The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Ruthie wrote and told me about her knee but said it’s getting better now. I’m glad you were with her when it happened so you could take care of her. I told her not to pick the scab as it will leave a scar. Can you remind her when you see her?

  Please don’t get so carried away with football that you forget your lessons. Mind your manners and say ta to Mrs Gwilt for everything she does for you. You are my good boy.

  Lots and lots of love from Mum XXX

  Gwen cleared her things away and looked at the clock; she’d give it another fifteen minutes before nipping in to Betty’s for an hour or so.

  *

  They’d strolled along to the bridge together that morning, both of them dressed in smart skirts and low heels. Betty had a paste brooch sparkling on her lapel, a new feather tucked into the band of an old felt hat that she wore tilted over one eyebrow. Gwen had used a tinted colour shampoo on her hair that she’d bought from Joan, who somehow always managed to have a number of bits and bobs to sell from her work bag. Autumn Chestnut, the label read. It was either that or Ebony Night, which Gwen had thought would be too dramatic a change. What she hadn’t reckoned on was the red sheen of the conker shell being more predominant than the brown. Her grey hair was covered and that was the main thing. When she curled the ends under and clipped it at the nape of her neck, the overall effect had given her a lift.

  The weather had been glorious. There was a balmy breeze, a trace of river in the air. A knot of ragged kids had set up a game of cricket, upturned bricks for stumps, a plank of rotten wood for a bat. As they passed, one of the lads slammed the poor, misshapen ball with a crack and ran towards a makeshift wicket, wiping a streak of dirt from his nose across his face. Gwen knew when Betty steered her into the road it was not to avoid being hit but to save her from the upset that usually surfaced when she found herself close to children. It was always painful, but this time Gwen didn’t turn to stare with longing but looked straight ahead towards where they were going. She could feel Betty studying her.

  ‘I do believe you’re looking much better these last few days,’ Betty said. ‘I’m glad to see it.’

  Gwen smoothed a strand of hair behind the arm of her spectacles. ‘This tint’s done wonders. That and a vinegar rinse. And all for one and six.’

  ‘A bargain.’

  ‘Would you like me to get a tube for you?’

  ‘Me?’ Betty laughed aloud. ‘I’ve gone well beyond that,’ she said, fingering her mottled silver waves. ‘Besides, I try not to get Len too excited.’ She pointed to her chest. ‘Doesn’t do his ticker much good.’

  Gwen smiled. Len chasing Betty around the bedroom was an amusing thought, although they’d been together for years so they must have enjoyed their fair share of that side of married life. After they lost their Johnny, Gwen didn’t think she’d ever be interested in such things again. They’d slept apart initially – she with the other two children, George on his own – and when they did get back into their own bed together, George made no move towards her. Each of them hugged their side of the mattress, turning away from the other as if there was an invisible line of defence down the middle of the bed. At first Gwen was pleased with the situation, not able to think of anything worse than the crush of him on top of her. But as time went on she began to miss the familiar folds of his skin, slightly slick with effort, the nuzzle of his rough beard on her neck and breasts, the solid outline of his legs and buttocks. But it was too late by then. They’d forgotten how to talk to each other, how to be together. Until last week when George was home for a few days.

  ‘No, it ain’t just the hair,’ Betty was saying. ‘You’re beginning to seem more like your old self.’ She traced Gwen’s features with her eyes as if trying to determine where the changes lay. ‘I can’t tell how,’ she said. ‘But you’re definitely brighter.’

  ‘It helps to have things like this to look forward to,’ Gwen said.

  ‘Oh, I know. Ta for asking me.’

  ‘Don’t talk too soon,’ Gwen said as they turned off the Embankment. ‘It might be as dull as a wet weekend in Bognor.’

  But Betty did enjoy the morning. They both had, more for the company than the unceremonious opening lacking in fanfare or flourish. A bobby ushered them towards a queue of onlookers standing behind a barrier. Opposite, a line of cranes stood idle, waiting patiently for this insignificant interruption to pass so they could get on with the important work. Evelyn was standing towards the front with a group of women and when she caught Gwen’s eye, she motioned for her and Betty to join them.

  ‘They ain’t allowed to have any pomp.’ Olive was loud and proud. ‘Them Jerries might catch wind of it and – pouff!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘It’d go down like a house of cards. You think this is tough?’ She banged on the asphalt with the heel of her shoe. ‘It ain’t no stronger than cardboard to Fritz.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Sylvie said. ‘Jerry doesn’t need spies when you’re broadcasting loud and clear.’

  ‘Your foghorn could be a secret weapon, Olive,’ Evelyn joined in. ‘Very useful where there’s no transmitter signal.’

  There were a few others Gwen recognised amongst the small crowd, but not as many as she thought she might see. She supposed most people had used the opportunity to have a lie-in or catch up with the housework. The thought had occurred to her, but she was pleased she had made the decision to go along and take Betty, who was having a good chat with Evelyn.

  Patches of sunlight chequered the smooth, clean roadway that had been undefiled until today when it was handed over to be pounded and trampled. She wondered how long it would stand and what it would see and hear during all those years. Behind her, she could hear the women talking, their voices rising and falling, the occasional burst of laughter. She wasn’t listening to what they were saying but felt comfortable to be with them, an accepted part of the crowd she’d shied away from.

  She scratched tentatively along the surface of the raw spot deep inside her that was Johnny, the flow of pain emanating from the fresh wound as powerful as ever. That might dull in time, or it might never change. But something was different; a tiny glimmer of appreciation for what she had now. There was a sense of hopefulness about the day; a structure so set in stone being partially opened to the uncertainties of the future.

  Traffic trundled past, the race was won, the gathering dispersed. Gwen saw Betty onto the number 15 back to Cubitt Town.

  ‘That Olive really is something,’ Betty said, laughing. ‘She’s much more forward than you described. And Alice, what a sweet little girl.’

  ‘Everyone loves Alice. She’s from the country near Bristol. Why she ever left there for London I’ll never know.’

  ‘And Evelyn mentioned a young man who I think she’s been seeing a bit of. You never said.’

  ‘You probably know more about him than I do. She’s keeping him as close to her chest as a good hand of gin rummy.’ Gwen laughed at the thought. ‘You’ll have to fill me in with what she let on to you.’

  ‘And who was that man with Joan?’ Betty went on, excited by what the day, so beyond their usual routine, had dug up. The gossip would keep them going for weeks. ‘At least I think he was with her, the way they looked at each other. But then he walked away without saying cheerio.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ Gwen said. ‘What I know, anyway, which ain’t much.’

  ‘Alright, love,’ Betty said, stepping up onto the platform of the bus. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

  *

  Turning on the lamp now, Gwen checked the contents of her satchel for the morning: fresh shirt, socks, boots, headscarf, coin purse. The flask was draining in the kitchen. She nestled the letter to Will, ready to post, amongst the clean clothes. Feeling around the bottom and sides of the weather-beaten canvas bag, she fished out a loose fag paper, a boiled sweet Evelyn had given her, the stub of a pencil and the card from George. It had arrived in an envelope three days ago, the first letter she’d ever received from him.
On the front was a drawing of pink and lilac wild flowers, held together by a draped blue bow. She couldn’t read the Latin name in italic lettering underneath the dewy stems.

  As a girl, she’d loved to collect flowers and her father had made a press for her twelfth birthday, the rivets perfectly aligned so the wood met without an overlap. The pungent scent of the bursting blossoms as she squashed them flat made her giddy. She’d related this to George and told him about the book entitled The Language of Flowers that she’d read a few years later. When they first married, George would pick a flower from the park or garden and present it to her saying, ‘What does this mean, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she’d say, giggling. ‘I can’t remember.’

  He’d tut and shake his head with mock disappointment. ‘I do and I ain’t read the book. It means I love you.’ Turning the card over, she reread the message on the back: George X.

  Perhaps it was being apart that had made them tentatively begin to feel closer. On the last night of his leave George had come to bed late, slipping dumbly into the sheets next to her. He lay on his back, then turned over; she fidgeted, loosening the taut bedclothes. Neither of them seemed to make a move towards the other but somehow they touched mouths, tongues, timid fingers sliding over comforting bumps and hollows. She pulled him on top of her and he bellowed like a bull, panting into her hair. They didn’t say a word, but cried softly with their arms around each other.

  How she wished it had happened on the first day of his leave, then they could have had some time to sit together peacefully like they used to or to say a few words about their worries without fear of argument or blame. She kissed the card and held it to her heart. She’d lost so much. They’d lost so much. She couldn’t bear it if they lost each other.

  *

  For six weeks, Evelyn spent her mornings in Jim’s office with three other women and two men, learning how to take charge of a gang of six. She reappeared at dinner time, loose papers and notepads balanced in the crook of her arm. Gwen couldn’t see what the fascination was or why Evelyn took it so seriously. Perhaps it was the extra bob she’d get in her pay packet when she was fully trained. If anyone had told her when she started work that she would miss her partner, she’d have dismissed them without feeling the need to explain herself. As if she could possibly have found anything left inside her to give to a stranger. But now she gazed in the direction of the gaffer’s hut and looked forward to the door opening and Evelyn coming towards her to share her news.

  Gwen assumed that she’d be one of Evelyn’s crew. In the meantime, she’d been instructed to help with unloading the vats of tar. Obnoxious stuff; she hated the blistering globules that burst on the surface of the greasy liquid, so black it was shot through with blue. It reminded her of a heavy pan of treacle left on the stove too long without the advantage of the toffee’s cloying sweetness. The stench was vile, coating the lining of her nose and mouth with an invisible viscous film she could feel as it built up, taste on her tongue and the back of her throat, the smell exuding from every inch of her skin. It made her retch and gag, long after knocking-off time.

  One of the other girls had given her a hanky to hold over her mouth and told her to bring one of her own in to use. When the weather turned and the washing wouldn’t dry, she ran out of hankies so went without for a day. That evening, no matter what she did, she couldn’t rid herself of the acid reek of coagulated pitch.

  When she went to bed, she lay on her side staring into the blackness that slithered and shifted into a silo of tar that she stirred, from the top of a platform, with a giant, comic-book paddle. She fell in without warning, calling for Evelyn, thrashing around and trying for a foothold until her airways were clogged and she sank, pulled down by the gummy material that clung to her, inside and out.

  Waking, she gasped for breath, her heart pounding; she straightened the messy covers, pulling them over her damp and chilly nightgown. The room slipped away again. Hunkering down in the place where she used to go to be alone when she first started on the bridge, the river was at her feet, the scaffolding over her head. The water boiled and fizzed; gas vapours rose and swirled around her. She was trapped as the mild Thames became a rushing tide of ink-coloured goo, one almighty wave engulfing her, dragging her down to the bottom where she stuck fast like a defeated tar baby.

  In the morning, her eyelids felt as if they were weighted and she ached all over. Her face was burning, but she had gooseflesh under her nightie. Trying to sit up, she was knocked back by a cough that came from somewhere deep inside where it rasped and bubbled. Betty’s face floated above her, the lines between her eyes squeezed together in a frown. The doctor drifted in and out of view, the click of his case too loud to bear, the stethoscope a block of ice on her fiery skin.

  Ten days passed until Gwen was able to sit up properly. The day after that, Betty helped her downstairs to the sitting room, George’s dressing gown around her shoulders. She felt weak, her wedding band slipping around her thin finger when she took the teacup from Betty with both hands.

  ‘Oh you did give me a fright,’ Betty said, cupping Gwen’s hands as they held the saucer until she was steady enough to be left with it.

  Gwen’s mouth felt parched and thick. She worried her tongue over the jagged bits of skin hanging from her lips. ‘I’m sorry, Bet,’ she said. ‘I’m such a nuisance to you.’

  ‘No.’ Betty set her mouth in a thin line. ‘No, you’re not.’ She leaned in closer to Gwen. ‘You’re my dearest friend and I’d do anything for you.’

  Gwen took a sip of tea, scalding hot in her furred mouth. ‘But it never seems my turn to help you.’

  Betty took the cup from her shaking hands and put it on the side table. ‘Don’t you go worrying about that. You’ve done your fair share for me.’

  Gwen hoped so, but she couldn’t remember what she might have done or when. Fatigue caught up with her. Her eyelids drooped and she felt as though she were drifting. ‘Was it the tar?’ she asked.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘I was put on the tar and it got into me somehow.’

  ‘No, love,’ Betty said. ‘You’ve had flu. The doctor said so.’

  Gwen hacked a thick cough that felt easier than it had in days. ‘I thought it was choking me.’

  ‘It was, that nasty cough. Not the tar. If you hadn’t turned for the better when you did, the doctor was going to put you in Bethnal Green.’ Betty stood and started to bustle, checking her apron pockets and turning back the sleeves of her cardigan.

  ‘Has George been home?’

  ‘I wrote and told him you were poorly. He sent a telegram saying he’d come back directly, then I sent another telling him there was no need.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gwen opened her eyes, remembering the card she’d been delighted with. ‘I’ve lost track of time. When is his next leave? Do you know, Bet?’

  ‘Should be the day after tomorrow. Now, you stay there. I’ll get some powdered egg from my larder. Make us a bit of scrambled. Might have some myself. Alright, love?’

  ‘Ta, Betty. Can I bother you for one more thing? Please pass me my work bag. I think it’s in the corner near the back door.’ She placed it on her lap and dug around in it until her fingers found the card from George.

  *

  It felt good to be up and dressed, although it was arduous to move her wobbling limbs from room to room. After a few minutes, she flopped gratefully into a chair and waited for the listlessness to pass, then had another go at accomplishing some small task. Betty insisted the doctor call again, although Gwen protested about the cost as her wages had been stopped since she fell ill. But the tonic he prescribed helped right away and he was able to reassure her that she would be back to her old self within weeks, if she was sensible.

  What she could really have done with now, the day George was due, was another bottle of Autumn Chestnut. When she next saw Joan, she would get two so she had one in reserve. She managed to pin her hair off her face and pinch some colour into her cheeks
, tweezer a few wayward eyebrows. Her favourite leaf-print navy dress, the one that had flattered her so well, fell in an almost straight line from shoulders to hem. So often she’d heard Evelyn and Sylvie talking about altering their clothes that she thought she’d have a go with a belt, tucking folds of material in pleats over her slack hips at the back. Betty helped her to set out a cold tea. All Gwen needed to do when George came in was boil the kettle. There was even a bottle of beer for him in the pantry.

  George clicked on the lamp and Gwen woke with a start, saliva dripping down her chin and pooling in the wrinkles at the top of her cleavage. He’d pulled the blackouts and set their plates on trays; the kettle was wheezing on the stove. ‘I’m sorry, George,’ she said, uncurling her legs and making to get up.

  He smoothed her hair with three long strokes. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Everything’s under control.’

  She lifted her face and he laughed, wiping her mouth with the back of his hand before he kissed her.

  They ate off their laps in the dull light of the sitting room. Outside, the rain pinged against the windows, tinkling like glass on glass. There would be another scattering of sad, burnished-coloured leaves to sweep in the morning. George asked Gwen about her illness, saying he thought she still had a way to go until she was back on her feet. They exchanged news they’d had from the kids, reassuring themselves they were happy and cared for.

  ‘What’s Swindon like?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘You probably know as much about Swindon as I do,’ George said. ‘All I know is the train station and my digs.’

  ‘How is the guesthouse?’

  ‘It’s hardly that. Every room is full of blokes working away from home.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you had to share a room.’

  ‘Share a room?’ George snorted. ‘Bloody hell. That would be luxury. We have to share beds. Day shift gets out early morning, night shift gets in and so it goes on. Nice and warm from the last chap. God knows when the sheets get washed.’