Authors: Janette Jenkins
‘I wouldn’t want my Tom getting into any trouble,’ said Lizzie.
Ada swallowed a laugh. ‘Court-martialled for wearing bright blue,’ she said. ‘He’d never hear the last of it.’
Their needles began clicking. Beatrice knew how to knit, but she couldn’t take her eyes from what she was doing, unlike the other women who could have done it blindfold, apart from Lizzie who appeared to be struggling.
‘Those three young lads from the quarry are dead,’ said Madge. ‘It was in the paper last night.’
‘They can’t have been old enough?’ said Lizzie. ‘Can they?’
‘Well, it’s too late now, whatever their age, they won’t be getting any older.’
‘How’s your Frank’s back?’ said Ada. ‘Have you heard?’
Madge grimaced, but then she smiled into her wool pile. ‘He knows how to suffer in silence,’ she said. ‘That’s his trouble. He doesn’t want to let all the lads down.’
‘That’s your Frank all right,’ said Ada. ‘He always was a martyr to the cause.’
Their needles filled the room with their hollow clicking sound. Madge was humming. Lizzie was tapping feet.
‘By the way,’ said Ada suddenly, ‘did you find that place on the map?’
Beatrice looked up. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t find it anywhere.’
‘What place?’ said Madge.
‘In Jim’s wallet there was a scrap of paper with some French words on it. It was where they were fighting. I wanted to see it on a map. I showed it to Beatrice. Are you sure it wasn’t there?’
‘Positive.’
‘Strange,’ said Ada.
‘I have a map of all the battlefields,’ said Madge. ‘I got it free with the
Daily Express
.’
‘Solange Devaux,’ said Ada.
‘What about her?’ said Madge.
‘That’s the place.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s a name,’ she said. ‘Solange is a French name. I’ve seen it before. In a book. Or was it in an operetta? I used to go all the time with our Vi before she moved to Blackburn Road.’
‘It’s a place name,’ said Ada.
‘It’s a girl’s name,’ said Madge.
‘Since when have you been the expert in French?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Is that right?’ she asked Beatrice. ‘Is Solange really a French girl’s name?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Beatrice, dropping another stitch. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Ada, looking pale. ‘You seemed so sure it was a place. You agreed with me.’
‘I thought it was a place.’
‘Well, it’s not,’ said Madge. ‘I could have told you that, with or without my free map of the battlefields.’
‘Why did Jim have the name of a French girl in his wallet?’ said Ada, putting down her knitting. ‘Why would he?’
The women said nothing, because they didn’t know what to say. Their needles were growing hotter in their fingers. The hard wool was scratching their skin.
‘It’ll be something and nothing,’ said Lizzie.
‘Of course it will,’ said Madge.
But Ada could already smell her cologne, and by the time the women had gone, their fingers aching, their heads ringing with the
French
name they’d never heard of, she could picture Solange Devaux; she could see her tiny pinched-in waist, her eyes that were deep and blue, and her small oval face that resembled Beatrice Crane’s. How could he not fall in love with her?
Ada paced up and down. She held the piece of paper to her nose, to the light, tracing her fingertip over the words as if they might turn into an image, or into a voice that would speak to her in lilting broken English. She looked at herself in the mirror, her enormous eyes, she supposed, took up too much of her long narrow face, and then there were the tired-looking sockets, and her sharp (slightly crooked) nose. Ada wasn’t naive, she’d heard stories, she’d heard the soldiers home on leave, standing around town, lighting cigarettes and boasting of their conquests. ‘What’s a bloke to do when it’s offered on a plate?’ They were a long way from home. Who would ever know?
‘Did you know?’ she asked Beatrice.
‘No.’
‘Will you write and ask your husband?’
‘Ask him?’
‘If he knows who this woman is. What was she to Jim? Do they all use prostitutes?’ she said, closing her eyes as the word came out of her mouth.
Beatrice felt cold. She said nothing.
‘If you don’t write to him,’ said Ada, ‘I will.’
Lizzie couldn’t sleep. She could hear the wind outside. She could see Tom in the trenches. A crunching of snow. Did he need a scarf? Or did he have his own French girl to keep him warm? Was he with her now? Rest and recuperation. That’s what Jonathan had said. Perhaps he was in a small hotel. Like the one they had stayed in on their honeymoon, two shy youngsters, who had never spent a night away from home, locked nervously together in Room 17.
Madge didn’t go to bed. The windows were rattling. She took her limp eiderdown and wrapped herself in it, lying on the sofa. The clock ticked loudly, so she got up and wrapped a cushion round it. Looking at the empty grate, she could see another fire burning and a girl with pliant hands was rubbing Frank’s back, while he babbled on about their stinking bouillabaisse. Who had told him about bouillabaisse
anyway
? When had he eaten fish broth? Where? Who with? And why had he been so anxious to get back to the front? He wasn’t well enough. He wasn’t ready for it. His mind was somewhere else. It was melting.
Beatrice had already written to Jonathan. As soon as she’d seen the name in Jim’s battered wallet, she’d written to ask him what to do. Can I tell her? Can’t you break your promise? It would be better for her. Surely you can see that? But Jonathan hadn’t replied and lying in bed she could hear his voice saying,
You must never tell, you must always keep your promise
.
The women watched the sky. The clouds were thin and grey.
‘She must know something,’ said Ada.
‘Why must she?’ said Lizzie. ‘Do you think she’s heard from Jonathan?’
‘Probably. Captains send letters all the time. They’ve nothing else to do.’
‘Do you think she’d tell us?’ said Madge. ‘About those Frenchwomen?’
‘No,’ said Ada. ‘She’d keep her mouth shut.’
‘Why?’ said Lizzie.
‘Because captains and sergeants encourage it,’ said Ada. ‘Don’t look so shocked, because that’s what I’ve heard. The men need to – well, you know … The army pay the women a wage. Every trench has its brothel.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Lizzie.
‘It’s true all right,’ said Madge. ‘And I’ve a feeling my Frank would know his way there in the dark.’
‘Like my Jim.’
‘But not my Tom,’ said Lizzie. ‘He wouldn’t.’
‘He would,’ they said in unison.
‘You might as well face it,’ said Madge. ‘He’d be in there like a shot. They all would.’
It snowed for a week. The ground turned to stone and the reservoir had shards of ice floating on the surface like broken stepping stones.
Lizzie received a postcard from Tom. The women studied it, the picture, a row of khaki-clad soldiers on parade shouting, ‘
Are we
downhearted
? No! No! No!
’ The words on the back.
Thanks for your letters. Hello, Martha. Hello, Harry. Hope you’re being good for your mam. Cold here. Everything white. See you all soon, I hope. Your loving husband, Tom x
.
‘He must be cold,’ said Lizzie.
‘He doesn’t say much,’ said Madge.
‘Your loving husband?’ said Ada. ‘Why does he have to remind you?’
‘He doesn’t. Does he?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Don’t be cruel,’ said Madge.
‘What do we know about Beatrice?’ said Ada.
‘She’s American,’ said Lizzie.
‘She’s a good-looking American,’ said Madge. ‘And don’t look at me like that, because you can’t say that she isn’t.’
‘She used to sell postcards,’ said Lizzie.
‘And she ate out all the time,’ said Ada. ‘Funny. My niece works at Bradshaw’s in town selling cards and paper and such, and all she has for her dinner is a bit of bread and dripping and she’s happy with it.’
‘But she isn’t an American,’ said Lizzie, biting the edge of her fingernail. ‘Americans are different.’
‘And don’t we know it,’ said Ada. ‘She got married in a town hall. Who on earth would want to do that?’
‘She might have been married before,’ said Madge.
‘Now, there’s a thought.’ Ada could picture Beatrice with a string of husbands, and all of them still living.
‘She met Jonathan when he bought some of her cards,’ said Lizzie. ‘I remember that. I thought it was romantic.’
‘It was quick,’ said Ada. ‘That’s what it was.’
‘But I do like Jonathan,’ said Madge. ‘I’ve always like him.’
‘Why are we talking about Beatrice?’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s Tom I’m bothered about. Tom and those French girls.’
‘But she might know about it,’ said Madge. ‘I’ll bet Jonathan tells her everything.’
‘Then let’s ask her,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s eating me up. I want to know. We should just go over there and ask her.’
‘No,’ said Ada. ‘We’ll wait a while. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll dig around and wait.’
*
Beatrice liked knitting. The feel of the wool through her fingers. The way it turned into something else. When she was knitting she had to concentrate, so it was hard to think of anything. She’d knitted as a child, scarves for her and Elijah, a pair of gloves that hadn’t quite worked, the fingers were too thin, and they wouldn’t go in, however hard you pushed.
‘We should give ourselves a name,’ said Lizzie. ‘We could be The Anglezarke Army, or The Warrior Ladies, what do you think?’
Madge rolled her eyes. ‘We don’t need a name,’ she said. ‘How many times have I said this? Why do we need a name?’
‘Was it cold in New York?’ said Ada, looking up from her muffler. ‘When you were selling your postcards, did you ever freeze?’
Beatrice stopped. ‘We closed the open stall in the winter,’ she said. ‘We went inside, though there were never many visitors after fall.’
‘You closed the stall?’ said Ada. ‘Was it yours to close?’
‘Of course not. I just worked behind the counter, but I liked the work all right, I liked meeting people from all walks of life.’
‘Like Jonathan,’ said Ada.
‘Yes,’ said Madge. ‘You were lucky there.’
‘Was it a very short engagement?’ said Lizzie.
‘Long enough.’
‘So you went and booked the town hall?’ said Madge.
‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘You see, Jonathan had to get back here to work, we didn’t have time for anything grander.’
‘What was it like?’ said Lizzie.
‘The town hall? We had a lovely big room. We filled it with hothouse flowers and a friend of ours played the piano. It was a very special day.’
‘So, why not a church?’ said Ada.
‘It would have taken too long,’ Beatrice told her. ‘Like I said, we just didn’t have the time.’
Lizzie thought about her own wedding day. The showers of rice and rain. Her father’s arm trembling as he walked her up the aisle.
‘Did your family get to meet him?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I don’t have much of a family. No one to speak of. Haven’t I told you this already? My father died in a house fire. My brother went to Chicago.’
‘That’s right,’ said Madge, nodding. ‘So he did.’
The snow began to fall. The windows were clogged with it. Beatrice talked with dry lips about her father’s collections of birds. She didn’t mind. They didn’t seem real any more.
‘The house was full of them. Beaks, claws, feathers. Their dusty eyes were everywhere.’
Lizzie shivered. She could almost see them. They were cocking their heads and screaming at her, like the rooks at the top of the farm. She started crying – it seemed she was always crying these days. She was thinking of Tom, his shotgun over his shoulder, bringing home a pheasant. The fields were full of them.
‘It doesn’t seem the same without Jonathan,’ said Ada. ‘This house. Does it feel too big without him?’
‘It feels empty in the mornings,’ said Beatrice. ‘All that hustle and bustle, and all that English tea.’
‘China,’ said Madge. ‘The tea comes from China.’
‘Or Ceylon,’ said Lizzie. ‘It sometimes comes from there.’
‘Don’t you drink tea in America?’ said Madge. ‘What do you drink if you don’t drink tea?’
‘I like coffee,’ said Beatrice. ‘Good, strong coffee.’
‘Well,’ said Ada. ‘You might speak English and have the same coloured skin and everything, but it’s the little things that turn you into a foreigner.’
The snow kept falling. Beatrice waited for her letter, but even if he’d written, the postman was trapped at the top of the lane.
‘Have you heard from him yet?’ said Ada.
Beatrice shook her head.
‘Did he ever mention the name Solange?’
‘I’ve never heard that name before.’
‘Name? So you knew it was a name?’
‘A place,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a place.’
‘Did he tell you anything else? Did he say anything about the brothel?’
‘Brothel? No, of course not. He never mentioned such a thing.’
‘I just want to know,’ said Ada. ‘I don’t want you to put my mind at rest, it’s too late for that; I’d rather know the truth.’
‘Sure you do, and of course I understand,’ said Beatrice, ‘but perhaps it isn’t what you think at all? This woman could be anyone. She could be someone’s mother, a nurse, anyone.’
‘A mother?’ said Ada. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
A few days later, the postman appeared, his face burnt crimson, his shoulders bent tight against the wind. Beatrice opened the letters in order. A bank statement. A postcard from Jeffrey. The letter from Jonathan. A coal bill.
Jeffrey had been injured. He was writing from a field hospital in Normandy. ‘
It’s my right arm, so a nurse is writing this! I am cheerful, and not in any pain. The cold is worse than anything. The nurses keep our spirits up. Best wishes to you all, and hope to see you soon, from Jeffrey
.’
She felt sick. She opened Jonathan’s letter. That handwriting. It made her stomach lurch.
My Dearest Beatrice,
I had no idea what was contained in Jim’s effects, but I do know this. Just days before he died, I made a solemn promise not to tell a soul about Solange Devaux, especially not to Ada, and although I had already broken the promise by talking to you, I renewed it there and then, and there is no way on earth I would like any of it divulged, and especially not
to
Ada!