The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  ‘It ain’t been an easy decision,’ George said.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  His voice caught, but he disguised it with a cough. ‘We know we ain’t ever going to replace our Johnny. But—’ he opened his hands in a gesture of acceptance ‘—Marty needs a place and he’s a good lad.’

  ‘A very lucky lad,’ Evelyn said. ‘To have you and Gwen look out for him.’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’ George drained his tea. ‘I wanted to see you, too,’ he said, studying the pattern on the hearthrug, ‘to tell you that Gwen has never given up saying what a great mate you’ve been to her.’ His eyes met hers. ‘And that means a lot to both of us.’

  Evelyn swallowed the lump in her throat and went on to tell him how fond she was of Gwen, but he stood, almost knocking over the side table, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was as though the simple declaration had taken it out of him.

  When she saw him to the door and watched him walk towards the high street, his shoulders back and head up, he seemed self-assured and buoyant. She hoped that Gwen felt the same.

  *

  Evelyn needn’t have worried about that hope coming to fruition. When Gwen answered the door to her and Sylvie, she looked lovelier and more radiant than Evelyn would ever have thought possible. And although some of it was careful grooming, there was a glow about her that could not be put down to hair dye or cosmetics.

  ‘Don’t stand there. Come in, come in.’ Gwen hugged them, beaming with pride at the small party gathered in her sitting room. There was George, much less out of place in his own surroundings, one huge hand on each of Will’s and Marty’s shoulders. As soon as he greeted Evelyn and Sylvie, Evelyn noticed that he placed his paws back, with a tender touch, around the boys.

  Ruth, taller than Evelyn had imagined, was on Betty’s lap and Len was chatting to his son and daughter-in-law, their children snuggled up between them. Another few neighbours and friends were introduced; a buffet and drinks were set out and everyone was easy and relaxed with each other. Evelyn smiled at the Welcome Home banner Gwen must have painted and hung above the fireplace.

  Balancing a plate of egg and cress sandwiches in one hand, a small glass of sherry in the other, Gwen nudged Evelyn with her knee and tucked herself in next to her.

  ‘You look wonderful, Gwen,’ Evelyn said, noticing her friend’s perfectly round, healthy nails.

  Gwen nodded. ‘I feel better than I have done in the longest time. Do you know that this room ain’t seen a party since the day before Will and Ruth were going away to Wales?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that was much of a party,’ Evelyn said.

  ‘No.’ Gwen sniffed. ‘It was awful. I so wanted it to be lovely for them. You know, so they could think about it if they were homesick. But try as we might, Betty and I could not make it a jolly occasion.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised. It was a terrible time. But…’ Evelyn squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Look at you now.’

  Gwen gazed at each of the children and her eyelids drooped with contentment. ‘Yeah. We done the right thing for Marty. And for us. We ain’t never going to forget our Johnny, none of us. I ain’t going to let that happen. But… it does seem that some kind of happiness can still be had.’ Gwen glanced back at Evelyn. ‘Don’t you think?’

  At that moment, George called to Gwen to join him and the children who were laughing at a story in a comic. Evelyn watched them huddle together over the page for just long enough not to seem rude. When Gwen broke away to bustle over cutting the cake, she and George mirrored smiles that were for each other alone.

  When it was time to leave, Gwen and the children saw Evelyn and Sylvie to the door. Promises were made to keep in touch, which Evelyn knew they had been through too much together not to keep. Pulling Gwen to her, Evelyn whispered in her ear, ‘You’re right. There is still happiness to be had. And you’ve found it.’

  *

  Auschwitz was liberated. She and Sylvie watched the sickening, sorry sight in the cinema and walked out in silence before Vera Lynn and Donald Stewart could start singing and dancing their way through the main feature. The Allies won the Battle of the Bulge, crossed the Rhine and razed Dresden; and Sylvie married Alec in a small, quiet ceremony. She wore a dusty pink suit pinched in at the waist and trimmed in ocelot fur she’d taken from the collar of an old coat, a pair of shiny brown heels, and real silk stockings. Her freshly permed hair was pinned behind one ear, the other side skimming her cheek. Stan had provided a silver horseshoe from his father’s shop, which Sylvie decorated with roses and dangled from her wrist with pink ribbon. And her beautiful smile was framed by crimson lips.

  Alec wore the uniform he filled out a little less well than before he’d been mobilised to Italy, his hand clutching Sylvie’s through the crook of his arm after they said their vows. A photographer took two snaps when the sun shone briefly between downpours outside Wood Green Registry Office; one of the couple with confetti cascading around them, the other of the entire party of eleven. In both of them, Alec turned his head so the eye-patch he wore over an embroidery of crisscrossed scars wasn’t on display.

  Sylvie hadn’t flinched the first time she’d seen him after his injury, too delighted with having him back to bother. And when she spoke about the mutilation, it was with clinical detachment. How the eye couldn’t be saved; the damage and immediate treatment he’d had that left it in such a mess; further procedures he might be able to have in Canada.

  The patch helped, but one morning Evelyn walked into the kitchen while it was on the side and Alec was bathing the wound. It took everything she had not to show how repulsed she felt, if just for a minute. Alec had fumbled for the black pad but Sylvie said, ‘Don’t worry, love. Evelyn doesn’t mind, do you?’

  Evelyn shook her head. ‘No, of course I don’t,’ she said. Although she wasn’t so sure.

  He replaced it quickly despite the reassurance, but not before she’d seen the inflamed, pink socket as raw and sore and squelchy as an oyster, having rolled sand around in its shell for months. Little puckers and rough stitch marks surrounded the taut, shiny skin, pulled down on the outer edge as if he’d had a bout of dropsy.

  There was another thing, too, that was different about Alec. Evelyn had been trying to get to the bottom of it for weeks, concentrating on what else might be missing. Now, in the upstairs room of The Three Compasses, where Dad had arranged the wedding breakfast, it came to her. The difference wasn’t in what else he’d lost but what he’d gained. He still laughed in the same joyful way: his shoulders shaking, his hands holding his stomach, rocking down and back with mouth wide open. He was as playful, if not more so, but now he interrupted a little less frequently, content to give others a chance to be witty or have the last say. It no longer seemed that he felt he had to fill every silence or shear off the ends of serious conversations with a clever quip to ease the atmosphere. He listened with interest. There was a tender patience and understanding about him. His empathy was deep and sagacious; his responses more insightful than men much older, but his capacity to accept, dismiss and move on seemed to allow him to view the world as new and enthusing.

  For months they had saved ration coupons and begged, bartered or borrowed from neighbours and friends for handouts so they were able to enjoy pork, crackling, apple sauce, mashed and roast potatoes, carrots, peas, cauliflower and gravy. There was gin and beer. Sherry and port. Speeches inducing all manner of tears. Evelyn thought Alec consumed it all as a man hungry for what could have been denied him.

  After a weekend’s honeymoon on the Isle of Sheppey, Alec had to report back to Aldershot, where he had a number of medical appointments, before being shipped to Glasgow to wait for his passage home. So Dad and Evelyn took Sylvie to Euston, where she’d told them they would have to say goodbye. In her hand she had a paper with the name of an officer she had to ask for at the enquiry desk and then… She had no idea where she would be going next, the name of the ship she’d be sailing on, or from which port it wo
uld sail. They lingered with Sylvie as long as they could, asking her to check she had her papers, if she had enough money for a meal, her passport, asking her to write soon.

  ‘Yes, there’re here. I have. It’s in my bag. I will. You too.’ Then she threw her arms around both of them and they stood, still and breathless, listening to each other’s heartbeats. Evelyn took Dad’s arm and they walked away, turning to bat kisses back and forth, waving until the last finger of Sylvie’s hand was out of sight.

  *

  The journey back to Mayes Road was grim. Evelyn and Dad linked arms while they walked to the Underground, pressed themselves tight against each other in the first available seat they could find, interlaced their fingers and squeezed their hands together. Evelyn felt as if she needed to hold fast to Dad, her anchor in a turbulent sea. She supposed Dad was feeling the same. Whenever one or the other of them tried to say something, about Sylvie and Alec and how much they would miss them, mist would film their eyes and the words would stick in their throats.

  The minute they let themselves into the house and Evelyn had reached for the kettle, Uncle Bert put his head around the door to find out how the goodbyes had gone and to take Dad to the pub.

  ‘Evelyn won’t mind, will you, love,’ Uncle Bert stated as if it was fact rather than a question.

  Dad looked at Evelyn, his unruly eyebrows raised. There was a lump in Evelyn’s stomach, or maybe it was a gaping hole. What she really wanted was Dad to herself for another little while; to sit with him close and have him within her reach. But she shook her head and said, ‘Of course I won’t.’

  While her tea was drawing, Evelyn tidied the sitting room, laid the fire and checked the pantry for dinner. Then she slumped onto the couch and stared at the spot next to her where Sylvie had rested on and off for most of her life, the cushions moulded to the shape of her sister. Evelyn brushed the outlines and curves with her fingertips.

  What am I going to do now? Evelyn asked herself. In the short term, she had to pack up the belongings Sylvie had asked her to ship out to Canada and then sift through the things Sylvie had said she could keep for herself. She would make a start on all that this afternoon. Setting her cup and saucer on a side table, she closed her eyes tight against the pain she felt when she pictured Sylvie, alone and anxious but bubbling with excitement. She looked around the room taking in the furniture, the ornaments, the wallpaper and clock, the newspaper rack and the rug.

  The house had a certain smell, which she had never defined before but now recognised as a blend of food on the turn, tobacco, Dad’s shaving soap and hers and Sylvie’s face powder. Outside the window, she could see the rickety gate and part of the silver birch rooted in the pavement. She sighed; it was all so familiar, which was a comfort but at the same time humdrum, drab and flat.

  She asked herself, with a jolt of surprise, if she begrudged Sylvie her adventures and yes, was the conclusion she came to. Of course, not Sylvie as a person. All she wanted for her beloved sister was a happy life and whatever that entailed. But she was envious of all the new things Sylvie was on the brink of experiencing.

  To each their lot, she reasoned with herself, but that thought only made her feel worse. She took a deep breath and gently pounded her fists on her knees. Sitting around and brooding would do her no good, she knew that, and there was only one person who could get the life she wanted and that was her. Well, the classroom no longer appealed although, to be fair, if she chose that career again now, she could both teach and get married. At last. But she’d read recently that a new teacher-training scheme aimed at ex-servicemen and women had been announced for June and it was thought that thousands would apply. And as she’d been out of the profession for a few years she presumed she’d have to reapply and retrain merely to end up where she’d been before the war. The thought of that was difficult to bear.

  Biting her lip in determination, she reiterated her certainty that what she really wanted to do was pursue what she had done on the bridge. But the men were coming home now and they would want their jobs back. She heard herself scoff out loud as she recalled that bit of paper they’d had to sign saying that in due course women would have to give up their jobs to men.

  And then, of course, there was Stan to consider. If they took their closeness to the next level then her career would be sorted out for her. Or to put it bluntly, she would be stuck behind the counter in that shop full of nails, sieves and shovels wearing nothing more glamorous than a brown smock and pair of flat shoes so she could run up and down the stairs to the living quarters to check on the children or the dinner. She sighed as if ridding herself of the thought.

  When she spoke to Stan about her ambitions, he never undermined her. He listened intently and always seemed interested. But, he did not make any concessions to the fact that his future was that little business in that little town and she knew that as a woman, as a wife, she would be duty-bound to fit in with his plans. So the cynic in her said that of course he was interested in her aspirations as he had nothing whatsoever to lose.

  One evening before Sylvie left for Canada, Evelyn had asked her if she had ever doubted her feelings for Alec or thought he might have doubted her.

  ‘No.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘Not after we had declared ourselves. Why?’ She looked at Evelyn with narrowed eyes; she had always been too astute. ‘Do you doubt that you love Stan?’

  Evelyn had to think carefully about her reply. ‘It’s more that I’m just not sure how I feel about him,’ she said. ‘One minute I’m head over heels. The next…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t be bothered. And when I think about the future with him. Well. It seems as if it would be more like going backwards than forwards.’

  Sylvie smiled at her with a clamped mouth. ‘It doesn’t do to compare romances,’ she said. ‘But all I can say is I would go anywhere with Alec and do anything for him. As long as he was with me it would all be wonderful.’

  Evelyn nodded with resignation. ‘I know,’ she said.

  Sylvie picked up Evelyn’s hand and held it in hers. Patting it lightly, she said, ‘But Alec wouldn’t ask me to do anything I didn’t want to do. And if I harboured a burning drive? I feel sure he’d do all he could to help me achieve what I wanted to do. Besides all that, I don’t think that Alec would want to have a life that was completely to his specifications and nor would I. We want a life that’s ours.’

  Tears prickled the back of Evelyn’s eyes and she wondered when Sylvie had become the sensible one.

  Now a sudden downpour made her look up at the darkening sky; Dad would be back soon and she hadn’t sorted his tea out yet. In her mind she made a list of the things she had to do: draw the blackouts, prepare a meal, write and post a letter to Sylvie care of her in-laws, go to the WES on Monday and enquire about how she could move on in construction or engineering. She felt lighter about the chores she had to do now that she had made that decision.

  *

  When the post fluttered onto the mat, Evelyn stopped still with her toast suspended mid-air; Dad’s eyes fixed on hers, his teacup frozen an inch from his waiting lips. Then they both made a dash for the door, Evelyn running in her house slippers with Dad clumping behind.

  ‘Who’re these from?’ Evelyn said, snatching up the small assortment of envelopes from where they had fanned out on the square of matting.

  Dad pointed to a couple as Evelyn shuffled through them. ‘That one’s the Borough Council. That’s from Auntie Lil.’

  Evelyn handed them over to Dad without looking at him. ‘How about this?’ she said, turning over a small, square envelope to look at the back then turning it face up again.

  Dad shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘It’s not from Canada, that’s for sure. Postmark says Streatham.’

  ‘You daft bugger.’ Evelyn batted the wad of letters in Dad’s direction. ‘Of course it’s not. She only left five days ago.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same. I can’t remember the last time I saw you
run so fast.’

  Evelyn laughed out loud. ‘Well, I was thinking that perhaps she’d posted a letter from wherever it is she’s waiting for her ship.’ She tried to sound disdainful. ‘Not Canada. It wouldn’t be possible, and you know it better than anyone.’

  Dad turned and Evelyn could tell, by the crestfallen slump of his shoulders, that he had been hoping against logic.

  The letter was from Alice. Evelyn tried to remember when she’d last seen her and decided that it must have been about two weeks previously when they’d met in a pub with a crowd of other women. Above the din, she had told Evelyn that the American she’d been dating said she wasn’t the girl for him. Alice said she had been upset, but as the days went by, she thought more and more that his decision had been the right one. Then she’d gone on to say she was working in a greengrocer’s around the corner from where she was lodging and was using some of her wages to take a Pitman’s typing course.

  Before she had a chance to stop herself, Evelyn had stared down at Alice’s generous hands and fingers, wondering how she would manage the intricacies of a keyboard, then immediately looked away, embarrassed. She coloured again now, thinking about how insensitive she’d been.

  Alice seemed a bit lonely, too, perhaps because her pal, Joan, was spending so much time playing in some musical group or another. But she seemed eager to pursue a friendship with Evelyn and the letter was an invitation to meet at the Odeon to see Give Us the Moon starring Margaret Lockwood and Vic Oliver. That would be something to look forward to.

  When the breakfast things had been cleared and Evelyn had caught up with a few other chores, she pulled the old atlas off the shelf and gave it a good dusting. She handed Dad a thick pencil and they sat close together on the couch. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Put a ring around Halifax. Good, now another around Saskatoon.’