A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Brenda, having eked out her housekeeping money for months and with a little from her fast-disappearing post office savings, had used the two pounds on a silver signet ring for him, engraved with his initials. It did her heart good to see how his face had lit up when he’d opened it on Saturday.

  But she had another present for him, one she’d kept back especially for today and which she had hoped to present him in glorious sunshine. Well, never mind. She could hardly wait to see his face light up even more.

  ‘Where’s Clifford?’ The first large drops of rain were moderating to a fine onslaught and Harry’s sister Iris was gazing towards the fairground. And there he was, her two children’s father, head bent, legging it back with one child in each hand, both protesting at being stopped from enjoying their candyfloss. He arrived out of breath from his run.

  ‘It was bloody sunshinin’ when we went there,’ he hailed as he came up to the little group.

  ‘We’re goin’ ’ome,’ his wife said at him. ‘Get them kids’ macs on.’ She turned to her mother as Clifford complied. ‘Bloody fiasco, this. Who’s idea was it anyway?’

  Brenda turned quickly away, busying herself with her shopping bag. She felt Harry’s arm tighten round her.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it anyway, Bren. You ’ave good ideas. Always do.’

  Looking across to the rest, she saw Mum smile at her, reassuring her of her own support. Her dad, Harry’s father and her uncle were all three standing around while Mum, her aunt, her mother-in-law and Harry’s sister busied themselves gathering up their stuff, umbrellas wavering, even though the rain had abated for a moment or two. She turned to Harry who was looking watchfully up at the sky and whispered in his ear the other part of her birthday present to him.

  ‘Harry, I’ve something to tell you. I was waiting till after yer birthday ter tell you. Sort of delayed birthday present I suppose. An’ I wanted ter be sure. I’m six weeks overdue. I’m going to have a baby.’

  Being as regular as clockwork with her periods, there could be no doubt about it.

  He had been quiet earlier on after she had declined his offer to take her on one of the rides. She felt he’d been sulking a little, at a loss to know why she should refuse. Now he’d realise why. It took a moment or two for the penny to drop as he turned his head to stare at her. Then he was gazing into her face, his eyes truly lighting up. ‘Bren . . . You mean . . .?’

  She nodded eagerly. The next thing she was in his arms; he let go of the umbrella and gave out a whoop to cause those about them to stop what they were doing and whirl round to stare at them as he planted a great big kiss on her lips. When they broke apart he became aware of their bewildered looks and he held her away from him as though displaying her to them.

  ‘Bren’s ’avin’ a baby! I’m gonna be a dad!’ he shouted, throwing his arms wide like someone coming to the end of a song then catching hold of her did a jig with her while the others crowded around to bestow their congratulations, the rain which had restarted being ignored.

  Brenda accepted it all with a heart that beat with sheer joy and pride and a deal of relief. No longer would she have to offer excuses for not being pregnant. Suddenly she was important, the first in her family to make Mum and Dad grandparents, and it felt wonderful.

  Chapter Five

  It felt so lovely being treated with respect, people enquiring after her, Harry telling her not to lift this, not to do too much of that, worrying about her doing any heavy housework. It didn’t occur to him that she did it anyway when he was at work. How otherwise did his shirts get cleaned, the linen get mangled, the shopping carted home, the bed pulled out from the wall for her to make?

  In fact he’d attempted to make the bed for her before going off to work just in case she strained herself. Make it indeed! Once was enough – he tucked in so much sheet at the bottom there wasn’t any left at the top to turn it down. As for the blankets, God alone knows what he’d done with them, but they were slipping off all night. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she let him continue then stripped the whole thing when he was at work and remade it. But few things last forever. Within a week he’d tired of being helpful and she wasn’t sorry. All that unmaking and remaking. So much easier doing it the once.

  For her in these early days of pregnancy, this summer of 1938 was proving a happy time despite the clouds hanging over the nation. To bring a baby into a world overshadowed by threat of war wasn’t something she’d have preferred but babies got born no matter what and she’d protect her own, with all her might. But it was scary and she couldn’t help being worried. Who wouldn’t be? Why did people have to destroy others’ peace of mind with their selfish need for power? Why couldn’t Hitler be content to rule as dictator of his own country Germany without annexing other countries?

  ‘Because ’e’s like all bloody dictators,’ Harry said. ‘Never satisfied.’

  What with Austria, then Czechoslovakia, they’d come so close to war with Germany. But that was all past thanks to Chamberlain’s negotiations with Hitler and Mussolini that Hitler be satisfied with what he now had.

  ‘Czechoslovakia ain’t that pleased,’ Harry observed darkly. ‘A bloody great chunk of their country sawn off it. All Chamberlain’s done is sell them Czechs down the river.’

  ‘So long as it stops us going to war,’ Brenda told him and relaxed along with the rest of the nation to continue life as before, except that the papers told of the government stepping up its defences, and parks still having trenches dug in them, and gas masks still being issued to school children.

  ‘I ’spect it’s just a precaution,’ Harry said as he too settled back utterly confident of his little island home remaining safe from Europe’s problems.

  With the threat of war diminished, his mind was mulling over a way of bringing in a bit more money. And God knows they’d need it with a baby on the way. He hadn’t told Brenda about it yet and he wondered constantly how she’d take it when he did. But it was a good idea now that it was certain there would be no war. Even more so the way she was going on about this place. Better not to speak too soon though. Let it bide awhile.

  Holding tightly to the railing, the iron cold to her touch, Brenda negotiated the slightly icy stairs with a cautiousness that bordered on trepidation. She was seven months now, carrying all in front and, so she felt, becoming top-heavy. The baby lay on her bladder, necessitating frequent visits to the toilet in the yard. It meant getting down these blessed stairs at least a dozen times a day. What if one day she slipped? The baby could be damaged. There was the rest of November, all December and part of January still to go; all the time she would be getting heavier and more cumbersome. What of these perishing steps when the January snows came? Bad enough in these early November frosts and morning fog, when the bottom of the stairs often became invisible.

  She could have used the po up in her flat. Maybe she would have to as a final resort when her time came even nearer. But it meant the thing had to be emptied, carried down to the lavatory in full view of the other flats over the shops. Nor would she have two hands free as she did now. Even easier then to slip on ice or snow and in her condition lose her footing.

  ‘Leave it ter me ter empty,’ had been Harry’s solution when she’d mentioned it. ‘I’ll do it for yer when I get ’ome from work. I ain’t finicky, yer know.’

  ‘I know, love,’ she’d said kindly. ‘But I can still manage.’

  ‘Don’t want yer slipping down them steps in your state.’

  But there was no way she could bring herself to leave it full for him to empty when he came home from work. It wasn’t nice, all dark orange and smelly after a day sitting there. Even she couldn’t have stood it. And she wouldn’t have wished that on Harry. Besides, it was embarrassing.

  Mrs Copeland, a woman in her fifties who lived above Patterson’s the sweet shop next door and in whom she confided a lot, said to empty the po down the sink, but that was out of the question. She did have standards. As a hairdresser she had become conditioned
to absolute cleanliness and, like her own family, she had never been uncouth.

  Mrs Copeland was a nice woman, if a little gross. She and her husband lived on their own now their four children were married. She was almost like a mother to Brenda when her own mum wasn’t around. ‘If yer in need of anyfink, you call over ter me. Just holler across the balcony. Me ole man, Les, can’t ’ear yer – goin’ a bit deaf – but there ain’t nuffink wrong wiv my ’earing. S’don’t ferget, anyfink yer want, luv, I’ll be over like a shot.’

  At least she had one good neighbour. Those on the other side above the chemist’s shop, she didn’t even know their names, only that they were husband and wife. They kept themselves to themselves. For all that, she had many times been aware of their kitchen curtain twitching, when they nosed at her making her way to the lavatory, the sly, sneaky pair.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hutton?’

  The voice to one side just below her, with her halfway down, startled her. Her hand gripping even tighter on the rail, she looked down to see Mr Stebbings, the proprietor of the second-hand bookshop over which she lived, gazing up at her. Immediately she was conscious of the fact that he might have been able to see up her dress through the iron latticework of the open stairs. But his eyes were trained solely on her face.

  ‘You be careful of these steps, Mrs Hutton. They’re a bit slippy this morning. It’s been a cold night.’ His remark was light but earnest as she nodded her appreciation of his concern.

  John Stebbings was a widower, who said his wife had died four years before – what of, Brenda didn’t know, but she knew they had no children. In fact he didn’t seem to have any relatives. She estimated him to be around thirty-six but he appeared to be a rather lonely man, a bookish man, quite learned she imagined. She wondered he’d not remarried, for though thin he was quite good-looking enough to have found himself someone after three years. Maybe he just preferred his own company and his books. That sort rarely made good husbands and who round here would be the sort he’d fancy?

  He had put down the empty cardboard box he’d been holding and came to the foot of the stairs. He now held out a hand for her to take as she felt for firm ground, the final step to the cracked and uneven concrete being steeper than the rest, a trap for an unwary foot or a moment’s lost concentration.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled as she gained her footing.

  He smiled and let go her hand. He had a nice smile. ‘You shouldn’t be going up and down these in your condition, if you don’t mind my saying. I can see it being even worse once winter arrives.’

  He was well spoken, so had most likely been born and bred in some other part of the country. She always found herself compelled to put on a better accent when she did speak to him, even though as a hairdresser she had taught herself to watch her diction. Customers liked you better that way. So many times then she had wished herself better brought up, not that she’d have wanted to change Mum and Dad for the world. But lately she’d let her speech slip a little, and mostly spoke as Harry spoke. It didn’t matter so much these days. Who did she have to impress?

  Better enunciation returned quite naturally as she answered him, wanting him only to go away. She didn’t relish him seeing her going into the ramshackle wooden toilet even though he must know what her errand was.

  ‘I expect I shall manage. We do, somehow. I’m OK now, thanks.’

  Her words were meant as a signal for him to leave her; he understood and, with a departing smile, went back to the box he’d put down under the stairs in order to help her and busied himself stacking it on a pile of others.

  Brenda hurried on across to the horrible little lavatory whose wooden door never properly closed but, warped with the years, gaped halfway up. She hated having to use it, was sure the secretive couple in the flat next door could see in by straining their necks. The place was a haven for dark cobwebs and was fearfully cold in winter. It never smelled nasty though. Mr Stebbings, a fastidious man, made sure of it always being clean. But how nice to have had the privacy of a toilet in her own home, she thought, lowering herself on to the wooden seat, uncomfortably aware that he used it too.

  She’d been on to Harry time and time again about moving. Unfairly, she rather blamed him deep down in her heart. When he found this place he should have given thought to the inevitability of having children. But then so should she have. But she’d been so overwhelmed, so excited and overjoyed at this home of their own, their first home, she too hadn’t thought of the inconvenience she now suffered. She shouldn’t blame him.

  Even so, Harry was being a real stick-in-the-mud. While she dreamed of a nice little house in a nice little neighbourhood, a few trees in the street and a little back garden full of flowers, he seemed quite content to stay where he was.

  As the seat warmed to her flesh, for she was taking ages to pass water with the baby sitting on all her tubes, Brenda mused upon that little house of her dreams. Two bedrooms, maybe three, a nice front room, a dining room and a nice-sized kitchen, and of course an indoor toilet, maybe even a bathroom. No flat-dwellers above shops to see her progress back and forth to one like this.

  Only yesterday she’d raised the subject again. ‘God knows how I’m going to manage here when the baby’s born, love. Bad enough now. If only we could find somewhere else to live. Somewhere really suitable – a little rented home. Couldn’t we put our names down on a waiting list for one of them council estates like Dagenham?’

  He had frowned. ‘’Ow can I afford that kind of rent, on my wages?’

  He was right of course. A warehouse packer’s pay wasn’t exactly a bank manager’s salary. She’d known that when they’d married. This was all they had been able to afford. It was no better now. And with a baby on the way, there would be an extra mouth to feed. No question now of her begging to go back to work to bring in extra cash. That old argument had gone out of the window the moment she’d fallen pregnant. It seemed they were stuck here.

  ‘In anuvver couple of months, Bren,’ he pointed out, ‘yer’ll be thin as a rake, back ter where yer was, an’ running up and down them stairs again like nobody’s business.’

  Again he was right. Really the baby wouldn’t be a problem, except of course when she had to take it shopping with her. That too had been solved with Mr Stebbings offering to let her keep the pram in his unused but dry shed under the outside staircase. And the flat’s tiny boxroom would do for the child, probably for years, even if they had another baby. She knew too that finding another place to live such as she’d have liked could land them in all sorts of debt. But it didn’t take away her dream of a proper home.

  Getting up awkwardly from the toilet, Brenda hoisted her knickers, tugged the hem of her dress straight and pulling the chain noisily enough to tell the whole neighbourhood, made her way back upstairs.

  The warehouse was huge, dwarfing those who worked there. It was noisy. In summer air flowed through its loading bays to everyone’s vast relief. In winter it was like the Arctic. In the packing bays men shivered despite working like demons folding the flat cardboard to make boxes, filling them with the precise number of required items, not one more, not one less, working against the clock on piecework, impatient vans waiting to take them away. They remained on their feet from eight in the morning to six at night – longer if needed so as to earn overtime, with ten minutes’ break in the morning, ten in the afternoon, and a half-hour for lunch. The klaxon blared to stop and start them, like bleeding automatons, so by the end of the day each man felt the weight of his labour.

  A scarf round his neck, Harry worked like mad along with the rest, counting the minutes to the sound of the klaxon.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust that bleeder no more’n I could throw ’im,’ resumed Peter Goodings from an earlier conversation touching on Czechoslovakia, broken off on starting work. World affairs constituted Pete’s pet subject. ‘I know it’s all gorn quiet out there, but you mark my words, that bugger Adolf ’Itler ain’t gonna let it rest. He ain’t gonna rest till t
hem Nazis is in power over the ’ole of Europe. There’s ’im massing ’is troops while we in this country sod abart puttin’ up a few anti-aircraft balloons an’ diggin’ ’oles in parks.’

  ‘There ain’t gonna be no war,’ Harry told him as they stood side by side in the men’s toilets during their ten-minute break. He turned to Fred Banes next to him. ‘What d’you fink?’

  The man shrugged and stepping back from the yellow-stained urinal gutter, buttoned up the fly of his worn trousers. ‘Still looks grim ter me.’

  ‘Yer fink so?’

  ‘Wha’ else?’

  ‘Well, ’Itler ain’t done nothink else since Chamberlain’s chat wiv ’im,’ Harry said as they moved away from the urinals.

  Pete turned on him. ‘What yer mean, he ain’t done nuffink else? He’d bloody nigh walked all over Czechoslovakia. Has ’e stopped at Sudetenland what understandably ’ad nearly all Germans livin’ in it, like ’e promised that bloody soppy Chamberlain? No. He’s gorn straight on, takin’ in all the non-German parts too. That’s ’ow much ’e can be trusted. Bloody daft, we are.’

  ‘Germany and France ’ave signed a pact on the inviolability of their present frontiers,’ Harry pointed out, quoting yesterday’s News Chronicle, his favourite paper, almost word for word.

  Peter chortled as the klaxon to resume work sounded. ‘More bits of paper. Meanin’less. You mark my words, we’re headed fer war, and we ain’t even ready. Bloody stupid country. Bloody stupid government. Next year this bloody country’ll be at war, you mark my words.’

  Harry remained unconvinced. Things had settled down despite Pete’s gloomy predictions. Czechoslovakia and its troubles were far, far away in Central Europe, nothing to do with Britain apart from puny sabre-rattling. When the threat of war had first loomed, he’d hastily shelved what he’d seen as his brilliant idea to bring in some extra money so that eventually Brenda might get her little house. But since ‘Peace In Our Time’ had been seen to be working, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t go ahead with his idea – in fact he had begun to feel very excited about it.