The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Gwen stared at George, her knife and fork motionless in her hands. ‘What about the landlady? Can’t you complain to her?’

  ‘Oooooh.’ George’s voice quavered in mock terror. ‘You wouldn’t want to mess with Mrs Sillery. Or Mrs Slipshod as we call her.’

  ‘Why? Tell me about her.’

  ‘She stands like this,’ George said. He stood, hands on hips, legs wide apart, a gurning scowl on his face. ‘Her old pinny is covered in greasy stains.’

  ‘Horrid,’ Gwen said.

  ‘Her legs are bare and veins stand out all along the backs of her calves like bruised, bloated earthworms.’

  Gwen was doubled over, enjoying the picture so much that her ribs, already sore from coughing, pulled tighter.

  ‘That’s not all,’ George said. ‘She has lank white hair. Strands of it stick to her shiny forehead and sometimes she tries to peel them off.’ He brushed some of his own greying hair forward, then pretended to pick it off his skin as if it was glued with solidified fat. ‘There’s always a rancid smell of stale cooking wafting around her and no matter if you’re coming in or going out, she says the same thing, “You’re cutting it a bit fine, ain’t cha?”’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Gwen held her stomach. ‘No more, George. Please.’

  George sat back down and finished his beer. Gwen put her cutlery together on her plate. It’s good to sit like this, Gwen thought. But there was something in between them that was keeping them apart. No matter how they tried to skirt around it, or talk over it, push it away long enough to make love under the weight of it, it was there stopping them from reaching each other. She knew what it was. It was Johnny, or rather what had happened to Johnny. And it was more than that: it was the fact that they’d never talked about it, not to the extent the tragedy deserved. She waited, wondering if this was the right time. Probably not, but if not now then she was afraid they would go on behaving in a stiff, courteous manner towards each other, going through the motions but never feeling the depth of each other’s hurt, never understanding fully, never clearing that mountain of rubble between them.

  She looked over at George and smiled.

  ‘Glad to see some colour in your cheeks,’ he said.

  A few minutes passed.

  ‘Perhaps when things are back to how they were, we can take a trip to Swindon. Have a look around at the things I’ve missed. Maybe take the kids.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Do you remember that night not long before the kids went to Wales?’

  She was sure he did by the startled look in his eyes. ‘Which one?’ he said, tilting the beer to his lips and straining for one last drop.

  ‘When I came into the kitchen. It was late. And you started to tell me what happened that night. You know, the night Johnny…’

  ‘I know which bloody night. I ain’t bloody simple.’ George staggered to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists, looking around like a madman searching for something to throw.

  ‘Alright, George,’ Gwen said, strangled by a coughing fit. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Just when things were starting to look up.’ His hands relaxed. He sat on the arm of her chair and rubbed her back.

  ‘I’m sorry, George.’ Gwen put her hand on his thigh, but he moved away, back to his place.

  ‘It’s no good saying never mind. I do mind. Twenty-four hours of every single day.’ He turned to her, his face etched with lines she hadn’t noticed. ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten? How could I?’

  ‘I don’t think that. It’s just that… you never finished telling me what happened after Johnny ran.’

  George let out a long, tired sigh. ‘I ain’t sure… I can.’

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ Gwen said. By his reaction she thought she might have to get used to living with the obstacles between them.

  He looked at the clock. ‘I might see if Len wants to walk down for a pint. Shall I get Betty to sit with you?’

  Gwen shook her head.

  He took the plates into the kitchen and she heard him rinsing his hands and face. He came through with a cup of tea for her, coat on, cap in hand. She took the cup and could feel him watching her trembling hands. Then he sat down with a huff.

  ‘It never leaves me,’ he began, looking at the corner above the picture rail. ‘Never gives me any peace. On and on it goes. Round and round.’

  ‘I know. It’s the same for me.’

  ‘Is it?’ he said, looking at her for an instant, his eyes narrowed with misgiving. He found his spot to stare at again. ‘It’s as if… even the smells are still on my skin and up my nose.’ He snorted, then sniffed in with a crack. ‘Smoke and burning. Blood.’ His voice caught. ‘The wet wool of his coat.’

  Gwen shivered, pulling her cardigan around her.

  ‘That night.’ He flinched, as if in pain. ‘It was worse than ever. Everything was going up.’ He choked on a grunt. ‘Except what was falling down. I remember…’ He hesitated, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘That almighty explosion.’

  ‘I heard it, too,’ Gwen whispered. ‘From Price’s.’

  ‘The noise… I’d never heard anything like it.’ He put his hands to his ears. ‘I swear it made the flesh on my face judder and wobble, like I had the palsy. Everyone froze. It wouldn’t have been possible to move through it. Then we turned to see the whole of Manchester Road alight. I can’t get it out of my mind.’ He hit his forehead hard with his fist. ‘It’s printed there, in my head. Deep inside.’

  A dry sob set off Gwen’s cough again.

  ‘Let’s give it a rest.’ George pressed his thumbs on his eyelids. ‘It’s over. Finished.’

  ‘No.’ Gwen breathed steadily, making an effort to calm herself.

  ‘What good will it do?’

  ‘Please. George.’

  He shook his head. ‘It was hell down there. A bloody hell. I’d never seen anything like it.’

  ‘It was terrible,’ Gwen said.

  ‘Someone shouts at me to join the chain reeling hoses from a fire engine. Then I was told to leave that and help with a stretcher. “Get round the back there,” someone barks. “And stop those bloody flames from spreading.” I grab two buckets of sand and run as close as I can to the edge of the fire. I hear him then, before I see him. He calls to me. “Dad. Dad.”’

  Nausea hit Gwen. She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  ‘I honestly could not… I could not believe it. I turn and there he is. Johnny. Our Johnny. Out in the middle of that.’ George blew his nose and wiped at his face. ‘Ever since I’ve tried so hard to piece it all together. Why did he run from me?’ George shouted, pounding his hands on his knees. ‘Why? He must have thought I was cross. That must have been it. In the shadows he must have thought I was angry and he just ran away into that building. I called out and chased after him but he didn’t come to me. The whole place was falling in on top of us and he was so little.’

  Gwen felt dizzy, as if she was shifting from one world to another. George had his eyes closed, tears pooling in the purple hollows beneath them.

  ‘Oh, George.’ Gwen looked around for some comfort. She reached for her tea but couldn’t manage to pick it up.

  ‘I should have smiled at him.’ George hung his head. ‘Stupid, I know. But if only I had. And put my arms out. He would have run straight into them and I could have had him home, told off and safe in bed within a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself.’ Gwen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘How could you?’

  ‘If I’d been quicker. I’m so bloody clumsy. Instead of shouting his name, I should have somehow let him know I wasn’t cross.’

  ‘George, you mustn’t do this to yourself. I’m the one who’s to blame. It’s all my doing.’ Gwen reached for his hand, but he snatched it away, a snarl on his lips.

  ‘You’ve said that so many times,’ he said. ‘Especially in the beginning.’

  ‘But it’s true. I had him here, in m
y…’

  ‘Over and over again like a scratched record. Then you beg me to tell you my side of things and you don’t even bloody well listen. What do you want? Tell me, because I ain’t got a clue.’

  ‘I just…’

  He threw his cap on his head and slammed the door on his way out.

  *

  The bed was divided once more. George talked to her when necessary, other than that he just grunted. There were no more impersonations of the unsavoury landlady who, it seemed, he couldn’t wait to get back to. Evelyn came to visit, bringing all the chitchat that Gwen hadn’t asked to hear. She said she was sorry Gwen hadn’t been well and she should take her time before she started back. The gaffer had picked his gangs of six, but Gwen wouldn’t be with Evelyn. She was going to be on something less tiring than dismantling the old temporary bridge.

  ‘But we can still see each other at dinner,’ Evelyn said. ‘Break times, too, and on our days off. It won’t be any different.’

  But it would be different. Anything good always changed for the worse. ‘Never mind,’ Gwen said. ‘Don’t matter.’

  After Evelyn left, Betty found Gwen sitting again, gazing at something far away, her hands locked under her chin. Untouched for weeks, the uneven nails had grown to the top of her fingertips, the scabs around them ready to reveal pink skin underneath. She didn’t have the energy to put them in her mouth and grind.

  ‘Don’t go dwelling on things, love,’ she said when Gwen told her about the new work arrangements. ‘The doctor said you’re bound to feel down when you’re getting over the flu. You mustn’t forget your tonic.’

  The day before she started back on the bridge, church bells rang out for the first time since the war began. They pealed with joy for the victory at El Alamein. Churchill spoke on the radio and warned everyone that they must not think of this as the end; it wasn’t, according to him, anywhere near the start of the end. But, the nation could be satisfied that just maybe, it was the end of the beginning. Regardless, the bells rang for the brave Allied troops, for the Home Front, the Government, the hospitals, the WVS, the RAF, the children. They rang for everyone, but not for her.

  9

  December 1942 – March 1943

  Joan

  ‘There’s a spot here.’ Joan pointed to a space next to her that only a waif-like child could slip into. She looked over the shoulders of the other passengers to where Alice slumped, squashed against a handrail near the Tube door. ‘Alice,’ she hissed again. Still Alice kept her back turned, but Joan could see her forlorn face thrown back into the carriage from the darkened window. The compressed bodies in their shades of grey and brown shifted, inching themselves into a shape that might be more comfortable. Balancing on her toes, Joan peered through the fissure between two arms and focused on Alice’s reflection watching the black walls of the tunnel blur past. Her broad shoulders drooped; her sagging mouth pulled her round cheeks flat against her face. She’d been like this for the best part of a week.

  The doors opened with a sigh at the Elephant and Castle and most of the passengers squirmed onto the platform, like worms released from a tin can. Waterloo was the next stop but Joan swung into the nearest seat, put her bag on her lap and patted the space next to her.

  ‘Come along, Alice.’ Her voice was pleading. ‘Do you intend to stand the entire way?’

  Alice turned slowly, moving closer as if she was being forced to do something she loathed. She sat next to Joan without looking at her.

  The train lurched forward, hesitated, then glided into a tunnel. Joan said, ‘You’ve hardly spoken a word since you got back.’

  ‘I know,’ Alice said, looking into the darkness again.

  ‘I’m getting worried now – it’s not like you.’

  ‘Well, today it might be. I’ll have to see how I go on.’

  Joan felt impatience building up. The age difference between them suddenly seemed huge. Perhaps this petulant Alice was more true to character than the shy, cheerful Alice everyone thought they knew. ‘Was it Bristol? Did something dreadful happen that you haven’t told me about?’

  ‘Old Sodbury,’ Alice said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I beg your pardon.’ Alice had put her right a few times before. ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘Just an ordinary Christmas. Norman were home on leave. I told you all about it. More than you told me about your Christmas.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid,’ Joan said, crossing her legs away from Alice and smoothing her skirt over her knees. ‘Hazel, Ivy and me for lunch. Dinner rather. Very quiet.’

  She kept her eyes on the handle of her bag until the train slowed down for Waterloo. Alice jumped over the gap; Joan unfurled down onto the platform primly, keeping her legs as close together as possible. They walked one behind the other up the escalators and stairs and through the gate into the biting wind blowing from the river. Ploughing ahead, Alice stepped over puddles and shattered paving slabs, around lampposts and sacks of potatoes outside a greengrocery, her glistening waves tucked into the upturned collar of her coat. Joan could imagine her clumping around her parents’ smallholding, oblivious to the mud and muck, rubber boots and thick green socks on her bare legs, a dog or two running in circles around her, a bunch of carrots in her hand. She did wonder why she was here, when everything about her shouted ‘countryside’.

  Joan skirted the hazards in her path, not wanting to soak her shoes or ladder her stockings. The steady drip of rain was irritating and when she shook out her hair, she knew it would lie flat and stringy, unlike the riotous mass of flattering curls that would frame Alice’s face. She stopped under a baker’s awning, fiddling with her umbrella until it flowered above her. Joan hadn’t expected Alice to wait, so was surprised when a sturdy hand reached under the brolly and grabbed her arm, pulling her to the side of the works entrance.

  ‘Listen,’ Alice said, her breath a mist in the close confines of the waterproof canopy. A spot of saliva curdled in the corner of her mouth. ‘I doesn’t want to fall out over this.’

  ‘Over what?’ Joan said, looking up at Alice.

  ‘And I’m telling you because you’re my friend.’ Her face softened. ‘You are, really, and I want it to stay that way.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Joan.

  ‘Well, they’re all talking about you.’ She indicated the building site behind her with a cocked thumb. ‘All of them. Again.’

  ‘They talk about everyone.’ Joan felt a flush of defensiveness.

  ‘They says you’re still that old fella’s bit of stuff. Cyril what’s-his-name. Ware.’

  Joan shrank from Alice’s red, accusing face. ‘And is that what you’re saying, too?’

  ‘Last summer I told them it weren’t true,’ said Alice.

  ‘I know. Thank you,’ Joan said.

  ‘I said, “An old geyser like him? And a girl like her? Don’t be blad.” I doesn’t say anything this time, though.’ Alice drew a rough finger across hard-pressed lips. ‘But I’m not daft and I can’t keep standing up for you because I know you’re still carrying on.’

  Joan felt queasy. She thought she’d been so clever. ‘Of course I’m not.’

  Alice’s face told her not to bother with the lie.

  ‘How do you know?’ Joan asked.

  ‘It all adds up.’ Alice squinted through the anger in her eyes. ‘All those times you disappear after work or doesn’t show up for a night out. Always with some lame excuse or another.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, Alice.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. Because you knows it’s wrong. And that’s why you wouldn’t come home with me when I asked.’ The high colour in Alice’s cheeks shone an offended puce. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be honest with you now,’ Joan said. ‘Yes, it is. I spent part of Christmas Day with Cyril. But,’ she said, pulling her shoulders back and mustering herself against Alice’s height. ‘It’s not that easy. Adults who feel strongly about one another find it difficult to be apart. You’ll find out f
or yourself one day when you…’

  Alice drew back sharply, as if she’d been slapped, exposing half her face and head to the rain and wind. ‘I might be from Old Sodbury.’ She carefully enunciated each syllable of the place name. ‘And I might be five years younger than you, but I know what’s what.’

  Joan looked down at the rain seeping through the leather toes of her shoes.

  ‘I does.’ Alice nodded so hard her features smudged into a blur. ‘And I knows right from wrong. And it’s not right, what you’re up to.’

  ‘I think we should go in now.’ Joan tried to manoeuvre around Alice, but Alice moved to bar her way with a firm hand on her arm.

  ‘Well, he’s one thing,’ Alice said, her face puckering as if she’d eaten a piece of sour fruit. ‘Each to their own. I suppose.’ Her voice softened a bit. ‘Maybe you does love him and all that.’

  Joan didn’t pass comment. Being in love might be enough to excuse her behaviour in Alice’s view of life, but as she was making an attempt at honesty, she couldn’t have named the feelings she had for Cyril as love. At least not in the same way she’d been in love with Ralph.

  ‘But those things you sell. For him. You’re still at it, aren’t you?’ Alice folded her arms and leaned back on her hip. ‘Gwen and Olive asked me if I were in on it. If I could get this, that and the other for them.’

  Joan couldn’t meet Alice’s eyes. She looked, instead, at her mouth, the moist lips twitching. She’d told the others that it was she alone who could provide them with shampoo, soap, sugar, tea, gravy browning. ‘I’m the only one who can help you,’ she’d said. ‘So don’t bother asking anyone else.’ The little treats she’d left around Hazel’s Hostel had stopped, too, so she’d thought she’d covered her tracks from Alice, who’d been devastated when she’d first found out what Joan was doing.

  ‘Why?’ Alice said, so close to her face that Joan could feel droplets of moist, warm spray landing on her cheeks. ‘None of us gots everything we want, but we gots enough. Except for you. Why do you need more of them little things than anyone else? Or more lolly?’ She stopped and drew her head back to take in more of Joan. Then she nodded. ‘Oh, I knows. It’s to keep you in good with that Cyril bloke.’ She stepped back and took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t know many fancy words before I met you,’ she said. ‘But I does now and I think it’s despicable.’ She pushed the umbrella aside and made for the changing rooms.