image of Ralph’s wife appearing in her mind.

  ‘Didn’t you see her? You must have passed each other within inches.’

  ‘Hazel, who are you talking about?’

  ‘Your mother. Such a well-turned-out woman. You’re the image.’

  ‘Whose mother?’

  ‘It weren’t mine,’ Alice said. ‘Not from that description.’

  ‘She brought something for you. Mummy’s keeping her eye on it.’

  From where Hazel had positioned the violin case, resting against the wall next to the knitting, it did indeed look as if Ivy was watching over it. But when Hazel passed it to Joan, Ivy’s lacklustre stare remained glued to the empty space.

  Alice sucked in her breath. ‘I didn’t know you played the fiddle.’

  ‘Violin,’ Joan said. She stood clutching the case, knowing they were watching, waiting for her to say something that would reveal more than she wanted to give away.

  ‘You never said,’ Alice persisted. ‘I’d have said.’

  ‘I’m not much good. Really.’ Joan felt she had to offer some explanation. ‘Besides, there’s not much call for it. You know, on the bridge. I’ll take it upstairs.’

  ‘Can’t we have a peek?’ Hazel asked.

  Kneeling on the floor, Joan opened the lid. The strings, taut over the ebony fingerboard, were new. Mother must have changed them; she had probably tuned it, too. The varnished gradations of wood shone as if ready for the spotlight to be turned on them. A piece of rosin, wrapped in cloth, nestled next to the bow.

  ‘I don’t think you was telling the whole truth,’ Alice said. ‘You must be good to have something so proper, even I know that.’

  You haven’t told me everything about yourself either, Joan thought. In fact, I hardly know anything about you. Only what you want to tell me about your nagging mum and the dad who drinks too much. What do any of us know about each other but what we choose to tell? Even that poor woman Gwen with the bitten nails, who runs and hides from everyone. What do we know about her?

  Hazel reached out and stroked the polished curves and intricate scroll. ‘Play for us. Please. Mummy so enjoys a lovely tune.’

  Joan secured the clasps on the case and stood up. ‘I don’t play any longer,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but surely…’

  Joan cut Hazel off. ‘Did Mother leave a note?’

  ‘No, my sweetheart. But she said she’d write.’

  ‘Thank you, Hazel. Goodnight, everyone.’

  Bracing herself to kick the violin under her bed, Joan stopped short of her toe making contact with the lower end of the case. Instead, she pushed it decisively with both hands to where it was hidden from view by the mattress and to where she hoped to be able to forget about its existence entirely.

  *

  The three weeks’ training had been intense. They had learned which levers worked the slewing unit that housed the mechanism allowing the crane to rotate; how to watch the back end as well as the front; how a bell in the cab rang if the load was too far forward; the gears that controlled the horizontal jib and lowered the hook to catch or disgorge its prey. Operating the welding equipment had been different; they dared not look to the left or right but had to stare intently at what they were doing until the electrode ran its course and needed to be changed.

  Vibrating the concrete was a matter of too little concentration, although it had to be finished to a satisfactory standard before the concrete started to set. On the cranes it was a case of checking and double-checking every manoeuvre they made, both in the cab and out. They were taught to move deliberately, with studied patience. Each hand on a lever, Joan would focus all her attention on every movement, then survey the surrounding area from the small front and side windows. Of course, when she was fully qualified, she would also have to watch and rely on her bankswoman, Alice, to communicate with her from outside.

  During these last couple of training days, there would be a series of tasks to ensure the women were adroit enough to work the cranes on the bridge. Standing in a line, they were taking it in turns to watch each other pick up a bucket of sand, negotiate it through an obstacle course of red conical markers and place it down on a white cross painted on the concrete. Cyril and Jim would also be noting down whether or not the proper procedures had been carried out in the cab before and after the lift.

  When it was over, they would probably all go for a drink together, as they had a few times. On one occasion, as he was going that way, Cyril walked her to the bus stop and asked her to make a date to meet him; they could go to a tea dance, or for a walk, anything she liked. She remained business-like and held her chin at a high angle. ‘That would lack propriety,’ she’d said. ‘Given that you’re our instructor.’

  ‘No one need know.’ He’d put his hands on her shoulders and bobbed low to look in her eyes. He had a way about him that she liked, easy with himself and everything around him. His light brown hair and moustache were flecked with grey, his eyes never losing their boyish delight. She felt the same rush of
mystified attraction she’d experienced with Ralph, followed in an instant by the picture of Mother’s face if she knew about Joan’s predilection.

  She shook her head. ‘This training is a good opportunity and I’m taking it very seriously. I don’t want to be bothered by distractions.’

  ‘Aha.’ Cyril smiled. ‘From that I take it you’ll agree to meet when the training’s complete?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it then,’ she said, flagging down her bus.

  From then on Cyril seemed to take it for granted that something would start up between them when the time was right. Last week, out of sight of the others, he’d given her a tablet of sweet-smelling soap that she put next to the sink in the rooming house. That morning, he’d let his hand linger for a beat between her breasts as he slipped a tiny packet of sugar into her bib pocket. She shared it later with Alice and Hazel, who stirred half a teaspoon of the precious grains into Ivy’s tea. They didn’t ask her where the little treats were coming from. For all they knew they might be with the compliments of one of the many Americans swarming around the place. Only last weekend one of them had thrown his arm around a beetroot-faced Alice as a group of them bumped into her and Joan face on in Piccadilly Circus.

  She in turn didn’t question Cyril; they might have been his own rations he was forgoing or they might be extras he managed to procure. If that was the case, Mother would have found the situation the height of bad taste, but that and the fact he was so like Ralph in some respects, made it all the more enticing for her.

  7

  April – July 1942

  Evelyn

  Alec took all his leave in London. Initially he billeted in the Sally Army Servicemen’s Hostel in Southampton Row, but it didn’t take him long to ingratiate himself with Dad to the extent that he bedded down on the sitting-room floor, a huge bear in a khaki drawstring den.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said when Dad told him to kip on the couch. ‘Don’t spoil me too much, I might get used to it.’