The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Picking it up, she turned it over and felt that it was a proper letter this time, not a card. She put her bag on the floor, a couple of parsnips and a tin of pilchards spilling out, and without bothering to take off her outdoor things, tore open the envelope. It was a short letter, one page of thin, white, watermarked paper. Gwen consumed it greedily, her lips moving as she read in her mind. He was proud of her, thought she’d been strong and determined. Carry on as you have been. I’ll be home in a fortnight for a week. She turned over and read the last sentence twice, holding onto the wall for balance. After we get over the winter perhaps we can think about visiting the kids together.

  She sat on the bottom stair with a bump. She held the letter to her mouth, then at arm’s length, rereading every word. In the spring then, February maybe, when the sheep would be lambing and the first shoots pushing up through the frost. The kids would be waiting for them, washed and scrubbed, jumping up and down with excitement. They’d walk down the lane towards them, she and George, letting go of each other’s hands only to put their arms out to Will and Ruth.

  She wanted to keep the letter to herself, like a secret treasure, but felt compelled to show it to Betty. Putting the kettle on, she set out two cups, found a couple of old biscuits in the larder and went to knock next door.

  *

  It was good to have something to aim for, a concrete reason to get well and stay strong. Whenever Gwen felt she might be losing herself again or could easily slip backwards, she thought about the spring. Although George reminded her he hadn’t promised, repeating what he’d written in his letter however many times she asked, Gwen couldn’t see any reason other than her health that would stop them going to Wales. Once there, George would see what they were missing and agree to bring Will and Ruth back to London with them. Most of the other kids around and about had come back, some months ago.

  The weekend before she went back to work Marty knocked on the door with a letter from Will in one hand and half a loaf of Mrs Gwilt’s homemade bara brith in the other. He held them out to her and stood, scratching one ankle with the heel of his other shoe. Gwen couldn’t place him for a minute; his face was familiar but the height of him was so different. His hair, too, had changed from a fine, fair, babyish flop to a coarser head of brown. ‘Oh Marty,’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Come in. When did you get home?’

  ‘Yesterday, Mrs Gregson,’ he said, following Gwen into the kitchen. The last time he’d sat on one of her chairs he could pump his little legs in and out unencumbered. Now his feet were flat on the floor. Will would more than likely be the same, Gwen thought, and she wondered if he would feel as awkward here as Marty looked.

  ‘Well, I had no idea,’ she said. She tried to remember if Marty’s mother had told her on one or other of the occasions she’d seen her in the street, but couldn’t recall any of their conversations. ‘Your mum never said.’

  ‘I think she just decided to fetch me back.’ Marty shrugged. ‘So she came and got me.’

  Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off him. Freckles were spread across his cheeks and nose, still tanned from playing outside during the summer. One grey sock was snug on his calf, the other drooping around his ankle. His shorts were too big, his sleeveless pullover too small. She watched him feel around his ear and wipe his finger on his leg. Him being here, back home, made her feel that Will and Ruth were waiting very close by and that their return was imminent. It was as if his mother’s snap decision could be contagious and George might go down with the infection. A wonderful sense of calm came over her; Will and Ruthie were coming home, where they belonged.

  Marty made to leave and Gwen could see how ill at ease he looked, shuffling around, not knowing what to do with his hands. ‘There,’ Gwen said. ‘How rude of me. I ain’t had a visitor for such a long time I forgot to ask if you’d like a cup of tea?’

  Marty nodded.

  ‘And a bit of this?’ she asked, pointing to the fruity loaf.

  ‘Yeah, ta,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘We finished our half for tea yesterday and Mam…’ He shook his head. ‘Mum, I mean, said we had to share with you.’

  Gwen lit the gas under the kettle, the cloying smell of it flaring with the flame. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you. And say ta to your mum, too.’ She was aware of him watching her cut through the sticky, tea-infused bread; when she turned to put his slice in front of him, a thin stream of drool trailed from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Mrs Gwilt baked this twice a week. Once on Wednesday and again on Saturday,’ he said. He sat very straight at the table, bringing the food to his mouth instead of attacking it in a slouch like he used to. ‘We had a piece every day after school, me and Will, sometimes with butter.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I ain’t even got a scrape of marge for you,’ Gwen said, breaking off a corner of the heavy cake and biting into it. It stuck to the roof of her mouth, where she licked it, savouring each flavour as it came to her. Sugar, treacle, fleshy raisins that burst when she prodded them with her tongue. Eggs that had been laid by one of the chickens she’d seen in the Gwilts’ yard; none of this powdered rubbish that turned to water when it was cooked. As she broke off a larger piece and chewed with enthusiasm, she caught Marty’s eye and he looked away.

  ‘I ain’t used to such rich food,’ she said, patting her stomach and sliding her slice onto his plate. ‘Here, you help me out.’

  Marty polished off her piece as quickly as he had his, licking each of his fingers in turn when he’d finished.

  ‘You must be so happy to be back,’ Gwen said. ‘I’ll bet you can’t believe it. Back with all your pals in your old school, with Mum and Nan. And your brothers.’

  He shrugged again. ‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘Mum says I’ll settle down, soon enough.’

  ‘But… you missed home, didn’t you? Weren’t you longing to get back?’

  ‘I did at first,’ he said, wetting his finger and picking up the tiniest of crumbs. ‘Now I miss them back there.’

  ‘Will, do you mean?’

  Marty nodded. ‘Especially Will. But Mr and Mrs Gwilt, too. And Miss Preece in Class 5. And some of the lads. We played all sorts with them.’ He sighed and Gwen could see now that his eyes weren’t wide and bright and his mouth was turned down.

  All along she’d worried that Will and Ruth might become too fond of who they were billeted with. Of course it was lovely that Ruth had Auntie Peggy, and Mrs Gwilt was much more favourable than Mrs Morgan. She was grateful to them and could see herself sending them news every Christmas, maybe visit a couple of times throughout the years. But she hadn’t liked it one bit when she heard Ruth’s funny sing-song way of talking; it grated on her. And the things both kids said from time to time: foreign-sounding phrases like ‘isn’t it’ tagged onto the end of a sentence that wasn’t even a question. Jealousy hit her hard at times. Thoughts of someone else sitting and helping her kids with their schoolwork, reminding them of their manners, telling them off, teaching them how to do things around the house and garden, guiding them, cuddling them. She wanted all that for herself. It was hers by rights; she’d earned it and deserved it.

  Until now, though, when Marty was here looking gawky and adrift, she hadn’t grasped the extent to which the kids might have grown fond of their temporary homes and come to rely on them. And how much real home and family had faded from their minds. The thought of her own kids longing for Wales terrified her; her calm state dissipated and anxiety filled its place.

  ‘I can’t for the life of me think what I’ll do with this,’ she said, handing the wrapped bara brith back to Marty. ‘You have it.’

  ‘But Mam said…’

  ‘You tell Mum that there’s only me here and I’ll never finish it before it goes off. That would be a pity.’

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Lechyd da.’

  ‘You what, Marty?’ Gwen made sure she looked confused, even though she knew full well what the words meant.

  ‘Thanks. Ta very much.’

&n
bsp; She nodded her approval. ‘Say hello to your mum. Oh, and Marty, let me know if you get a letter from Will, please. Ain’t nothing like sharing a letter and a cup of tea.’

  After she’d watched him lollop down the road, Gwen found her old notebook and started a list of reasons why Will and Ruth should come home in the spring. Number one read: If they’re away any longer they might think of Llansaint as their actual home. Same with Auntie Peggy and the Gwilts. They might think of them more fondly than they do us. They might want to go back to Wales the minute they get home and never settle with us again.

  *

  Before it started reminding her of the oncoming winter and that dreadful night, October used to be one of Gwen’s favourite months, especially when the weather was like today, the sky an unbroken sheet of pale, glacial blue, the air clean and sharp. She breathed in deeply, trying to get some of the cool expanse past the fluttering in her stomach. Evelyn was meeting her at the works entrance so they could walk into the changing room together, then she’d have to report to Jim for the duty he’d arranged for her.

  As she approached, she could see Evelyn leaning against a wall, smoking and chatting to a man and a couple of women. She drew back into the cover of a doorway and waited until she could make out who they all were. The man she didn’t recognise, but he soon finished his fag and said his cheerios. Sylvie was next to leave, which left a young girl, Alice maybe, who turned to face Evelyn and continued to talk, flinging her arms around and bobbing her head up and down. Gwen could cope with Alice; it was Olive she dreaded seeing.

  Evelyn waved when she saw her and Alice turned, smiling. ‘Morning,’ Evelyn said.

  ‘Ain’t it a lovely one?’ Gwen pointed her elbow towards Evelyn for her to grab.

  ‘We’ll all have cheeks like Alice’s working outdoors today.’

  ‘And mine will look chafed,’ Alice said, covering her face with her hands. ‘Alright, Gwen? Proper nice to see you.’

  ‘The same.’ Gwen nodded towards Alice, surprised that was all the girl had to say. No questions about where she’d been for weeks on end, no prying or poking or looking uncomfortable. She dared not let herself believe it would be the same with everyone.

  They moved into the flow of workers jostling their way towards the time clock. ‘We were talking about the strike at Hillington,’ Evelyn said to Gwen as they joined the queue.

  ‘Where?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘At the Rolls Royce in Hillington.’

  ‘I ain’t heard about that,’ Gwen said. ‘But I can’t for the life of me find my clocking-in card.’

  Evelyn and Alice helped her to search amongst the Gs, letting others move around and past them. ‘Perhaps it weren’t set up again yet,’ Alice said. ‘Never mind, tell Jim when you sees him.’

  Gwen stood aside while Evelyn and Alice fed their cards into the time recorder that stamped the date and time onto them with a ping. It was amazing, Gwen thought as she watched. A wonderful piece of modern engineering.

  ‘You’ll hear a lot of talk about the strike,’ Alice said, as if their previous conversation hadn’t been interrupted. ‘Some thinks it’s a good thing. Some don’t.’

  ‘You don’t get paid if you strike, do you?’ Gwen said. ‘So it can’t be a good thing.’

  ‘Well,’ Evelyn said. ‘Sometimes you have to suffer for a bit to get fairer pay in the long run.’

  ‘I don’t thinks it’s the right time for a strike.’ Alice directed her remarks to Evelyn over Gwen’s head. ‘Not when there’s a war on. It’s taking advantage.’

  ‘Some would say the big gaffers have taken advantage of the war by getting away with paying unfair wages to women workers.’ Evelyn pushed opened the changing room door and held it for Gwen. ‘Doing exactly the same job as the blokes and all,’ she said.

  Gwen felt worried for Evelyn; now what was she getting herself into?

  ‘I still thinks it’s wrong,’ Alice said, shuddering. ‘Makes them look like traitors to me. Hope it don’t spread here.’

  The changing room was packed out – hot and fusty. One wall had been painted a dark mustard. Evelyn had told her about that and how, despite the ‘wet paint’ warning signs, Olive had put a hand on it to steady herself then smeared dirty yellow streaks down anyone within striking distance. The other walls were in a worse state than ever: bubbling, peeling paint; chipped gypsum board. The air was thick with sweat and talc, mildew and wet wool, lily of the valley, fried food, bad teeth, Evening in Paris. Shoes and boots cluttered the floor; dresses, coats and hats hung from hooks or lay where they were flung on benches. And the noise. Gwen didn’t remember it being this loud before she was ill. She couldn’t understand why a girl changing on one side of the room had to shout to her pal at the opposite end instead of moving closer to her, like she did when she wanted to talk to Evelyn.

  No one said a word to her as she followed Evelyn and Alice’s path to the far corner where there was a postage stamp of space and a couple of empty hooks. Gwen dropped her work bag onto the bench and, turning to face the corner, began to change with quick, adept movements, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

  ‘Oi.’ A shout from near the door. It sounded like Olive. ‘You.’

  Gwen’s fingers, working along the buttons on her dress, began to fumble and shake. Her head and neck bobbed with tension. The noise dropped and Gwen could feel dozens of eyes on her back. She was going to get picked on here and now, in front of everyone. The atmosphere pressed in on her, making it difficult to breathe.

  ‘I’m talking to you, Missy.’ The screech came again. ‘I ain’t forgotten that fag.’

  Gwen knew she didn’t owe Olive – or anyone else – a cigarette, so allowed herself to look across the room over her shoulder. Olive had one hand on her knotted headscarf, the other pointing at Evelyn. Olive glanced at her, then back at her prey.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ Evelyn said, pulling a tobacco tin out of her pocket. ‘Here it is.’ She stepped towards Olive and threw the fag towards her as if she was aiming at a dartboard.

  ‘We’re quits then,’ Olive said, catching it in one hand.

  Evelyn moved back to their corner and stepped into her dungarees. ‘I’m not sure how you make that out,’ she said. ‘You owed me two from the week before.’

  This remark caused an outburst of laughter and jibes from around the room. ‘You’ll have to prove it.’ Olive laughed louder than anyone, looking from one to another of the women for approval. Her gaze rested on Gwen again for a second, but there was no dig or sarcastic comment.

  It was easier after that, when she realised her absence hadn’t registered with most of her co-workers. She might have felt offended that she wasn’t missed, but to the people who mattered she had been, and now she could go about her business without having to defend herself. Besides, the world had never stood still for her and she’d never expected it to. If by any chance she did have the power to arrange things so it would, this point in time would not be where she wanted her life to pause. That date would be any before 1st September 1939 when this wretched war was declared.

  The steady expansion of the bridge hadn’t ceased either. All manner of vehicles and pedestrians trundled in an endless flow from one side to the other like ants on the march. To get to this point the work had been immense: colossal slabs of concrete swinging from cranes, huge iron girders slotted into place, enormous vats of tarmacadam stirred and boiled, slabs and spans eased into place. Now crews of workers were bending over, concentrating on small areas of beading, finishing off balustrades and stone steps and the two as yet unopened lanes. The temporary crossing had diminished in size and significance. When Gwen started, she had thought its steel latticework imposing and grand; now it had given up its standing to the permanent bridge.

  Evelyn left her at Jim’s office, arranging to meet for their break. Jim smiled when he saw her and beckoned her to take a seat. He looked different, too: greyer and more drawn than she recalled. He’d been so good to her, giving her more than
a fair number of chances to pull herself together. Not many gaffers would do the same, George had said.

  ‘Good to see you, Gwen,’ Jim said.

  ‘Ta, Jim. And thanks for having me back.’

  Jim looked down at his hands. ‘Wouldn’t do us any good to lose one of our best workers, would it?’ He clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back on his chair, something she forever nagged the kids about. In her mind she saw them losing their balance and gashing their heads open. She started towards Jim with an outstretched hand but he thumped all four chair legs back on the floor and said, ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but now you’re here, I don’t know what to do with you.’

  Gwen was expecting something a bit more sympathetic, but liked his honesty. She shifted in her seat and waited.

  ‘My dilemma is this,’ Jim said. ‘I could use you out there on any of those crews, but I don’t want you to do too much too soon. On the other hand, the only alternative is for you to sit in here with me and tidy up this mess.’

  Gwen took in the papers strewn over every surface, cardboard filing boxes stacked in corners, certificates and notices held at an angle on the pinboard by one thumb tack.

  Jim followed her gaze. ‘My assistants can’t keep up with it,’ he said, looking sheepish.

  Had she been given the same choice when she started, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Donning a tabard and wielding a duster, she would have had this tip sorted in no time, then kept on top of it. She would have felt superior to the women playing at a man’s game, all of them pressganged into a role they had no business filling.

  Now, she looked out through the smudged windows and felt a certain amount of pride bulging in her chest, making her sit taller, tilting back her chin. Out there was where she belonged, even though there was no hope of her ever making sense of it and she didn’t have the inclination, like Evelyn did, to find out. But it was a useful thing they were doing. It made her feel good about herself. Besides, why on earth would she want to be cooped up in this office, as constricting and stale as the changing rooms, when she could be out in the open, getting completely well for the spring?