A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Contradictory statements usually made Brenda smirk, but not this day. She too felt eaten up by concern. ‘I’m sure he’s all right,’ she managed, suffering the embrace.

  ‘What if he ain’t? What if . . .’

  ‘I don’t want ter dwell on that prospect, Mum,’ she cut in sternly. Extricating herself from the grip she ushered them through the kitchen to the living room. ‘We ’ave ter think positive. Harry’ll be all right.’

  He had to be, she resolved as she followed close behind them. So long as she remained so he would be. Yet despite what she was telling herself, her whole body seemed to be quivering from the inside out.

  Mr Hutton was already fumbling for his cigarette tin and papers while Brenda went to seek a much-needed cigarette of her own from a packet of Craven A on the sideboard. Only one out of its contents of five remained, and she had opened it fresh this morning.

  Should have been Player’s Weights – much cheaper – fags gone up to eightpence ha’penny a packet – she really couldn’t afford it despite a recent increase in allowance for wives of servicemen. She was smoking too much.

  These stupid disembodied thoughts surged through her brain when she should be thinking of her husband’s predicament over there, maybe caught between an advancing German army and this place called Dunkirk, a name the newscaster had mentioned. To dispel them, she said inadequately through nervous puffs of cigarette smoke, ‘We can only hope and pray.’

  They nodded, so she hurried on animatedly, ‘Look, sit down. I’ll make a cup of tea, shall I? It’ll do us all good.’

  ‘Not much we can do about it, stuck ’ere at ’ome,’ Sid Hutton said as if she had never mentioned tea. ‘All we can do is ’ope and pray – like yer said – and wait.’

  ‘Wait and pray,’ Irene Hutton repeated, her words like a small echo.

  With nervous energy Brenda hastily attempted to stub out her cigarette in a painted china ashtray shaped like a kitten lying on its back which Harry had bought from some stall or other just after they had got married.

  She’d smoke the rest later. But the cigarette went on burning as she rushed off to make tea. She could hear them talking in low tones while she waited impatiently for the kettle to boil, pouring the hot water on to a couple of spoonfuls of tea leaves in the pot.

  Armed with a tray of cups, saucers, sugar, milk, teapot and strainer, she hurried back to find Mrs Hutton sniffing the air.

  ‘Funny smell in ’ere.’

  Brenda sniffed, caught a trace of heated hair, looked desperately around the room and saw her cigarette still burning gently. Gratefully she pointed. ‘Must be that. I only bought ’em yesterday. They must be stale.’

  Mrs Hutton’s nose continued to wrinkle. ‘It don’t smell like that to me. Smells more like yer’ve been ter the ’airdresser’s or somethink.’

  Brenda handed them their tea, relieved to note that the accusation only focused on her apparently spending too much, although her natural waves, these days grown slightly longer, needed no visits to a hairdresser. She merely swept back the sides and held them in place by two Bakelite combs.

  To take her mother-in-law’s mind off the faint odour, she turned back to the subject of Harry, letting her face crumple a little. It was no effort, her misery was real enough as his handsome face came to hover behind her eyes, the merest thought of him enough for tears to tremble on her eyelids.

  ‘Oh Mum, he’s got ter be all right,’ she moaned, her voice letting her down. ‘For Adele’s sake, he has ter be.’

  Putting her tea down, Irene Hutton got up and came forward, taking Brenda by surprise yet again by cuddling her close for a second time. Any censure or disapproval that might have lurked within her breast in the past melted away as she made an effort to soothe her, for a moment softened by her daughter-in-law’s moment of weakness.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she murmured, looking to her husband for corroboration. ‘I don’t know what we’d do if anythink ’appened to him now.’

  Those words were the last straw for Brenda who dissolved into a fit of weeping, leaning heavily against her mother-in-law, unable to do anything but draw on the comfort being offered.

  Annie and David Wilson sat huddled by their wireless. He had come home as usual for his lunch; Vera would soon come in for hers. But eating was the last thing on their minds for the moment as the news was broken to every listener of the surrender of Belgium and Holland.

  ‘What’s goin’ ter ’appen to our boys over there?’ Annie whispered.

  David shook his head. ‘Thank Gawd our Davy’s still stationed in this country.’

  She looked at him. Yes, Davy was all right so far, up by Birmingham way, but for how much longer? ‘But our Brenda’s ’usband’s over there,’ she reminded. ‘I ’ope he’s orright. But what if he ain’t? I wonder ’ow our Brenda is if she’s listening ter this?’

  A frantic rat-tat-tat-tat at the front door made Annie start as if caught doing something wrong. Jumping up from her chair she rushed to answer it.

  Brenda almost fell into her arms, letting go of Adele’s pram so that Annie had to catch at the handle to stop it rolling backwards towards the kerb. Dragging both her daughter and the pram bodily through the doorway, by no means an easy task with the passage so narrow, she helped Brenda to the back room where David still sat, eyes staring at the door, ears still cocked to catch what was being said on the wireless.

  ‘Dad, Brenda’s here,’ she announced unnecessarily. Then to Brenda, ‘’Ave yer eaten yet?’

  It was a silly question given the circumstances but the only one that came to mind. Brenda shook her head as if she had completely lost control of her voice, and thinking better of her inane enquiry, Annie sat her in the armchair she had just vacated to answer the door.

  ‘He’s goin’ ter be all right,’ she interpreted in a stern whisper.

  Brenda shook her head, at last finding the words. To her mother it sounded such a little voice, not at all like her normally bright one.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ she said. ‘All I know is I’m so scared of what could be ’appening to him.’

  All day Wednesday Brenda sat alone, half expecting Harry’s parents to visit as usual and when they didn’t, having assumed that Monday had made up for it, was glad that she didn’t have to entertain them.

  After her parents with their attentiveness to her plight, she couldn’t have borne listening to his mother going on about her own anguish. Which was natural, she granted her that, Harry being her son. She’d have felt just the same in her place.

  Her parents, being that much removed from a son-in-law, had been able to give all their attention to her, their daughter, and it had helped her beyond belief. She didn’t want it spoiled by his mother coming round here.

  She spent much of the day divided between seeing to Addie’s needs and tidying the flat excessively, and hunched by the wireless devouring any item of news that might sustain the comfort her family had given her.

  Dad had wisely left all the talking to Mum. When Vera had come in, her face full of sympathy and understanding (she too, being in love with Ron Parrish, feared for him even though he was still stationed in England) and had put her arm round her while Mum went to dish up their midday meal. A bit got taken off each plate for Brenda, though she’d had a job to eat it.

  ‘I’ve been doin’ a lot of praying lately,’ Vera had said quietly so Dad wouldn’t hear and maybe ridicule her. ‘I never really believed in it before, Bren. But I’m sure it’s what’s kept my Ron from being sent across there. He could of been, yer know. But now I’m praying fer Harry and I really do know it’ll work. I really do believe that.’

  Vera’s soft earnest tones had had her in quiet floods of tears which needed to be hurriedly wiped away before going to the table to eat the beans on toast Mum set before her. The toast was dry because of fat being rationed, though it wasn’t that which made it an effort to masticate but her throat, which persisted in closing up with the weight of more threatening tears.


  Now as Thursday dawned it seemed Vera’s prayers were about to be answered. Early morning brought a little heartening news. British troops were being evacuated by naval ships. Eagerly she awaited that hurried letter to say Harry was among them. There, however, Vera’s prayers began breaking down. Midday came and still no letter. She forced herself to look on the bright side. Why should she expect one this quickly?

  Pushing it from her as too much wishful thinking, she determinedly tucked Adele in her pram that afternoon and in brilliant sunshine went off to the young wives’ club.

  Doris might be there. Maybe speaking to someone with a husband in the forces, even if it was the Air Force, would help bolster her courage and hope even more.

  ‘You’ve got to ’ave faith, Brenda,’ Doris said blithely if sorrowfully, and once again Brenda felt that small prick of injustice that Doris could speak this way, confident of her husband’s safety while her own dwelt in the valley of the shadow as it were, if he still dwelt at all. She came away feeling how dare she? What did she know of anguish and fear for a loved one?

  Friday arrived and still no letter. She made herself get on with everyday life, looking after Adele, getting their meals, washing out nappies, washing and trimming the grey head of another middle-aged woman who discussed the dire situation of their boys over there, and as often as possible listening for news over the wireless of the desperate rearguard action across the Channel. It felt like a sort of blasphemy to be here doing these everyday things while something like sixty miles away men under constant bombardment waited for rescue.

  Shopping in the afternoon for her weekend bits and pieces had her hurrying so as not to miss too much of what the newscaster might have to say. Friday afternoon shopping was a habit left over from the days when Harry was here, making sure that he’d come home from work to find the larder well stocked for the weekend, a nice tea waiting for him, and Addie glowing from an hour or two in the open air. What lovely days they had been. Why hadn’t she appreciated them more at the time?

  Arriving home she met John Stebbings in the yard as sometimes did happen. Usually he greeted her with a passing hello, enquiring how she was. This time, he appeared to partially block her progress as she approached the foot of the stairs. His dark eyes surveyed her face.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hutton? You don’t look at all well.’

  Not wanting to push past him and strike him as rude, she leaned over the pram, adjusting Addie’s cover so as not to have to look him directly in the eyes. ‘I’m waiting for news of my husband. I think he must be at Dunkirk with the others.’

  Why had she said that? It was none of his business.

  He seemed to hesitate, then said, ‘I was about to make a cup of tea. The shop’s quiet now, almost time for me to close up and go home. I usually have one before leaving. I wonder if you’d like one.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t,’ she said quickly. ‘I ’ave to get Adele fed and ready for bed. And I don’t want to be too long away from the wireless. In case we get some more news of them over there.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he mused, his offer of sharing a pot of tea apparently put aside. ‘We’re all hanging on news. It’s a dreadful situation and I wish I could be of comfort to you, Mrs Hutton, at such a terrible time. All I can say is, I’m not far away if you need anyone to talk to. And I earnestly pray your husband will be home soon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed, and picking Addie out of the pram, did as she always did, using one hand to manoeuvre the pram into the open shed Mr Stebbings still allowed her to use.

  ‘Here! Let me help.’ She stood back as he moved it deftly into place, thanking him yet again.

  ‘No trouble,’ he said, and paused once more. ‘And remember, if you do need anyone to talk to.’

  It was a kind offer. ‘Yes,’ she said, and hurried up the stairs with Addie in her arms. At the top she turned to look at him, but he had gone back into his shop.

  With Saturday came the strangest item of news, one – so said one announcer – to make the heart of every Briton swell with pride even in the midst of what might be seen by the rest of the world as defeat: the first of a veritable armada of four hundred or more tiny civilian craft of all kinds having voluntarily set out from coastal towns of south-east England for Dunkirk where our boys stand with their backs to the English Channel, at this very moment are returning with their human cargo plucked to safety . . . this is the determination of the ordinary man in the street to bring his fighting brother safely home. These survivors must be forever . . .

  The news reporter’s usual monotone voice had risen with his flow of rhetoric and Brenda could visualise the man’s breast swelling. She knew how he felt, had felt her own pride soar.

  Until the voice mentioned the word survivors. He shouldn’t have, it bringing her a vision of all those who’d not survived, of bodies lying still and silent on the churned-up sand, riddled and torn by the onslaught from the air and relentless gunfire – it was said people on the south coast could hear it quite plainly. And of those who still moved, injured, maimed, maybe dying – which of them could be Harry? Did he still move, twitch with pain, or was he by now forever beyond pain? No! She had to have faith. ‘Please God let him still be alive. I don’t care how. But alive. Please God!’

  Soon though came news of the little ships themselves coming under merciless attack, being sunk along with their human cargo. Brenda held her breath, as did the entire nation, wondering if anyone could ever get through that terrible onslaught.

  Sunday she spent with her parents. Monday she spent alone, hope fading. She preferred being alone, to nurse premature grief as she hugged the wireless, knowing that with no news of Harry he must be among those bodies lying still on some shattered beach.

  There was nowhere from which to glean news, no one to answer her questions. By Tuesday it was announced with triumph that the evacuation of Dunkirk was complete. Three hundred and thirty-eight thousand men had landed back on British soil, safe if not completely unscathed, but home at last. Newspaper pictures showed helmeted soldiers coming off ships, women handing mugs of tea to men on their way home leaning from railway carriage windows, weary, begrimed, unshaven, their grinning faces designed to convey the message that they were unbowed, except that she felt those grins showed more relief than triumph.

  How many hadn’t made those boats, had been left behind waiting only to be taken prisoner? Of her own husband, nothing. Reading the news Brenda’s heart refused to function properly as she waited for word of some sort, wondering if she’d ever hear, the thumping inside her chest making her feel continually sick.

  Dead, hurt, captured, she had to be told some time. But the waiting could hardly be borne. And with it, a deep anger. All those others safe while her own dear beloved . . . it wasn’t unreasonable, this anger. It was real. It tore at her, leaving little room for sorrow over others like her who still waited still not knowing what had happened to their loved ones.

  When what she had been waiting for finally did come, it was early on Wednesday morning as workers were thinking about making their way to their jobs. Addie still lay asleep; Brenda sat at her window gazing down into Bow Road as it began to get busy. The wireless was off now, she had no wish to hear any more cheery news.

  She saw the figure get off the bus and begin to walk across the road. A soldier without kit. The face that glanced up at her front window was that of a stranger though even from here she could see it was white and haggard, his gait that of someone utterly bone weary. She saw him glance up at her window and with a start she realised she didn’t know the face. This . . . this messenger could only be the bearer of bad news. Oh, God! Harry! A comrade come to tell her . . .

  She was out of the room, through the kitchen, bursting out through the door as the man reached the foot of the stairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  With her heart feeling as though it had lodged itself in her throat, Brenda was out of the front room, through the kitchen and out on the iron landing as the m
essenger reached the stairs. She saw him pause, his foot on the first step.

  The early morning sunshine lit up his astonished expression at her sudden appearance and the shriek she let out, as with tears streaming down her face, she tore down the stairs towards him to fling herself into his arms.

  ‘Harry! Oh, Harry . . . Oh, my darling!’

  Steadying himself before the impact, she felt his arms encircle her as together they rocked in tight embrace, she crying on his shoulder, her cheek scoured by the stubble on his.

  ‘It’s orright, love,’ she heard him murmur in her ear. ‘Everythink’s orright. I’m ’ome.’

  ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, my love, I thought you was someone else. I thought it was someone come ter say you was . . . was . . .’

  She couldn’t finish. The dread word refused to form in case all this was only imagination. To make sure, she leaned away from him, gazing into the tired features, her eyes almost superstitiously searching the face.

  ‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’ She saw the lovely, cheeky grin.

  ‘Told yer I could look after meself. All I came out of it wiv was this.’

  Holding up his right hand, palm downwards, he displayed the deeply scraped skin running from wrist to fingertips. The wound, if that was what it could be termed, had been cleaned, the raw flesh already drying over and darkening in the first stages of forming a crust, but to her eyes it looked sore and just a tiny bit angry.

  ‘Gawd knows ’ow I did it,’ he said still grinning, now at the aghast way she was staring at it. ‘Must of scraped it on somethink. I don’t know. Don’t remember it ’appening. Prob’ly somethink soppy compared wiv what was goin’ on all around me. Too much goin’ on ter notice. Too much . . .’

  The words tailed off. The grin faded. The face twisted suddenly, and Brenda thought he was going to be sick. She clutched him to her.