A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  It was said families earning less than two hundred and fifty pounds a year, roughly four pounds seven and six a week, got one free, which meant everyone around here. For many it would have been nice to see three quid a week, let alone eighty-seven and six.

  People with no garden could get Morrison shelters for indoors, which might mean one for him and Brenda. They were a sort of steel table-like structure to crawl under in an air raid. Though the table his nan had given them for a wedding present was sturdy enough. Other than that brick communal shelters were being built. It all sounded so ominous, yet people continued to go about their business as if there was no thought of war whatsoever.

  What worried him was him being in the Territorial Army. At night he lay awake stewing over how Brenda and the baby would get on if he was called up, and he would be. Well-trained and ready, they’d be the first to be inducted into the regulars. He’d been a sodding fool to sign up, but how could he admit that and not lose pride? Instead he vented his fear in rages against the nation in general.

  ‘Don’t understand this bloody country!’ he burst out, crumpling his evening paper down on his lap. ‘It says ’ere, Germany’s launched a thirty-five thousand ton battleship called the Bismarck. If that ain’t planning fer war, I don’t know what is. The countries what they’ve already walked into are bloody landlocked, so why double a U-boat fleet and launch a sodding great battleship if they don’t intend war at sea and us a sea-going nation? It all points ter one fing. An’ there’s us, our heads in the sand, muckin’ abart wiv a British Industries Fair and some bloody washtub what does its own washin’, as if that’s a bit of news we’re goin’ ter be interested in!’

  Brenda went on placing his dinner on the table before feeding the baby. She too was scared. She too visualised Harry being swept up in the first consignment of men. It could be the trenches in France all over again, with men used as no more than cannon fodder, being shot to bits or dying of gas poisoning.

  She shivered, thoughts flying to the poison gas, her eyes turning to little Adele in her crib beginning to get restive for her evening feed.

  ‘They’ve give us all gas masks and they’re putting up them barrage balloons,’ Brenda murmured. Wasn’t that proof that a war wouldn’t be just in France but that they were expecting civilians to be slaughtered too? There had been raids on London during the last war, and ordinary people had got killed. Since then planes had become much more efficient and high-powered. They could spray the population with gas as well as drop bombs. The gas masks being distributed said as much.

  Again she shivered. The thought of getting down those stairs, carrying little Addie, hurrying through the streets to the nearest shelter while bombs fell all around, spreading death and destruction, didn’t bear thinking about, and again she felt bitterness rise against the place they lived in – not only inconvenient but now full of danger. But like many people, while frightened and concerned about war, there remained a little voice inside her head that said it wouldn’t happen, it was just that precautions had to be taken, just in case, and that Chamberlain could be relied upon to avoid it this time as he had last year. She said so and saw Harry’s wan smile which didn’t help.

  It seemed his belief in approaching war was being proved right as the country’s confidence in salvation, often with a tinge of desperation, began to wither. On the fifteenth of March newspaper headlines and the news on the wireless blared of Hitler having entered Prague against all declaration that he had no more territorial interest in Europe.

  With no Germans residing there as his excuse to enter Prague, there could be no more doubts: the shadow of war hung over everyone as by the end of March those pale eyes trained themselves on the Polish border. Britain and France had no option now but to pledge to defend that country against any attack.

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ Brenda moaned, as they listened to the news, ‘What are we going to do?’ But Harry had no answer for her.

  Mrs Hutton watched the departure of her son and his little family, Brenda pushing the pram, while he kept one hand lightly touching the handle as though he was helping push. How he could still be so considerate after the way she’d bullied him into doing what he’d done, Irene Hutton couldn’t believe as she noted the fond gesture. Acknowledging their final wave when they got to the end of the road, she came in and closed the door, going into the living room where Sidney sat with her other son and his wife who had also spent Sunday afternoon here.

  Having no family yet, Bob and Daphne had no need to go home so early to put a baby to bed. Irene sniffed back the pang of sadness at the loss of the miscarried baby girl. Almost a year ago and it still upset her.

  Daphne leapt up as she came back into the room. ‘I’ll help you clear the tea things.’ She was a good girl, always eager to help. Not like Harry’s wife who hadn’t even offered, merely sat cuddling the baby as if it were her only calling in life. She bet it was Harry who washed up their dirty plates while she mewed over the child.

  Waving her helper back, she sat on the settee next to Bob and took a glance around her front room, warmed by a bright fire and the results of her skills in re-covering the ancient three-piece suite, together with cushions and embroidered headrests. On a similarly re-covered high-seated fireside chair in one corner out of any draughts sat her mother, cushions propped all around her.

  ‘I ain’t rushing about clearing away the very second the others ’ave gone,’ she announced to all, apart from her mother who had fallen asleep. ‘But I’m worried about Harry. He should never of joined them Territorials.’

  Sid took his pipe from his mouth. ‘It’s up to ’im. He wanted ter do it.’

  ‘And I know why.’ Her tone took on an edge. ‘It’s ’er I blame, naggin’ ’im into it with ’er wanting ter get a posh ’ouse out in one of them council estates. Taking ’im right away from ’is family.’

  ‘And ’ers.’

  Irene gave him a withering look which silenced him and he went back to comfortably puffing his pipe and gazing into the fire while she carried on as though he had never interrupted.

  ‘Too many ’igh an’ mighty ideas, that one. Nice cosy little place she’s got, all on Harry’s efforts, not ’ers, and still she ain’t satisfied.’

  ‘They’ve got a baby now,’ put in Bob, keeping his eyes averted from his wife who looked at him with sharp appeal. ‘Not much room for a baby.’

  ‘They’ve got that boxroom.’

  ‘That’s all it is, Mum.’ He shifted uncomfortably, feeling Daphne’s eyes on him bidding him to drop the subject of babies. ‘Six by five, innit?’

  ‘It’s big enough fer a cot.’

  ‘And when it grows? A girl ’as ter ’ave a chest of drawers and a mirror and a wardrobe. There’s no room there.’

  ‘Then’ll be the time ter find somethink bigger. But now? With a war coming on?’

  ‘There ain’t going to be a war, Mum,’ Daphne put in hurriedly. A war would take Bob from her, and she with no children.

  Before the fire, Sid’s chest rumbled with phlegm. Hawking it up he spat neatly into the fire. Irene drew in a disgusted breath as the thick liquid sizzled briefly and disappeared amid the hot coals.

  He worked in a wood yard and sawmill just by the Thames. Breathing in sawdust all day, he was bound to be troubled by phlegm, but there was no need to spit it into the fire in company, especially in Daphne’s company. Her parents were quite comfortable, had a nice house in Hackney which put Irene’s to shame. She bridled at having them come here and seeing what she had. Even with Daphne she would polish and dust and examine for any little thing out of place if she and Bob were due to visit.

  Daphne kept her own little rented flat off Roman Road as bright as a new pin. Fastidious, she was, you could eat off her floor. And now, Sid spitting into the fire, right in front of the girl.

  ‘Fer God’s sake, Sid, not in company!’ she couldn’t help bursting out, shamed. But he wasn’t listening.

  ‘I ’ate ter say it, Daph, love.’ Daphne loathe
d the shortening of her name but he still did it. ‘I don’t fink we’ll get away wiv it this time, not like last year. This time poor old Chamberlain ain’t got no legs ter stand on. As far as I can see, ’e should never of ’ad that meetin’ with Adolf ’Itler. We’d of stopped that bugger in ’is tracks if we’d declared war on ’im then.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Irene eyed her daughter-in-law’s paling face. The girl was insipid enough as it was, with such delicate skin and fair hair and light blue eyes – as if she had no blood in her whatsoever. But she had such a lovely disposition it was no wonder Bob had fallen for her. Next to her he was vibrant, dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong in body, tanned even in winter from an outdoor job as a roofer. Next to him she was a tender white lily. ‘And don’t swear, Sid!’

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on. ‘I wasn’t talking about war. I was talking about Harry’s wife. She drove ’im to joining them Terries so’s they could get a bit more money towards that ’ouse she keeps dreaming of. She should be contented with what she’s got. I suppose she won’t be satisfied until she’s got it, even though he’ll be one of the first ter be called up now. I suppose she’ll be sorry then and blame it all on him.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Mum,’ Bob burst in. ‘If it do ’appen, then we’ll all be dragged into it sooner or later . . .’

  He stopped as Daphne let out a little cry, but his mother was already on her feet. ‘I’d better get clearing these tea things. Get the place shipshape again. Come on, Daphne dear, let’s get it done, shall we?’

  Brenda, pushing Addie in her pram to her mother’s this Saturday afternoon while Harry went off watching Spurs, his team, playing at home, also thought of war.

  April had come; buds on soot-laden bushes in the patches of front gardens had begun to give them a cleaner look with the promise of spring. Pity there wasn’t the promise of a happier one. When Harry had read that the Territorial Army was being doubled, its total strength to reach a total of three hundred and forty thousand, he had burst out, ‘What the bloody ’ell ’ave I got meself into?’ She, full of guilt feelings, had tried to make light of it, trying not to recall her dad’s seldom spoken-of recollection of the trenches in France in the last lot.

  She knew how Harry must be feeling. Her own blood felt like water in her veins even as she strove to make him feel less despondent. He was trying to be brave about it. He would be brave. But bravery wouldn’t save him if he got himself in the path of a bullet, would it? She shuddered and hurried on.

  The streets were noisy with kids. She couldn’t imagine these streets quiet, as they would be if government plans to evacuate them from the cities took place if hostilities began. Two and a half million children was the number spoken of, a sure sign that London and other cities expected to be bombed out of hand, just like Guernica in Spain had been bombed, innocent civilians slaughtered. It was enough to make the blood run cold.

  So much was happening all at once. Decisions to conscript all men of twenty years old, a compulsory national register of youths under twenty-one who’d be given six months’ training for transfer into the Territorial Army. If Harry hadn’t joined he might have escaped all that, being a married man. Now he was trapped. And it was all her fault.

  Her arrival at Mum’s found her father digging a three-foot deep hole, six foot six by four foot six, in the back garden with the help of Mr Johnston, their next-door neighbour. Strewn all over what was left of the patch of lawn lay huge heavy sheets of galvanised corrugated iron, the curved end of each side section making them look like beasts that had just died. End sections were propped upright against the rickety dividing garden fence, and on the narrow age-broken concrete path lay a bag of heavy nuts and bolts to fit the whole overlapping assembly together as the sections were dropped into the finished hole.

  Mr Johnston already had his in; Dad no doubt had helped him, and now he was returning the favour. One third of his shelter sunk into the ground, bolted together but with no covering of earth yet. It looked like a great wallowing elephant, and as unsightly a bit of construction as anyone ever saw.

  She stood at the back door watching them for a moment. All along the row of back gardens that had each been a square of neatly mown lawn with a couple of lovingly tended flower beds, neighbour was helping neighbour to destroy their treasured work for the sake of protection should bombs ever rain down from the skies.

  Vain hope, Brenda thought as she stood there. A garden hardly thirty foot in depth put the structure not twenty foot from the house given that it needed to be a couple of foot clear of the back fence. What good was that if a home got a direct hit? Again she felt her blood turn to water.

  Having deposited the pram, which Mum and Dad had bought out of their Co-op divi when Addie was born, in the porch, she’d gone through to the back and now stood letting in the chilly April air until Mum said to shut it as it was causing a draught enough to make the smoke from the back room fireplace puff out into the room. ‘And I’ve only just put me duster round in there, luv.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be a war?’ Brenda asked Mum, who brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. Little Addie lay on cushions on the floor at Brenda’s feet.

  Her mother shivered visibly. ‘This blessed fire ain’t sendin’ out any ’eat terday,’ she apologised, glaring at it as though it should wilt before her look or blaze up in an effort to please. ‘We ain’t ’alf gettin’ some rotten coal these days. I ’spect they’re saving the best stuff.’

  She broke off, not saying what for. War was on everyone’s mind now.

  ‘Do yer think there’ll be a war?’ Brenda persisted.

  Mum shook her head, sighing. ‘I don’t know, luv. Don’t know what ter make of it all. There’s Davy sayin’ he can ’ardly wait ter register, though thank Gawd he ain’t rushin’ orf like he wanted to durin’ that Spanish lark. Silly little bugger. Well, I suppose he’s a bit older now. An’ there’s Brian, all upset because he’ll be too young ter register. Mind, he’s got girls on ’is mind more’n he’s got war. Just wants ter make an impression on ’em, wants ter be in uniform and show orf to ’em.’

  ‘I can’t help thinking about my Harry,’ Brenda said, gazing down at Addie with her little arms going and her china-blue eyes darting everywhere. She was twelve weeks old now and so pretty. To think, if war did break out, she might not see her dad for years, might not even know him when she did.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ she said, ‘letting ’im go into the Terries just to help us towards gettin’ another place.’

  ‘You didn’t let ’im, luv,’ her mother corrected her. ‘It was ’im told you he’d gorn and done it. It was ’is choice.’

  ‘But it was me drove ’im to it.’

  A key sounded in the front door and Vera came in. She was looking very put out as she dragged off her winter coat and smart little hat to drop them and her handbag carelessly on to a chair.

  ‘Not there, miss!’ stormed her mother. ‘Take ’em up to yer bedroom.’

  Vera ignored her, her pretty mouth working angrily. ‘I’m sick of men! Ronnie told me he went and registered, even before it becomes compulsory. Did it this morning. If that’s all he thinks of me I might as well tell ’im to take a runnin’ jump!’

  Ron Parrish was her latest. To Brenda’s knowledge they’d been going out with each other for nearly three months, which made him almost a steady bloke. Perhaps he too had got fed up with Vera’s ways. But this time, rather than smirking, she was a little sorry. About time some bloke saw something in Vera other than her aptitude for finding the negative side of everything.

  ‘He probably feels he ought ter show willing,’ she offered. ‘He ain’t actually going in yet. And if he does, I expect he’ll write to yer.’

  ‘Oh, he’s promised to.’ Vera had brightened. ‘He says he’ll write to me every day when he does go. If there’s a war.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Now go an’ put yer clothes upstairs,’ urged their mother, going to call their dad and Mr Johnst
on in for a cup of tea. They had become somewhat hot despite the chill wind, their faces streaked with soil from wiping them with muddy hands. The earth three feet down was decidedly wet.

  ‘If we ain’t careful,’ David Wilson growled, ‘that Anderson’s gonna be sitting in water. I ain’t diggin’ any deeper, that’s fer sure. The bloody thing can take its chances.’

  Mr Johnston, nearly six foot, built like a bus, his wide leather belt hardly enough to go round his middle, grinned in agreement.

  ‘That’s what I said, Dave, didn’t I? When we got mine in. It’s a bloody waste a’time anyway. This lot’s gonna all blow over and the bleedin’ fing’ll be sittin’ there in me backyard, a bleedin’ eyesore, an’ all me daff bulbs gorn fer a burton, and me chrysanth roots all bleedin’ dried out fer want a’ plantin’ and no bloody good. Me whole garden spoiled, fanks ter ’Err ’Itler.’ Mr Johnston’s garden, tiny though it was, had been his pride and joy, a riot of colour in summer, neatly dug and manured in winter, his minuscule garden shed holding all his immaculately maintained tools.

  He sat his bulk down on one of the kitchen chairs and with mighty slurps gulped the throat-searing tea Brenda’s mother had poured as if it were cold water.

  Within minutes he was up on his feet again, smacking his lips and announcing, ‘That was taken an’ wanted, Mrs W. And ta, very much. Come on, Dave, let’s get the rest of that bugger in ’fore me old lady gets me tea on the table, or she’ll ’ave me guts fer garters!’

  Soon Brian and Davy were coming in, ready for their tea. Harry would not be home from football until six, giving Brenda plenty of time to walk the few streets home with the pram while twilight remained. Harry worried about her being out after dark.

  Meantime it was good having a bite to eat here, though not too much because she’d be getting her own Saturday tea when Harry came in. All too seldom could she enjoy sitting down with them all, hearing Davy and Brian arguing light-heartedly, seeing Dad heartily getting on with his food while Mum hovered before sitting down to her own. She even relished putting up with Vera.