The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Every day and each sleepless night Gwen waited for a rocket to fall on her. Every day that went by and it didn’t, she began to think herself lucky even though the noise, the smell, the open, gaping holes where lives used to be lived, the tension of waiting to be blasted away felt crushing. Olive came in laughing one day, saying a group of women in her street had taken to praying together for the bombs to stop. ‘There was loads of them,’ she said. ‘All going into one old girl’s parlour. Asked me to join them, they did.’

  ‘And did you?’ Sylvie asked, taking the cigarette Olive offered her.

  Olive laughed again, snorting the words out. ‘“This,” I said—’ she pointed to her cigarette ‘“—is what I’ve got faith in. And a pint of the good stuff in the other hand.”’

  Gwen looked at the faces around them, some women joining in the fun, others disgusted.

  ‘And I told them that if I did go in for all that—’ wriggling her hips around in her dungarees ‘—I’d be begging God for my old man to come home so we could pray together.’

  Jeers and catcalls followed them up to their stations. Olive smoked and drank cups of tea off that story for the next two days. That was the last they saw of her. So in the long run, Gwen thought, it didn’t matter if or what you prayed for.

  *

  Flu was making the rounds again. Everyone seemed to be coughing into hankies or hacking in the streets. Gwen could hear shallow, rattling breaths bubbling and gurgling through thin, bony chests. She was relieved that everyone looked like her now: pale, drawn, guarded, worn out. Len came down with something nasty that Betty was treating with poultices. ‘Don’t come round,’ she told Gwen. ‘No need for you to catch it. I’ll pop in when I can.’

  The news from Wales wasn’t much better. Peggy wrote to say that every other person there had come down with something nasty and debilitating. Ruth had to have the best part of a week off school with a bad cough, and she’d heard that Will and Marty had missed a few days, too. In the same letter, Peggy reported that Mrs Gwilt had told her, after Sunday service, that she was going to apply to have Marty stay with her as there was no one left in London for him to live with.

  Gwen could not fathom it. She knew his dad had died in action and his mum, nan and brothers had all been lost in a blast, but there was an old granny, wasn’t there? She thought back to the last time she might have seen old Mrs White and realised it had been months, if not years ago. And even then she’d been frail, hobbling about with a stick. So, Marty was going to be the reality of her worst fears for Will and Ruth: an evacuated child left behind to grow up far from home, either because circumstances had forced him to do so, or because time had passed and he no longer wanted to live anywhere else. And she cringed again when she recalled the easy way he’d spoken to her with a burgeoning Welsh accent.

  The numbers on the bridge thinned out, too. Either on sick leave or bombed out like Olive, Gwen supposed. Then she heard Evelyn mention something to another gang leader about letting people go, and asked her about it when they were clocking off.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Evelyn said. ‘There’s no need to keep everyone on – we’re about done now.’

  ‘Are we?’ Gwen asked. ‘I ain’t noticed.’

  Evelyn took off her gloves and cupped Gwen’s elbow. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t done anything together for ages, except work.’

  Gwen thought about Betty nursing Len, the kids’ empty room, George doing who-knew-what with some other woman. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I can make time for a half.’

  They found a pub occupied by couples and groups of women who looked comfortable being out without men. Gwen had a bitter shandy, Evelyn a vermouth and soda.

  ‘It’s been happening for a good few weeks now,’ Evelyn said, stirring her drink with a wooden toothpick. ‘Girls getting laid off.’

  ‘This is the first I’ve heard about it,’ Gwen said.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid,’ Evelyn said, ‘that in a week or so it’ll be you. And the others in our little gang. The temporary bridge will be gone. Another couple of weeks for finishing off small bits. Then it will be open to traffic both ways.’

  ‘But why me?’ Gwen said, her beer glass stopping short of her dry lips. She’d thought that Evelyn could somehow protect her from anything like that.

  ‘It’s not up to me,’ Evelyn said. ‘I don’t even think it’s Jim’s decision. You know, about who goes when. Although, in the end, everyone will be laid off.’

  ‘But,’ Gwen started. She felt as if she’d been winded. ‘I’ve managed every day since the doctor sent me to bed that time, ain’t I?’

  ‘Everyone thinks the world of you. You’re a workhorse. It’s not about you or me or Sylvie or anyone. We’ve finished and good luck to us.’ Evelyn raised her glass and nodded at Gwen.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Gwen felt a fresh grinding in her empty stomach, a thin film of clammy sweat prickled above her top lip. It was hard to imagine the fleeting, wintry days without something to do, someone to look at whose face mirrored her own when a rocket exploded. And the long nights alone – she couldn’t be with Betty and Len all the time. No work bag to shake out and get ready for the next day; no exhausted limbs, insisting she sleep. How often she’d thought the work meant nothing to her, that she would give anything to be able to stay at home. But that was before the world changed. ‘What will you do?’ Gwen asked. ‘Spend more time with your bloke, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Evelyn leaned towards Gwen. ‘We always have such a lovely time when we’re dancing. But…’

  Evelyn didn’t talk much about Stan, so Gwen was eager for her to continue. It was a change from thinking about her own problems. ‘But what?’

  ‘The thought of spending another dreary Sunday afternoon with his dull family in Sidcup above their dismal ironmonger’s shop makes my heart drop.’

  Gwen was flabbergasted at Evelyn’s outburst, but before she could think of what to say Evelyn dismissed the conversation with a wave of her hand and said, ‘Do you remember I told you that I’d love to stay on the tools? Well, I’m hoping I might be able to do that. I’m trying to take some courses. Get some qualifications. And you—’ Evelyn’s smile was broad with genuine happiness ‘—I suppose you’ll be glad to have the time at home. Get ready for George and the kids, now it’s all nearly over.’

  ‘Shall we have another?’ was all Gwen said by way of reply.

  *

  Apart from the essentials, Gwen did very little in the house. There didn’t seem much point in going to all the bother when there was no one but her to muck things up. She wrote to the kids every day in what read back as a sort of diary. She tried to make it sound exciting, but soon found herself running out of ways to write about going to the shops, boiling a kettle, setting a fire, sitting with Betty.

  Betty thought it would do Gwen good to tag along when she helped out at the WVS once or twice a week. So one afternoon, while Len was sitting in his chair, a blanket around his knees, Betty dragged Gwen to the local headquarters. The rain hadn’t stopped since the summer. The only difference was that now it was icy instead of warm, and stabbed at their cheeks like cold darts. They sloshed along in the sludge and mud, through streets littered again, as they’d been right at the beginning, with the rack and ruin of bombing raids. No matter that this damage was done by the new doodlebugs and V-2 rockets; the outcome was the same. It looked as though whoever was in charge of clearing the mess couldn’t be bothered this time around because it might not be the last. She knew the feeling.

  Gwen had heard a lot about the WVS. They were always being praised in the papers or mentioned on the radio, and she’d seen some of the members hurrying about with their canteens and first-aid cases, especially when the bombing was heavy. But she had no idea they were this busy. So much seemed to be left up to them to organise and manage. Steam surged from an urn and row upon row of cups were being set out by the women minding it, a tatty line forming close by.

&
nbsp; Behind them, another couple of ladies were washing plates and mugs in a bowl, passing the items to another woman to dry and stack. The pile of unwashed crockery was being replenished from boxes carried in from the street. Saucepans wrapped in teacloths to keep them hot, bowls of potatoes and veg, pudding basins handed over at the door from women in overcoats to women in pinnies.

  From underneath a curtained-off area, Gwen could see the legs of beds and nearby a mountain of sheets, probably waiting to be washed and replaced. All manner of seats and chairs dotted the room, all occupied by people who looked shell-shocked. The women were tending to all this and more. Taking down names, wrapping blankets around shivering shoulders, scrubbing, sorting, carrying, fetching, peeling, counting bandages.

  The basement hall was lit up like Christmas and Gwen trailed around after Betty, shielding her eyes. She couldn’t bear the composed hum; it was abrasive and made her feel on edge, her nerves jangling. The subdued, ordered hubbub jarred; the efficient, confident women irritated. She reminded herself of how uncomfortable she’d felt when she started on the bridge; how strange and looming the machinery had been, the grinding, rasping metallic sounds foreign and menacing. If she could get used to that situation – one she never thought she’d find herself in or miss now she was no longer needed – she must be able to settle down into this more domesticated, familiar environment.

  But it was too exhausting to make the effort. When they left, she didn’t sign the rota but said she’d take some sheets home to turn, even though she knew sewing with her tender fingers would be painful and time-consuming.

  Evelyn called once a week, sometimes with Sylvie, who talked non-stop about Alec. She’d received a number of letters from him, some written by nurses and buddies on his ward saying his eye, or the socket where it used to be, was healing nicely and he would be ready to travel soon. She, too, had been let go from the bridge and was hoping to get her old job back at Lyons. In the meantime, she was taking care of their father and the house. ‘In training,’ Evelyn said. ‘To be Mrs Alec.’ The remark must have been some kind of family joke, judging by the way the sisters laughed.

  Evelyn was one of the last working on the bridge, but she would finish along with the other stragglers next Tuesday, the day of completion. No ceremony, no dedication, no newspapers or wireless announcements. Open to traffic and pedestrians both ways. That was that.

  ‘But,’ Evelyn said, breaking off a bit of flapjack and dunking it in her tea. ‘Jim wants as many as possible to meet for a drink. He says we need a bit of a knees-up to mark the occasion.’ She glanced at Gwen. ‘Shall we meet you on the bridge?’

  Gwen imagined the evening; clapping people on the back, dragging up stories about welding irons and Portland Stone cladding. Laughing about niggles like lighting fags in the wind, tying turbans and the canteen food. Then she thought about how she would feel sitting in alone knowing all the old faces were huddled companionably together for the last time.

  ‘Ask Betty to come along,’ Evelyn said.

  ‘I will, but she usually has a WVS shift Tuesday evening,’ Gwen said. ‘Or else she’d be here now.’

  ‘Let’s say seven, Gwen, shall we? On the south side.’

  *

  The rain gave no concession as Gwen stood huddled against the concrete halfway up the steps. She felt miserable and wished she’d made an excuse to stay home, curled in her armchair writing notes to the kids or trying to sew strips of bedclothes together. But instead, she’d brushed down an old, mid-calf forest-green skirt – too long and full now to be fashionable – and pulled on a duck-egg blue blouse that had a faint whiff of tobacco and stale cooking about it. She’d twisted her hair into a coil and flattened down straying strands of grey with a bit of lard warmed between her hands. Adjusting a paste necklace over her blouse, she watched the fake gems twinkle sharply in the mirror as though sending out a distress signal in Morse code. She’d taken off the sparkling strand and replaced it with a cameo brooch pinned to her collar. Twisting this way and that to see if the skirt fell neatly at the back, she noticed she’d gained a bit of weight and the material hung in more flattering folds from her waist.

  Shaking a scarf from her pocket and tying it under her chin, Gwen stood back from the people who moved up and down the steps: couples with their arms linked; groups chatting, their voices rising and falling as they climbed up from the shelter of the stairwell to the walkway suspended above the river; women and men on their own, their footsteps clacking as they hurried along. A crowd of women she recognised jostled and bumped their way towards her. One or two put their hands up or nodded, but she let them pass, turning her back and cupping her hands around a match to light a cigarette.

  A dim-out replaced the blackout tonight and, for the first time, she was as grateful for that as the others seemed to be. Orbs of yellow moonlight shone from the streetlamps on the bridge and Gwen made her way towards them, curious to see what the structure looked like now it was finished. From the top it was sleek and straight, nothing ornate or fussy about it; all the curves were underneath the roadway. She stopped and gazed at Big Ben, wondering if the clock would ever be lit up again, but it seemed to be encased in a mist. Bloody spectacles, she thought. It was about time they were replaced, if they could afford the cost.

  Looking down, she could make out eddies of oily, iridescent water lapping and slapping against one of the piers. It sounded close, like it had when she’d crouched in her retreat of a hidey-hole. It was here, underneath where she was standing, she was sure of it. She’d love to see the spot again and wondered if it would feel as much of a sanctuary as it had done when she first started on the bridge.

  Leaning over as far as she could without falling, she thought she could make out the heart she’d carved into the arch with the initials of all her family at its centre. She squinted. The drawing was there. She was sure of it. And there was something else. Another inch closer and she would be able to see. MW. Who could that be? She shook her head, took off her glasses and wiped them on a corner of Johnny’s little white hanky, always nestled in the left-hand side of her vest. When she settled them back on her face, all of the carvings were gone. Or perhaps they had never been there.

  But who, she wondered, was MW? Then it came to her. She had to hold on fast to the railings. Of course, Marty White. She’d been thinking about him all day. Every day. Worrying about him to the same extent as she perpetually fretted about Will and Ruth and Johnny. In her mind, the four of them blended in together seamlessly. There was room, surely, in the kids’ bedroom and around the table. There was a place for him in their hearts. They would bring Marty home, to them. Where he belonged.

  A gust of wind whipped across the river and up, over the bridge. Grabbing the knot of her scarf, she lost her hold on the hanky. In the half-light she lunged for it, but the wind caught it first and sent it tumbling across the roadway and over the far balustrade to where it hovered in mid-air before floating into the river. ‘Johnny,’ Gwen shouted. Then she whispered his name again as she touched her chest and felt the warmth that radiated from where the hanky had last pressed against her.

  15

  December 1944 – May 1945

  Evelyn

  Dad knocked on the girls’ bedroom door and said there was a man downstairs to see Evelyn. ‘A big bloke. Name’s Gregson.’ Evelyn pulled on a dress and cardigan, put a couple of combs in her hair and went downstairs. It was then she realised that, although she’d never met Gwen’s husband, she had a clear picture of him in her mind from Gwen’s descriptions. He was large and lumbering, his movements awkward as if he was embarrassed by his size and had to keep himself from getting in the way or knocking things over. He was good-looking, or had been, but not as handsome as Gwen had thought. The fault of time or circumstances, or the optical illusion of love.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Draper,’ he said, standing in the middle of the sitting room, turning the hat in his hand round and round like the pressure gauge on a locomotive. ‘Gwen a
sked me to call.’

  Evelyn felt her stomach turn. ‘Is she alright?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ He put up his meaty hand to stop her thinking the worst. ‘Ain’t nothing to worry about. For once.’

  ‘Good news then,’ Evelyn said, smiling. ‘We could all do with some of that. Please, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Someone asked me already.’ He looked towards the kitchen. ‘Ta very much.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be my sister. I’m sure it won’t be a minute.’

  Balancing his hat on his lap, George sat on the edge of the armchair. ‘The thing is, Miss Draper, I know it’s short notice, but the day after tomorrow we’re having a bit of a party. Gwen is keen on you and your sister being there but didn’t trust the post to get the invitation to you on time.’

  ‘Oh, I love a party. Is it a birthday or anniversary?’

  ‘No,’ George said, the beginnings of a grin turning up one corner of his mouth. ‘We’re welcoming the kids home.’

  Evelyn clapped her hands together. ‘Gwen must be so pleased. And you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ George let the beam take over his face. ‘All three of them. Will and Ruth and Marty, who we’re taking in as I’m sure Gwen told you.’

  ‘Gwen did mention it,’ Evelyn said. ‘But I didn’t know if you’d made up your minds.’

  Sylvie brought in two cups of tea and set one in front of George and handed the other to Evelyn. ‘Ta, Miss Draper.’ George half stood.

  ‘Call me Evelyn – and my sister’s Sylvie.’

  George nodded. He tried to force his forefinger through the delicate handle on the teacup, then decided to pinch it hard instead. He took a slurp and the cup rattled when he placed it back on the saucer. Evelyn looked away and waited.