Authors: Maggie Ford
But all the imagination in the world could never compensate for the real thing. She and Edie spent most Saturday nights being whirled around a dance floor by Uniformed worthies, one of them invariably whispering a certain invitation in her ear. It was a source of pride to her that she resisted, loyal still to her married state. But sometimes she envied Edie leaving with a partner’s arm around her waist. ‘You be orlright goin’ ’ome without me?’
She’d nod and watch her leave then go and sit at the side of the hall knowing that the next partner – there always was one – asking her to go for a walk with him, the question heavy with innuendo, would get a short answer. But oh, how she envied Edie.
Once, hurrying to catch her bus home, she’d passed a couple hidden in a dark doorway. In the blackout she would have missed them but for a girlish giggle she recognised as Edie’s. She heard the deep drawl of a GI and knew that tomorrow Edie would be displaying a fancy bar of toilet soap, or a bar of chocolate or a pair of nylons, perhaps even, with a brash flourish, bring out a packet of US government-issue contraceptives to shock her friend.
‘It’s safe as ’ouses, Sue, an’ what ’arm are yer doing, keepin’ the poor things ’appy, far away from ’ome, making yerself feel better in the bargain?’
But she couldn’t do that. What if she did fall by accident? How would she ever face Matthew’s parents? Yet it had been so long since a man’s hand had touched her, really touched her. Her whole body ached at the thought of it. It was now August. August 1943, seven months since she’d heard Matthew had been made a prisoner of war; almost two years since she had last seen him; at times she couldn’t remember his face unless she looked at a photo of him first; Mattie’s first birthday had come and gone two weeks ago and he had never seen her. She often thought nowadays of herself and Mattie, never herself, Matthew and Mattie.
‘I wish I had your courage,’ she said to Edie on the Monday morning, knowing Edie had throughly enjoyed her Saturday night by evidence of yet another handful of Hershey bars and a pair of nylons.
Edie ran the gauzy stockings through her fingers. ‘Can’t get these in this country,’ she tempted.
It wasn’t the gifts American boys could dish out that made Susan squirm at Edie’s efforts to tempt but the thought of someone’s arms around her. It was a terrible thought and made her want to cry. Her first joy at the news of Matthew having been traced had long since dwindled. She had been allowed to send him a message if that was what it could be called. Fifteen words on a form, all the Japanese permitted. Whether Matthew received it who was to say? There had been no reply. It felt for all the world as though her message had been written to a ghost. She had never dared voice those sentiments to his mother, who had sent off her own forlorn fifteen words of encouragement and love that day. She would have been appalled. How much more appalled would she be were she to know how his wife yearned for the feel of a man’s hand fondling her even though it wasn’t her husband’s. No, she couldn’t.
All very well for Edie in the arms of some frustrated warrior far from home. Edie had changed a lot this year, voiced a different slant on her husband these days.
‘Two years away – and God knows ’ow many more years. I mean, the man’s stuck out in the Falklands. When’re they goin’ ter give ’im leave from there? Meanwhile I could go barmy waiting fer ’im ter come ’ome and make love.’
‘But don’t you feel some loyalty to him?’ Susan asked and received a sceptical chuckle as Edie sorted out men’s small from men’s large, ready for despatching.
‘’Ow do I know ’e’s not ’aving it off with some Falklands floozie? I do know ’e ’ad a rovin’ eye, even when I first married ’im. It didn’t matter then, I was there to keep my eye on ’im. But now, miles away. Why shouldn’t I ’ave a bit of pleasure too? You must feel the need too, Sue? Keepin’ yerself like a nun – it ain’t natural. What the ole man don’t know won’t ’urt ’im. You ain’t gonna confess all when ’e comes marchin’ ’home, are yer? Fer God’s sake, Sue, you’ll be a physical wreck by the time ’e does if yer don’t let off a bit of steam now and again.’
Frustration had its own way of dealing with things. Alone in her room, her senses keened from reading cheap romances about larger-than-life heroines and handsome forceful heroes, she would furtively turn the key of her door, quietly so no one would hear it. Secure behind the lock, she would slip out of her clothes and survey herself before the mirror, run her hands slowly, slowly, over her body, gently following the curve of her small breasts, still firm; over her flat stomach that child-bearing had not marred at all. Closing her eyes she would imagine her fingers to be those of Matthew, tenderly exploring, growing urgent until her disquietened senses shrieked for relief. Then, throbbing from the lack of fulfilment she would fling herself on to her bed to squirm and weep in self-torment. How tempting it would be at these moments to follow Edie’s example, to find herself someone to fondle her, fulfil this emptiness inside her – surely more honest than this pathetic self-pleasure that was no pleasure at all and left only misery in its wake.
‘I wish I knew if Matthew was all right,’ she confided in Emma. ‘It could be years before I ever know. I’m so lonely.’
‘At least yer’ve got Mattie,’ Emma said, busily darning one of her Geoffrey’s socks. He’d gone away for a day or two as usual.
‘You have her most of the time these days,’ Susan said.
Emma looked up sharply. ‘It’s you wot asked me ter look after ’er. You goin’ ter work an’ all. I’m not keepin’ ’er away from yer.’
‘I know. I didn’t mean anything.’ She was glad of Emma’s help. She wasn’t cut out to be a mother, she didn’t think, driven to distraction when Mattie got herself into a temper, shrieking at the top of her voice. A child’s shriek could be like a hot iron searing right through a person’s eardrum. Smacking only made things worse. Many times Susan had been forced out of sheer frustration to resort to a smack on her legs, finally having to rush her down to Emma to pacify her. Emma was a natural mother. At times Susan felt quite envious of her.
‘I’m just a bit down, I suppose,’ she excused herself now. ‘I hope she don’t play you up too much.’
‘Good Lord, no. She’s a real dear. ’Cos, the only fing is we ’ave ter put everyfink up out of ’er reach now she’s ’oisting ’erself up on ’er feet. Got ’er little ’ands inter everyfink. Real explorin’ character she is. Quick. An’ if she don’t get wot she wants, gets a real tantrum on ’er. Strong-minded. It’s good. She probably takes after ’er dad. You’re more of a pliable person, you are. She don’t look as if she’s gonna be. She ain’t gonna be moved from wot she wants in life.’
‘Sounds like she takes after Matthew’s mother. Nothing can move her either.’ She didn’t say it in bitterness, just stated what was the truth. Mrs Ward had never deviated from the certainty that Matthew would come home, even though her poor little message hadn’t been answered; had not deviated from continually telling Susan that she must be strong and pray for him to come home and not to give way to ‘any temptation that may come along’. Such instructions made Susan shudder. What did the woman know of the feelings she harboured? Probably nothing. She was merely wise to such things, being older and having seen and learned more, for all her primness.
‘I miss Matthew so much,’ she said in an effort to evade thoughts of those temptations Mrs Ward hinted at with more emphasis than Susan cared to acknowledge. ‘I know Geoffrey’s not in the forces but he’s away a lot too. Don’t you miss
him
?’
‘Miss ’im!’ Emma put away the sock she had darned and picked up another, studying the dangerously thin place on the heel that next week would become a hole. ‘I’m glad to see the back of him sometimes.’
Shocked, Susan stared at her. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Emma gave a good-tempered chuckle. ‘So will you when he’s bin home fer a few years. Most wives do. Not nasty-like. But it’s nice ter ’ave ’em out of the way occasionally and get on wiv yer own fings. Before ’e ’ad this job of ’is, it was, “Wot yer goin’ out fer? ’Ow long’ll yer be? I don’t feel like goin’ ter the pictures ternight.” So I couldn’t go either, could I? Not on me own an’ leave ’im ’ere on ’is own. Married people don’t do that. An’ when yer spend all day mendin’ ’is socks an ’ironing ’is shirts, an’ bringin’ up ’is kids, an’ gettin’ ’is breakfasts and dinners, an’ makin’ ’is sandwiches, an’ bein’ woken up out of a deep sleep because ’e wants a bit of the other … well, yer’ve had enough, ain’t yer, an’ yer want a bit of time to yerself. Miss ’im? I think this job ’e’s got ’as bin a godsend. I know ’e’s safe, not overseas somewhere in the fick of it all. But Geoff’s the limit sometimes – expecting me ter be runnin’ after ’im. The least sneeze and I’m ’is nursemaid. Men!’
Her darning needle flew fast but without ill will. ‘Babies, most of ’em. I expect they’re brave enough amongst themselves, but get near their wives an’ they’re little babies, straight they are. I’m a bloomin’ muvver to Geoff.’
She stopped to tap the hand of her youngest trying to fish into her workbasket for the glass marbles that always got in there. ‘Yer’ll prick yer fingers, yer silly little bugger! I’ll get ’em out for yer after I’ve done this. Jus’ wait!’ She directed another laugh towards Susan watching. ‘Even at that age. You ’ave ter fink for ’em. Mind, I don’t mind Geoff wantin’ his rights. I’d love ter ’ave a little daughter, just like your’n, it’s just ’im waking me up out of a sleep fer it …’ Another tolerant laugh. ‘My mum use ter say, “Before yer married yer could feel yer could eat it. After yer married, yer wish you ’ad!” ’
‘I hope I never feel like that,’ Susan said fervently.
‘You will, luv. You will. Anyway I’ve got my little remedy – just tell ’im I’m out of bounds fer a week. I’ve told ’im, if ’e wants more’n I can give ’im, ’e can find it wiv a bit of skirt on ’is travels.’
She glanced up at the domed clock on the mantelshelf and sighed, ignoring Susan’s look of horror as she put the rest of her husband’s socks back into the workbasket to finish off later. ‘Come on, you kids, time fer bed. Yer’ve got school in the mornin’.’ Mattie, just a baby, had been put to bed ages ago. Emma’s edict was met with a howl from the younger two, because Malcolm was still out playing.
‘It’s still light, Mum.’
‘This time of year, it’s always light. It’s still eight o’clock and time fer bed.’
‘Malc’s not bin called in yet.’
‘’E will be. Soon as you two are up them stairs. Come on now.’ She threw Susan an amused backward glance as she ushered them from the room in front of her. ‘I was only jokin’, Sue. My Geoff’d never go off wiv anuvver woman. ’E knows only too well where ’is bread is buttered, don’ you worry.’
In the flimsy bamboo and attap construction they called the hospital, Matthew eased his way between the low platforms of sick men, some still as death, some tossing and turning in delirium, some bloated by beri-beri or calling for a pan as they strained to the flux of dysentery, or waited to have tropical leg ulcers attended to.
Bob lay at the far end, a cadaverous figure whose hair had mostly fallen out to leave just a few dry tufts. His dull eyes glowed in the depths of their sockets and his lips parted in a grin at Matthew’s approach.
‘Hi.’ He was unable to say more.
‘Hi,’ Matthew returned. ‘How goes it?’
The thin shoulders hitched a fraction. ‘Fine,’ croaked the voice.
Kneeling beside him, Matthew recounted the day’s news as he gave him a drink and then the soup he’d concocted from rice and a tiny bit of dried fish, but Bob turned away after the first mouthful, appetite destroyed.
‘Cream of asparagus,’ Matthew made the pathetic joke, ‘straight from Harrods.’
But Bob’s body had doubled up in pain, and Matthew held the panshaped piece of tin beneath his pal as the bowels evacuated the black blood-stained fluid. He felt helpless. How Bob had stayed alive for so long was beyond him. Sheer will-power sustained him and nothing else, for he no longer ate.
There were no drugs and food was his only chance. But rice alone was not food enough. For his friend, Matthew stole, but not well. Bob had always been better at it than he, his cheerful slant on life serving him well in the face of the anger of their conquerors if caught. Even for them food was not all that forthcoming and understandably they were apt to become overwrought by light-fingered prisoners purloining the tiniest portion of what small comforts they did receive. But stealing was a necessary part of survival. Bartering what inedibles he stole called for patience, and again Bob’s stolid approach to life had allowed him to stand the strain of it and the disappointment that often followed. Wily villagers knew they had the edge on British POWs with half a mind on prowling guards. The Nippon cigarettes or stolen truck spares they’d risked their lives for would reap a couple of tiny eggs or a pomelo or two or a scrap of dried fish. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The watery dawn coming up, Matthew turned his face towards camp with a lighter heart than usual. Under his loincloth hung half a tiny chicken, a bit high but edible. It made him walk oddly but the gait of anyone with a raw scrotum was easily ignored. Once the chicken was made into a soup, Bob must surely find the appetite to take a few mouthfuls.
The night shift had been unusually short. Yamagata, their shoko, had miscalculated the quota and his pleasure at their apparently superhuman efforts to reach the target he’d set showed on his round face, his tone almost pleasant as he’d called out
‘Yoroshii,’
which meant things were good. Or men finish.
With the railway growing apace it was a long march back to camp. By the time they reached it, Yamagata would have eaten and been in the arms of Morpheus. It was a surprise then to see him coming back to meet them, his short arms flailing like stubby windmill sails, his face animated. He had obviously discovered his error in judging his quota and intended putting it to rights; no doubt he’d been hauled over the coals himself for the mistake. But instead of marching the men back to the railway, he took them down another narrow path into the jungle to arrive at another camp.
It was empty. It didn’t take long to discover why. Every one of the native labourers there was dead. Ordered to burn every corpse, a strong suspicion grew that they were disposing of cholera victims and Matthew thought that no Japanese could ever have seen men work faster. Two hours later they were marching back to their own camp, a very sober, thoughtful bunch. But worse was to come. In their absence three British POWs had died of something also strongly resembling cholera.