The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  Halifax was so drab, cold, windy and bleak. It looked as if the sea had battered the town so often it left the houses washed with grey. They were odd, too, like wooden beer crates turned upside down. Some of the girls standing around me on the deck started to cry, I’m not sure whether from tiredness or disappointment. I didn’t win the lottery about our arrival time and I wasn’t first off the ship, but waited my turn arm in arm with Rene. The nicest thing about it was a military band playing ‘Here Comes the Bride’ on the quayside. That made us laugh.

  We were ushered through the pier, which looked like a cattle shed (don’t say anything about cows), given the once-over by a medical officer, had our papers checked and given an immigration card. Then we were set free, into the arms of waiting husbands or to be directed by the Red Cross to a train or ferry, or to a B and B to wait for a connection this morning.

  One poor woman, with two little boys, was handed a telegram by a Red Cross worker who then put her arms around her and led her away. Later, in our overnight hostel, another girl told me and Rene the telegram was from the woman’s husband telling her to go home as he’d found someone else. Can you imagine? We were all very quiet for a time after that, feeling sorry for her.

  This morning we boarded our train at 8:35 a.m. so we’re about four hours into our journey. We’ve passed through mile after mile without any sign of people, just grey rocks, waves of wheat swaying like the ocean, forests of sea-green trees. The trains are huge, too. You can curve round a bend in the track, look out the window and see the end of the train curling miles behind you. The horns they use have a melancholy wail that sounds so sad. Sometimes I hear it keening to me… Nooooo… Dooooon’t… Gooooo. But still we push on.

  I must say, though, we’re treated very well. Again, lovely food, cups of tea, comfy seats and beds. There are sixty or more of us on board, so we tend to stick together in smaller groups. I’m good enough at Bridge now to play as Rene’s partner against other girls. I’ll teach you when next we’re together. I don’t know when that will be, but it can’t be soon enough.

  Love you,

  Sylvie

  *

  Stamping books in Bexleyheath Library without looking up at the queue in front of her, Evelyn listened to the tinkle of rain on the window and the whirr of machinery from a site across the road; that was where her heart was and she so wished the rest of her being could join it. She gritted her teeth in frustration and pounded the inky date onto the front pages as if she was using a jackhammer.

  War was cruel, she thought, but most people only thought about the obvious when they agreed on that. There were so many subtle, barely perceptible ways in which the poisonous, far-reaching tentacles of such an almighty conflict grabbed hold of people and dealt them bitter blows. For Alec it was his facial injury, for Stan his limp, for Gwen her Johnny, for Dad the heartbreak of seeing it all again and for her, the introduction to something that she truly loved only to have that avenue denied her.

  She knew there was no comparison between others’ suffering and her disappointment and she would never let on too much about it because she didn’t want to offend, but in her heart it felt almost like a bereavement.

  *

  30th April 1945

  Dear Evelyn,

  Well I think I’ve met everyone at last. Alec has been home on leave for the last week and, do you know, he went to change into his civvies and when he came back into the sitting room I didn’t recognise him. My own husband! I thought he was another brother or cousin as I’d never seen him in anything but his uniform. He’s going to have an operation, or perhaps a few, to tidy up his face but of course, there’s nothing to be done about his eye. He’ll have to decide in the long run whether he wants to try a glass eye or stick with the patch.

  Fiona and Hugh and the rest of the clan continue to be as lovely and welcoming to me as possible. I feel very lucky in that respect. Alec’s little brothers keep asking me to repeat certain phrases like, ‘Yes, my love’ and ‘Whatever can you mean?’ They seem to get a kick out of the way I say ‘can’t’ and ‘ask’. Their mum keeps telling them to shush up but I think they’re great fun.

  We’ve been able to get away in Hugh’s old heap, as he calls it, to look around the countryside and meet the family who live even closer to the heart of nowhere than my in-laws. It was a bit slow going at first while Alec got used to driving without his left eye. The car almost came off the road twice but we laughed our way through it. We drove through wheat, around wheat, to the left and right of wheat towards a horizon of wheat for hours before we came to what Alec says is a homestead to spend some time with Malcolm’s mum and dad. A shiver ran up my spine when we sat in the parlour with a photo of Malcolm smiling at us from the dresser.

  Before I married Alec he told me he lived with his parents on a small farm on the fringe of Saskatoon. So I imagined Cockfosters or somewhere similar, wouldn’t you? But the outskirts of town here means no shops. Not one. Except for the general store, which sells flour by the sackful and doesn’t count. Saskatoon is a good way away but Alec says he’ll teach me to drive so I can go in whenever I like. I find it hard to imagine driving hours through wheat fields, oh and I forgot to mention, acres of rye, canola, lentils, oats and barley to get to the shops, but I might have to get used to it.

  Alec and I spent a couple of days in a small hotel in Saskatoon and it’s very nice there. Lots to see and do. We had a nice meal in a diner and went to the cinema. We turned up unannounced to visit Rene and her husband who live in an area called Nutana. It was so lovely to see Rene again. Now Alec’s talking about trying to get a job in the city selling farm machinery when he’s demobbed, which I think would be better for both of us.

  Now, Evelyn, there’s a university in Saskatoon and we saw girls wandering around with books in their hands. Alec said they take the same courses as the men. Next time we drive in I’m going to enquire about engineering for you. I’m sure you would get on well there and the college would love to have a girl from London with an English accent. You could stay with us and we’d help you out. Dad, too, of course. Please, please, dear sister, say you will at least consider it. I miss you so much.

  Love always,

  Sylvie

  *

  If only Sylvie were here, Evelyn thought, swishing her blistered feet around in a bowl of warm water. There was no possible way she could capture the atmosphere and the sheer exuberance in a letter to her, but she would try later before she forgot any of the details.

  The West End had been crammed with people dancing and singing. ‘Where have they all come from?’ Alice shouted in her ear.

  ‘No idea,’ Evelyn cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled back.

  Servicemen jumped in the fountain at Trafalgar Square, soaking anyone within splashing distance. A sopping-wet soldier grabbed two girls at once and pulled them under the foam with him and they’d all come up squealing with laughter. Beer was slopped and shared. Everyone kissed strangers. Evelyn and Alice had tagged onto an endless conga line and an officer carried Evelyn halfway up the Mall in a fireman’s lift, with Stan hobbling along behind. Men climbed lamp posts and women tore the obnoxious blackouts to shreds. And the bells, what a heart-warming music they made, answering each other from every corner of London. And standing guard over all of them, as he’d always done, was Big Ben, lit up like a beacon again at long last.

  Reaching over to Dad’s chair, Evelyn grabbed a cushion and put it behind her head, which was throbbing in rhythm with her feet. The hammering reminded her of vibrating the concrete on the bridge. She closed her eyes and thought of Sylvie, who’d written that where Alec’s parents live there was no electricity or running water. How strange, she thought, to have experienced something as profound as VE Day, when Sylvie perhaps hadn’t yet read about it in the newspapers or heard any of Churchill’s speeches on the wireless.

  She, Alice and Stan had caught the one from the balcony of the Ministry of Health.

  ‘God bless you all,’ the
prime minister had said. And he told them that the victory was theirs.

  They’d bellowed back with everyone else, ‘No, it’s yours.’

  Winnie hadn’t said anything for a couple of seconds, just growled like he does as if he was trying to find the right words. But Evelyn wondered if he was as choked as they were.

  When he was ready he carried on by telling them that the victory belonged to the cause of freedom all over the world. He said that history had never seen a greater day and that all of them had tried and done their best.

  The crowd had been deafening in their agreement. When they’d quietened down a little, Churchill listed all the things that had not weakened their resolve in any way: the long years, the dangers, the fierce attacks of the enemy.

  Then that was it from the great man, except for another ‘God bless you all’ and the roar that followed was more strident than a detachment of V-2 bombers. Everyone jumped up and down with such force that a small child slipped from the shoulders of the man next to her. Some people cried, some laughed, some looked as if they were in shock. And some, like Evelyn, did all three time and again. Then she was swung off her feet by a massive Hokey-Cokey ring and when they couldn’t shake it all about any longer, they stumbled into the nearest pub for another drink. No wonder her feet and head ached. She knew she should stay in tonight and rest, but yesterday wasn’t the end of it and she didn’t want to miss a thing.

  She sat up and sloshed her feet around in the tepid water. What she didn’t think she could, or perhaps should, describe to Sylvie was how she felt now that reality was sinking in. But she needed to clarify her feelings for herself.

  She dried her feet, emptied the bowl into the vegetable patch and put on the kettle. Elation, of course; who wouldn’t feel jubilant? It was a wonderful triumph and she agreed with Winnie; they had all been very brave. She hadn’t cried much during the last five years, but now tears came to her eyes when she thought about the nights in the Underground, the hours spent queuing for rations, the ear-splitting sirens, the privation, the rounds of flu, the sight of some poor woman’s beloved crockery smashed in the street, the missing limbs, the missing people. Already she couldn’t comprehend how they’d borne it all and how they would have carried on if they’d had to; it was hard to admit, but they’d been on their knees.

  Perhaps she could write all of that down for Sylvie, but she didn’t think she could tell her how frightened she felt now that it was over. Anxious about what would happen next. How the independent resolve that Churchill spoke about could be sustained to get them out of the mess that was left. She didn’t want to feel down, or entertain a defeatist attitude; she wanted nothing else but yesterday’s mood to continue to embrace her and hold her in its power. Yes, there was disorder and disarray everywhere. But it is our chaos, she thought, our streets strewn with rubble and rubbish, full of bomb sites and potholes. Our lack of flats and houses, want of money, food and fuel. Our spoils of the victory and ours to keep. No one could take it from them now.

  Never mind resolving the country’s problems, she had her own dilemmas to sort out. Whenever she thought about university in Canada, she pictured herself wandering around with a notebook and pencil looking a bit lost.

  Then there was the Imperial to consider and Dad. She couldn’t leave him and wasn’t sure he would leave Uncle Bert and his mates at the pub.

  And she was still interested in Stan. She smiled when she thought about him; he could still make her laugh, he still danced beautifully and he did have good, solid prospects ahead of him. The shop in Sidcup would be, if anything, calm and idyllic. And predictable. Waiting for her tea to cool, Evelyn played with the contours of the cup. She remembered another man in uniform who she’d described as steady and how unshackled and relieved she’d felt when they’d parted company.

  The back door opened and Dad came in, his paper tucked under his arm. ‘Another of those going by any chance?’ He pointed to the tea.

  Evelyn nodded and poured him a cup without saying a word.

  ‘Alright, my love?’ Dad frowned in concern.

  Evelyn nodded again and touched her head.

  ‘And me,’ Dad laughed, rubbing his bald spot. ‘Out with Stan tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ Evelyn said. Then murmuring with conviction and sadness she added, ‘For one last time.’

  *

  When Evelyn opened the package from Sylvie it contained four Tootsie Rolls and something called a prospectus. She had never seen anything like the colours in some of the photographs and she stroked the pages, half expecting the images to blur. Not wanting to alarm Dad, she took it all up to her room and shut the door behind her. Lying on the childhood bed she’d long outgrown, she read about the university and the engineering course, which sounded daunting, but was also everything she wanted. Then she unfolded the single sheet of writing paper from Sylvie.

  16th May 1945

  Dear Evelyn,

  Just a quick note because I want to get this prospectus in the post to you today. Alec and I took a trip to Saskatoon to look at apartments to rent and we went into the university to make enquiries for you. I told them all about what you did on the bridge and your involvement with the WES. They said they would love to have you in the Engineering Department and would give you all the help you need. The new semester starts in September, which would give you and Dad enough time to pack up there and to sort yourselves out here before you start. Do you want me to mention any of this to Dad when I write to him?

  It’s a wonderful opportunity, Evelyn, so please don’t just dismiss it. Think seriously and I’m keeping everything crossed that you decide to give it a go.

  All my love,

  Sylvie

  P.S. Enjoy the sweets. There are plenty more waiting for you here.

  Evelyn closed her eyes and pictured herself again on what was called the campus, but this time in her imagination she looked self-assured and capable.

  She knew she would have to broach the subject with Dad. But how? She couldn’t demand that he pack up and leave everything he’d ever known for what he perceived to be a silly, whimsical fancy. Besides, if she somehow managed to force him to go to Canada, she knew she would be haunted by her own selfishness and neither the course or being close to Sylvie would make her content. But this was too important to her not to talk to Dad about, even if nothing came of it.

  ‘Evelyn,’ Dad’s voice carried up the stairs. ‘Just popping round to Uncle Bert’s.’

  She took a deep breath; it was now or never. ‘Wait a minute, Dad,’ she called. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She never dreamed that Dad would come up with such a good solution. He listened and didn’t make flippant remarks. But, he said, it would be silly for both of them to leave everything they had here before they were sure that Evelyn would settle. After all, it would be very difficult to have to come back to nothing and start all over again.

  That, Evelyn agreed, would put them in a very distressing situation.

  ‘So,’ Dad said. ‘I want you to go for one, what is it, semester? And see how you get on.’

  ‘And if I like it?’ Evelyn asked.

  Evelyn counted three beats of her heart before Dad answered, ‘I’ll join you.’

  ‘Do you promise, Dad?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Evelyn put her arms around Dad’s neck and held on tight.

  When Dad spoke, Evelyn heard the first hint of a catch in his voice. ‘When do think you’ll leave?’

  ‘Perhaps in the New Year,’ she said. ‘I need to tie up a few loose ends first. And I’ll need to save some lolly for the journey and to pay my way once I get there.’

  Dad held Evelyn away from him and looked in her eyes. He nodded and his mouth trembled when he tried to return her smile. Soon he would walk to see Uncle Bert and she would write to Sylvie and give her plenty of notice to have the kettle on for her arrival.

  16

  June – November 1945

  Joan

  Joan had no imm
ediate regrets about being laid off the bridge. No teary farewells or last-minute promises to keep in touch. There didn’t seem any point in pursuing friendships that hadn’t materialised by that stage. She’d remember with fondness some of her time on the tools, others she’d as soon forget. Now she could devote her energy to Colin’s Kats. Playing in the, at first, unfamiliar jazz genre was so different from the orchestral music she had been brought up in; it came across to the musician and audience alike as free, easy, relaxed. It evoked images of effortless nonchalance. But the discipline needed to engender that aura was as rigid and structured as that needed to play the music that was considered to be loftier and more highbrow.

  Every time she picked up her instrument, she was overwhelmed with a deep sense of what she could only describe as joy: intense happiness at being given this second chance to do something that gave her and others such pleasure. To think, she had almost abandoned it forever. She shook her head, exasperated with herself. Thank goodness for Colin; he had never doubted that she would feel so exhilarated once she had the violin in her hands again.

  But the group hadn’t, as yet, been able to secure a regular spot in a club, although they played on-off gigs in a number of places and were beginning to recognise a few of the same faces amongst the crowd, looking eager and appreciative.

  She advertised for a saxophonist and auditioned seven, leaving the final choice out of her shortlisted three to Colin. He’d gone for Bernie, a short, rather squat man who had a habit of trying to keep his thinning hair behind his ears with the palms of his hands. Joan was pleased, as he’d been her first choice for the way he could hit and hold the high notes. She hadn’t been as lucky finding a permanent drummer. They would have loved to keep the session musician they used when possible, but he worked shifts so couldn’t be relied on.

  Hazel encouraged Joan to practise in the sitting room so she and Ivy could listen, but that set-up wasn’t always productive as Hazel kept interrupting with song suggestions or by joining in without knowing the lyrics, dancing around and applauding. From her chair, Ivy moved her eyes to watch her daughter with what Joan sometimes interpreted as a trace of chagrin on her otherwise blank face.