A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  ‘I know,’ she said miserably. ‘And I’m so sorry.’

  He did not reply but got up and opened the kitchen door to the yard for her. ‘Just remember me,’ he said simply as she got up, head bowed to hide the tears, and went past him into the brilliant July evening sunshine, his words echoing in her head. ‘Just remember me.’

  She almost turned to run back, throw herself into his arms and cry out that she wanted to be with him always. Instead, one hand on the rail of the stairs with their rusting cast-iron treads, she hoisted herself upward as if her body was as heavy as the very iron itself.

  She knew he’d already gone back inside so as to avoid any glimpse of her exposed legs through the open treads. And all she could think of as she climbed was that those upstairs mustn’t see one hint of distress on her face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Trying to read between the lines of Harry’s letter she searched for the truth about his injury. Was he hiding something? He seemed to be making light of his wounds, but was it worse than he said? Was the shattered shoulder really an arm about to be amputated? The handwriting was shaky, he was in pain – were they giving him enough care? What if he died of gangrene? The simplest of wounds could erupt into fearful things under certain conditions.

  Mum, dishing up the tea, was calling everyone to the table. Chaos reigned with Davy and Brian home together. The pair, both well built, in khaki trousers and shirts, seemed to fill the room; Dad, collarless, in his shirtsleeves, was dwarfed by them; Vera’s high voice rent the air as Mum asked if she’d be going out tonight, Friday; Addie was banging her beaker on the tray of her high chair.

  Brenda hung back from coming to the table. John Stebbings faded from mind as she scanned the letter yet again. Its contents veered so much from one thing to another it made her wonder what he was keeping from her.

  . . . ain’t like the last war. No front line. Skirmishes going on miles apart. You pull back but it ain’t a defeat because somewhere else they’re going forward. Fighting stops for sand storms or Jerry’s moved off. We don’t know who’s winning and who ain’t. Expect the top brass knows but they ain’t telling us buggers nothink. Well, I’m out of it for a while. No more scorpions, no more sand in your nose and mouth, no more strafing, no more shortage of water, baking up all day, freezing at night. Mind it weren’t no picnic being dumped in a truck with me shoulder all busted up and ridden back . . .

  ‘If yer look at that blessed letter any more, it’s goin’ ter disintegrate in yer ’ands,’ her mum interrupted her. ‘Put it down, love. Come an’ ’ave yer tea. Keepin’ on reading ain’t goin’ ter make him better any quicker.’

  ‘Let ’er do what she likes,’ her dad said understandingly. ‘Bet you was the same with my letters in the last lot.’

  Dad had been in the last war. He and Mum met in 1914, then married almost immediately just before he enlisted.

  ‘Even so,’ her mother went on, returning to her daughter. ‘Come and sit up and ’ave yer tea.’

  ‘I don’t feel like eating at the moment, Mum.’

  ‘Understandable,’ agreed her father tucking into the plate of egg, luncheon meat, beans and chips she put before him. Going off on his own train of thought he looked towards Davy.

  ‘D’yer get a decent issue of razor blades in your lot, son? Yer can’t get ’old of a bloody single one in our shop. I know the country needs the steel, but what we s’posed ter do, all grow bloody beards?’

  Mum, giving Addie a beaker of government orange juice, shot him a look. ‘If that’s all yer got ter moan about.’

  ‘I’ve got some spare in me kit yer can ’ave,’ Davy was saying.

  Brian was talking to Vera about where he was going this Friday night, and she was saying how she was hoping to go out too, with some friends.

  ‘Yer don’t mind, Brenda, do yer, just this once? I know you’ve got a lady coming this evenin’ but . . .’

  ‘It’s just a set,’ Brenda said without enthusiasm, not caring whether Vera stayed in or not.

  Vera was not a willing learner for all she’d asked to be taught. The gilt soon came off the gingerbread when she had to wash hair that might not be quite as wholesome as it should be in these days of shortages. Vera would often pull a face, accompanied by small sounds of revulsion and a strand of hair held fastidiously by the very fingertips so that, embarrassed, Brenda would hurriedly move Vera aside to take over herself and restore the woman’s peace of mind. Anyway, she had been pulled through the hoop enough this afternoon. If the whole world fell apart now, she felt she wouldn’t have given two hoots.

  ‘I’m going to me room,’ she snapped.

  ‘What about yer tea? It’ll get cold. Eggs are rationed, y’know, Bren.’

  ‘I’ll ’ave it later.’

  ‘It’ll get spoilt. Yer can’t go wasting stuff like that, Bren.’

  ‘Let ’er go, Mum.’ Davy’s gaze was trained on his sister and she gave him a grateful look as she left them at the table. He understood.

  In the bedroom that had once been hers alone, she closed the door and in relative peace for the moment unfolded Harry’s letter again, focusing her whole attention on it so as to erase this afternoon from her mind. If he were to die, it would be retribution on her. She bent her head to pick up where she had left off though she’d read it several times since getting it.

  . . . Bloody awful ride back, us wounded piled in together any old how. Then in an ambulance what got hit and I got a bullet in me foot on top of me perishing bad shoulder. Casualty clearing station was a nightmare. That got bombed too. Finally put on a ship. Writing this from Alexandria. Peace at last. Looked after by nurses all lovely and fresh-smelling. Me wounds still giving me gip, but not as bloody much as getting here with no proper medical treatment. You can’t believe how filthy I was. Nurses none too gentle cos there’s hundreds of us blokes to be patched up. It don’t do to make too much fuss though. I ain’t having no nurse tell me I’m being a baby and there’s lots worse off than me. Some of these Alexander nurses are really pretty but I wish I was home with you, Bren, have you looking after me . . .

  ‘Yer comin’ out now for yer tea?’ Her mother popped her head round the door and startled her. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean ter make yer jump. But Addie’s gettin’ tired and I think she ought ter go ter bed.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mum.’

  Why was she letting her mother do all the dictating? Maybe because she herself had lost heart, had allowed her home to be taken over. Her mind felt buffeted by this longing to see John even as she swore to end it, life seemed utterly empty. After tea a young woman was coming to have her hair set for the weekend. A chatty young thing. Brenda felt far from chatty as she struggled to make something of the straight, dark strands while the family did its best to keep out of the way. Oh, to have this place to herself. Would it ever again be hers alone?

  She felt sick, without appetite. But Mum had put herself out to do the cooking this evening. She must try to eat.

  ‘Yer egg’s gorn all cold an’ congealed, of course.’ Mum said, faintly huffy, as Brenda got up from the bed. ‘Couldn’t eat it like that. Brian ’ad it – in a san’wich. Couldn’t let it go ter waste wiv eggs in short supply. The rest is all right though, warmed it up, barrin’ the luncheon meat of course. That can be quite nice hotted up sometimes as well.’

  Tucking the letter away in the old chest of drawers that almost filled the room, Brenda thought of the days when her flat had been all hers as she followed her mother out, regretting how many times she had pined at being alone. She had no room to move now, no secrets could easily be kept. What if Mum guessed what she and John had been up to downstairs?

  Still, that was over. Being a good wife to Harry was important now, even if he was miles away. John could plead all he liked, she and John were finished, and that was that. From now on she would be a good wife.

  *

  ‘Coo-ee! Orright ter come in? Yer back door’s open.’

  The kitchen door, ajar to
let out the odour of home-made setting lotion, was being tentatively eased further open.

  Brenda looked up sharply from the hair she was skilfully moulding into a series of bangs, as the bouffant rolls were termed, to see the face of her mother-in-law peeping round the door’s edge, and behind her the angular face of Harry’s dad.

  Seeing Brenda with comb poised over the head of a strange young woman seated on a stool with a towel around her shoulders, Mrs Hutton came to an abrupt halt, her square face a picture of what could only be called embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, we intruding? I didn’t realise yer was doing a friend’s ’air. And yer’ve got all yer family staying ’ere as well.’

  Brenda stood rooted to the spot, comb still poised. Her lady gave a little giggle at the term ‘friend’.

  ‘I ain’t exactly a friend,’ she offered sociably. ‘Though Brenda does do me hair once a week every Friday, all nice and ready for the weekend. She’s so good at it and don’t charge as much as other ’airdressers do.’

  Mrs Hutton was staring at Brenda in confusion. ‘You charge? You mean you do this as a business?’

  Brenda wanted to ask what concern was it of hers? It helped to supplement her meagre wife’s allowance and she was a free agent. Harry was not here and most wives were working these days at war work or outdoor work, all trying to grub up an extra few bob while stuck on their own with their men away fighting.

  But she merely smiled ineffectually and said, ‘You two go through. The others are in the front room. I’ll be finished here in a few minutes and then I’ll make a cup of tea.’

  It would take longer than a few minutes to get this hair right. Heavy, naturally greasy hair with a will of its own didn’t lend itself to these modern bangs. Any other head would have turned out gorgeous. She had done Vera’s hair this way sometimes. Her own too, though why she bothered with only John to see it, she couldn’t be sure. And now she had sent him packing. Then what? No more excitement, no anticipation of the secret tryst, just this dismal round of doing other people’s hair, trying to keep herself together with the family living here, bringing up Addie. What a future. She almost envied Vera her freedom, going dancing, dating boys, having a high old time.

  ‘We’ll go on in then.’ Mrs Hutton was giving the client a scrutinising look. ‘We’ll try not ter get in yer way.’

  You’re all in my way, came the infuriated thought. I’m sick of being expected to sit idle like a sweet little wife, told what to do, everyone judging, judging, ready to see the worst but happy enough to make use of me. I’ve no life of my own. But she continued to look as pleasant as possible as the two people eased past her. Now she must make excuses, explain, defend herself for doing what she did best.

  Why should she defend herself? Yet she knew she would. It was unfortunate, them coming round here this evening. But she knew why. They too had got a letter from Harry, and had come to see if she was all right. She must be charitable, they were only thinking of her. And perhaps he’d told them more than he’d told her concerning his injuries. It was worrying the life out of her that he appeared to be making too light of his wounds. She could hardly wait to be rid of her client so that she could go and ask them.

  They were all talking together in the front room when she came in with a tray full of tea.

  ‘Oh, there you are, love,’ said her mother. ‘I was just telling Harry’s mother how well yer doin’ at the ’airdressing. I said it was a pity you ’ad ter use this place ter do it in. An’ all us ’ere as well. Though of course, it ain’t usually this crowded – Brian and Davy’ll be going back off leave in a few days and then there’ll only be us and Vera, but usually there’s only me and ’er with Vera and ’er dad at work, so it ain’t so bad, is it, Bren?’

  Chatting away nineteen to the dozen, she didn’t appear to be aware of Mrs Hutton’s continuing tension. Mum seldom if ever noticed an atmosphere – she saw others as chummy and sociable, and if ever snubbed, would remark, ‘Silly cow – must be suffering from somethink or other,’ and get on with her life. She’d certainly not noticed anything amiss this evening, though Brenda had felt it immediately on entering the room.

  Mum continued chattering away about this and that, about being bombed out, about waiting and wondering when they would finally be rehoused. ‘Takin’ their time about it, I must say’; about how fortunate the Huttons had been, ‘not to’ve had any damage, or not too much anyway’; about rationing; about Harry, ‘gettin’ ’imself wounded like that,’ and hoping he’d be ‘orright’.

  Brian was in and out getting himself ready to go out, as was Vera, while Davy seemed content joining in with his dad and Mr Hutton’s conversations. Mrs Hutton said nothing, so Mum took it that she was merely listening.

  Brenda, with little to say herself, knew different. When her mother-in-law turned to her in the middle of Mum’s conversation and asked stiffly, ‘What about this thing you’re doing, Brenda – this hairdressing thing?’ she wasn’t a bit surprised, was ready for her.

  She smiled sweetly. There was no point hedging; in fact she experienced a tiny surge of pleasure in affecting nonchalance even as a warning voice in her head said ‘careful’.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been doing that for ages. It brings in a bit extra so Addie can benefit. No one can live on what the government gives us. It don’t make a lot, but it’s something.’

  Mrs Hutton was ruffled. Her voice trembled. ‘No one told us. You’ve never mentioned a thing about it, almost like you was keeping it a secret from us. Underhanded if you ask me. Harry wouldn’t be pleased. You know how he felt about a wife going out to work. A wife’s place is looking after her ’usband. It’s an ’usband’s place ter go out and earn the money, not you.’

  Her voice sounded so loud and rapid that the others stopped talking, while Mr Hutton coughed, ready to intervene. But Brenda got in first.

  ‘Harry’s not here, is he?’ There was an angry edge to her voice which she couldn’t avoid. ‘He’s away fighting, and I have to keep Addie decently clothed and fed and I’m doing that the best way I know. Anyone’d think I was earning it by being a prostitute or somethink.’

  ‘Bully fer you,’ came the barely audible whisper from Davy and Vera tittered. Brian gave a short, explosive laugh. Mrs Hutton gave a gasp.

  ‘Well, I never . . .’

  ‘Brenda!’ This from her own mother. But she ploughed on.

  ‘I’m earning doing perfectly respectable work and until Harry comes home I’ll keep on doing it. I’ve got a good talent and I don’t see why I should let it all go to waste just because Harry didn’t approve at one time. Things’ve changed, Mum. We’re all ’aving ter do things we didn’t dream we’d ever do. And when Harry comes ’ome, then we’ll see what ’e ’as ter say about it.’

  Mrs Hutton was searching in her handbag for a handkerchief. Finding it, she clapped it to her mouth and nose. ‘If he comes home!’

  ‘Now, there, ’Rene,’ mumbled her husband, getting up to touch her arm tentatively. ‘Don’t come over all unnecessary. He’s gonna be orright.’

  ‘And what if he ain’t? What if his wounds turn septic and he dies, out there in North Africa, and no one of his own with ’im.’

  This was Brenda’s feeling, and impulsively she got up to crouch in front of her mother-in-law, putting her arms round her and drawing her close. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. He’s goin’ ter be orright. He’s strong and wiry and he wants to come back to us all – you and Dad, me and Addie – and he’s got a lot to live for. I keep telling meself that, and I know he’ll come ’ome.’

  She felt her mother-in-law’s arm embrace her in a kind of reflex action, the hand patting at her back, until the woman broke away and sat back in the armchair to energetically blow her nose.

  ‘I s’pose I’m being a silly old fool.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes I am. We’ve got ter be strong these days. I know you are, Brenda. But you mustn’t be too strong so when he do come ’ome, you won’t let go an’ let ’im take up ’is ri
ghtful place as an ’usband an’ father. A man ’as ’is pride, Brenda. It wouldn’t be fair on ’im otherwise, after ’im fighting for ’is country like he’s doing. Yer should let ’im feel he’s goin’ ter come back ter being ’ead an’ breadwinner in his family.’

  We will see, went the thought through her head, but Brenda nodded in apparent agreement and let it go at that.

  No more was said about her hairdressing. Talk turned to how Harry was, how soon he’d recover, whether he’d be patched up and sent back into battle or sent home if he had been permanently put out of action which would be tantamount to declaring him crippled; and though she hadn’t engineered it that way, Brenda was glad her gesture of sympathy for her mother-in-law had turned aside the woman’s self-righteous disapproval.

  Whether or not Mrs Hutton disapproved, Brenda wasn’t going to be put off doing her hairdressing. Having ended her association (her mind avoided the word ‘affair’) with John Stebbings, it was all she had to lighten the humdrum life she led.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Take a look at this!’ David Wilson held up the letter he had just opened, his blue eyes glaring at it as though it had done him physical harm.

  His initial reaction to seeing the recycled wartime envelope with its adhesive address label and official lettering had been alarm. Perhaps it contained more bad news of Brenda’s husband. Harry had long since been returned to the fighting as apparently fit, but could cop another one. His letters had been irregular and Brenda said he complained of getting hardly any of hers.

  Sighing with relief, he saw it was from the housing department. Another reply to his endless requests for rehousing, probably to say that he must carry on waiting his turn in the lengthy queue, that his family at least had a roof over their heads in Brenda’s home while others were still having to make do in centres.