A Girl in Wartime (37 page)

But Connie felt anxious for the bereaved girl. ‘They're probably all on their own, her and little Jamie. She must be feeling so terribly lonely.'

‘So are a lot of people,' he said, his tone soft with sympathy, but she ignored him.

‘I can't help about other people. She's my sister and she really ought to have someone with her.'

‘Maybe your sister Elsie's with her. They only live a couple of streets away from each other.'

‘And there's Mum and Dad. I ought to go see if they're all right. And there's Ron and Dolly and their Violet.'

‘They're with your parents. They're probably fine. Do you really want to drag little Stephanie around the streets as they are?'

‘If I went, you could keep an eye on her.'

‘If you go, I'm going with you, Connie. I'm not letting you loose at the mercy of that excited mob, you and our child.'

She gathered up her coat, hat, gloves, handbag, together with the baby's outdoor things, leaving him with no choice but to humour her.

‘We'll cut across the park,' he said as they left, holding Stephanie in his arms. ‘And we'll go straight to your sister's. Your parents have got each other, and Ronald's got them. We might even chance to find a taxi.'

They took the back streets, no taxi to be seen, and still full of people. People were celebrating to the full and by the time they reached Lillian's, Connie too felt the elation, her face hot from walking, as well as aching from a constant grin. She strove to control herself as Stephen knocked on the door of the little tenement house.

Instantly it was jerked open, as if her sister had seen them coming. Connie expected her to throw herself into her arms, her face reddened from crying, her eyes inflamed. But her face was wreathed in smiles as she flung her arms around Connie's neck.

‘Oh, Con! Mum 'n' Dad's here. We've had such wonderful news! Early this morning a telegram came – they've found my Jim! He was taken prisoner weeks ago and no one knew. No one informed. Oh, Connie, ain't it just wonderful?'

She was crying now, still grasping Connie to her. ‘He's all right. He's fine. They'll be sending 'im home any time. Ain't it wonderful?'

Trooping up the gangplank on to a ship already crowded with war-weary men all looking to go home and to stay there, Albert felt himself heave a great sigh as they began to move. He was leaving France for ever, never to return as far as he was concerned, never to set eyes on the Continent ever again.

A smooth crossing on this windless if overcast November day, but it wouldn't have mattered if there'd been a full-force gale. Each man was on deck, each with a grin on his face. The wounded were safe below. Albert was going home – going home for good.

He watched the white cliffs of Dover come into sight, growing in height as they sailed nearer until he felt he was so close he could touch them as the vessel manoeuvred into the docks which were already full of English ships bearing men home from the war.

While docking, Albert found himself practically shoved off the ship amid an orderly crush, each man eager to feel home soil under his feet. Most packed into trains, each bound for home, but Albert's train was totally stuffed to the doors. Among scores of others he was forced to stand all the way, but it didn't matter. In a couple of hours he'd be embracing Edie.

With the change of trains, he finally alighted at Bethnal Green Station, and began to walk the rest of the way, kitbag over his good shoulder, the other shoulder having had the stitches removed and healing well, although still tender. He could hardly wait to get out of uniform. Three days had passed since the news had broke, but he still found himself twice kissed on the cheek by two different women he happened to pass, clapped on the back from a middle-aged man he'd never met in his life before, and his hand shaken by another even older man, who rasped, ‘Well done, son, welcome 'ome!'

It was wonderful to have Edie throw herself into his arms in tears of joy. Tonight they would lie in bed and make slow but passionate love, no longer with just a few days before being sent back. Tomorrow they'd have the joy of each other without haste.

‘I want a big family,' she said quietly that night. Yes, a big family, none of his children ever to be caught up in war, a teenager as he had been.

On Saturday his mum had planned a homecoming party for him, a family get-together. Edie's parents were invited too. After a few days' rest, he felt he would be ready for it.

It was good to see them all together, furniture cleared from the room ready for a party, Connie's old downstairs bed gone for good. Mum's front room had also been reinstated to her best room, Ronnie having mastered his crutches and insisting on manoeuvring himself upstairs to his old bedroom. And soon, he said, he was to be fitted with a false leg. Stephen was paying. He'd also been employed by a little company Stephen had found that took on men incapacitated by war. On top of that he'd soon be moving into a little house Stephen had got for him. Albert smiled. Connie had done well for herself marrying such a generous man.

The family was all here: Connie and Stephen and their little Stephanie; Ron and Dolly with their little'un, Ronnie quiet, greatly changed from the buoyant lad he'd once been but better than he was; Elsie's Harry home, looking pretty well. Lillian's Jim was also back looking haggard: evidently, prisoners of war had got the rough end of the stick when it came to being fed. Mum promptly handed him a plateful of food despite the meagre feast she'd managed to get together, no one begrudging him.

Dad's parents had come, Granddad still playing the mouth-organ for all his age. Connie's grandmother having confined herself to a chair in the corner and being helped to food, saying her old legs wouldn't let her dance. Not that there was much room to dance in, some of the neighbours having been invited, swelling the numbers but thankfully contributing to the table with whatever they'd found suitable in their larders to compensate for extra mouths. Not that it was a lot, rationing nowhere near being lifted, in fact worsening, yet very acceptable.

But in all this, one face was missing – George's. Mum said nothing but Connie knew she felt it keenly.

One week of peace had gone by. It was wonderful yet odd too – as if people were waiting for something to happen and wreck everything. One pitiful reminder was all the crippled who were jobless, with little so far seeming to have been done for them. They lined the kerbsides at intervals, cap placed on the ground in the hopes of the odd copper being dropped into it. But with so many having fought for their country, who had even the odd copper to spare?

Seeing them, Ronnie could think himself lucky, thought Connie as she and Stephen paid her parents a visit that Sunday, and she felt embarrassingly indebted to her wonderful husband for his generosity to her brother.

Alone in the kitchen, her mother's rounded face was creased with concern when they entered, which prompted Connie to ask what was wrong.

‘It's our George,' she said quietly.

Mum reached into her apron pocket and brought out a letter still in its envelope but the envelope flap already opened.

‘Came yesterday but I've not shown your dad yet,' she whispered. ‘I don't know what he'll say about it.'

‘Can I read it?' asked Connie, she too feeling the need to whisper.

Her mother handed it to her. ‘I really don't know what to make of it. I don't want your dad going off the handle. What if he throws it straight in the fire?'

‘Maybe it would be best if I read it out aloud to him. He can't do anything then.'

‘What about your Stephen, him there to witness if your dad does throw it in the fire. I'm not keen on other people seeing what goes on between our George and your dad.'

‘Stephen is family, Mum,' Connie reminded her, and saw her mother nod slowly.

‘I suppose he is.' She lifted her head in sudden determination. ‘All right, love, get it over and done with and see what 'appens. But I'm not 'aving your dad show us up. I'll warn 'im to take care, in no uncertain terms.' Connie couldn't help but smile at her set expression. When she wanted, Mum could have her way in her own quiet manner.

But what she'd read was no laughing matter. She felt suddenly empty at what she'd read, but her brother George was his own master – he'd proved that long ago.

The others hardly looked up as she and her mother entered the room, Dolly sitting with Violet on her lap; Stephen with his little daughter on his, talking to Ronnie; Dad listening. Ronnie and Dad were puffing away, filling the room with both pipe and tobacco smoke.

Mum took one sniff and went and lifted up the lower sash window a fraction. ‘All this stink. It can't be good for the kiddies,' she said sharply. Connie was only grateful that Stephen hadn't been included in her disapproval. Stephen had never smoked as far as Connie knew. If he ever had it would probably have been after losing his first wife.

‘Bloody 'ell!' Dad exploded, catching the full force of cold November air, his chair backing straight on to the window despite the lower sash having been lifted not much more than half an inch. ‘You shut the bloody thing, woman!'

If there was to be a row, thought Connie, best it be over the letter she held rather than over a small waft of draught.

Going to her father, she said loudly, ‘A letter came yesterday. It's for you and Mum. It's important.'

He looked at his wife, his moustache bristling visibly, the draught forgotten. ‘Then why didn't you say yesterday?'

‘She couldn't,' Connie said sharply. ‘It should be read while there are people here.'

People here could stop him throwing it straight into the fire in temper.

He held his hand out for it but Connie held it away from him. Ignoring him, she began reading aloud:

Sorry if this is only a short letter but I'm on my way to Paris. I shan't be coming home, at least not for quite a while. It depends. I know how Dad feels, but that's not why I won't be coming home, at least not just yet. I need to tell you why.

While in France I spent a few leaves in Paris – no point in coming home. You understand why. In Paris I met a girl. Her name is Camille. She's Parisian and has been teaching me French. We got serious and I asked her if we might become engaged and she said yes, so I'll be living in France and we plan to get married in a couple of months' time. It'll be a quiet affair. She has no family so only a few friends of hers are invited, and as I say, I won't be home. So you don't have to concern yourself on that score, Dad. Maybe one day we'll come and visit or maybe Connie and her husband might like to come and see us.

Connie paused. She had written to him regularly while the war raged, telling him of her coming marriage and the birth of her daughter. But somehow she had felt it best to keep this exchange of correspondence secret from her parents for the time being. Her brief pause was met by utter silence, she bent her head to continue reading:

I know Dad won't care to read this but hope you'll read it out to him, Mum, whether he likes it or not. I don't hold him any grudges. The war's over. It's behind us and there's no use looking back into the past. It solves nothing. I know I was a fool. At least I admit it. But now I'm well and happy and hope all of you are too, including you, Dad.

Connie folded the letter and handed it back to her mother, not once taking her eyes off her father.

She saw him slowly tap out the glowing tobacco from the bowl of his pipe into the fire, replacing the empty pipe on the mantelpiece, a sign that he was divorcing his mind from what he had heard.

Then just as slowly he retrieved the pipe and, reaching for his old black leather tobacco pouch, began refilling the bowl, tamping it down as the others watched, taking a taper from the holder by the side of the fire, holding it to the flames until it ignited and applying it to the fresh tobacco.

Puffing steadily, he leaned back in his wooden armchair.

‘Well, I'm buggered,' he rumbled quietly and slowly, almost like someone in awe. ‘Our George gettin' married. Well, bugger me!'

In the process of writing
A Girl in Wartime
I got some valuable info from the War Office who were very obliging. I also gained a good deal of general information from a very heavy tome called
Chronicle of the Twentieth Century
which gives really valuable help on anything one needs to look up, including pieces from newspapers.

February, a raw Saturday afternoon – not a day to choose to go up to the West End, more one for huddling by a nice, warm fire, with her nose in the romance she was currently reading,
Drifting Petals
.

Today, though, Geraldine Glover had a purpose in mind. Time was running out, cold weather or no. In four weeks her older sister, Mavis, was getting married to Tom Calder. Three months had passed since the Armistice. Young men were still coming home, couples were making up for lost time and all a man wanted after maybe four years of hell in the trenches was to get married to the girl who had waited for him. Mavis and Tom wanted the same thing: to get married, settle down and forget the war.