A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  He’d slit the envelope, already guessing its contents. He had read it all before: the Directorate of Emergency Works was repairing houses as fast as they could, it took time and some had been rehoused in the suburbs only to be bombed out again. Delays. They’d get around to him as soon as they could. And no, they couldn’t say where his family would end up if their old house was beyond repair. And please be patient.

  He’d been patient for six months. It was now November; air raids had mostly become a thing of the past, but still nothing came from the Housing people. How much bloody longer would they take? He was heartily sick of it.

  Not that he’d sat on his backside here. Over the months he’d done a good job on Brenda’s flat, patching it up with a few panes of glass here, a few there. Same with roof tiles, in spite of Annie’s fear for his safety he got up there himself to replace them. Silly woman, he’d done his stint of fire-watching for his firm during the Blitz and had scrambled over many a roof. And if he could get his finger out doing this place, why couldn’t the authorities with their hordes of workers get theirs out? He felt he’d pulled his weight while staying at Brenda’s, but of course it never quite made up for this intrusion into her life.

  Though maybe it wasn’t so bad a life for her. She and her mum would go shopping together quite a bit with Addie. They’d go to the pictures one or two afternoons a week while he was at work, and in the evenings they’d listen to the wireless, all nice and cosy.

  Brenda never complained of having no privacy, but Vera did. Having to sleep with Brenda and their mother, she’d often keep out late and next morning they’d find her snuggled under a blanket on the settee. It didn’t matter what he said about her being out late, there wasn’t much he could do about it, being in someone else’s home, no longer boss of his own.

  Before long, though, there might only be the two of them for Brenda to cope with. For a while Vera had been in constant fear of being called up. She’d had to register even though doing war work. But she was single, and single girls of her age were now liable for call-up in the forces. Last week her fears were realised. But rather than loathe the idea, she said she was rather looking forward to a life of her own after being stuck here in the flat with them all. He couldn’t see it really. What was the difference between sharing this flat and sharing a hut crowded with several dozen other girls? Well, maybe it was different.

  So there would soon be just him and Brenda’s mother here. Brenda appeared to have got used to them living with her, and in fact it provided company for her and helped her work too, with her mother to do for her and give eye to an increasingly energetic Addie. He could do all the repairs instead of her having to ask that slimy Stebbings bloke. He’d never thought much of that. The man’s dark eyes, he’d noted, had seldom been off Brenda when he had been around. He didn’t trust that one no more than he could throw him, but perhaps as a father he was being just a bit too protective. Brenda could look after herself well enough. She was a good girl and he wondered why Harry’s mother tended to act as if she wasn’t.

  David Wilson stopped thinking, and, holding out the grey notepaper to his wife, growled, ‘So much for bloody re-’ousing. There’s us bloody waiting an’ ’oping we’d get somethink decent, and this is what we get told.’

  ‘The Glovers did all right,’ Annie remarked absently as she read on. ‘Nice little ’ouse in Dagenham they was given.’

  ‘I thought we’d get the same,’ he raged on. ‘But no bloody fear. All we get is our own ’ouse ter be patched up an’ made wind- and weatherproof they say. What’s that s’posed ter mean? Like what I’ve seen bein’ done wiv ovver places, I s’pose. Bleedin’ tarpaulin fixed on the roof. Winders boarded up wiv wood. Wiv only us two livin’ there, they say we only need the downstairs. It was only burnt, they say, not blasted. It can be renovated, they say. Not like some ’ouses what are just shells an’ can’t be rebuilt while the war’s still on, they say. Well, bugger ’em! I ain’t goin’ ter live in no ’alf ’abitable ’ouse – not wiv winter comin’ on.’

  Annie, who had stood blankly gazing at him in silence while he raged, shrugged and handed back the letter, ‘It’s really up to Brenda, Dave. It’s up to ’er what she thinks about us carryin’ on stayin’ ’ere.’

  As far as she could Brenda had managed to avoid John Stebbings for nearly four months. With her parents still here and work now so busy she’d had little time to see him even if she’d let herself succumb to temptation.

  So many times she nearly did. It hadn’t been easy. Seldom did a day go by without remembering those tender little caresses of his with such a longing she could hardly bear it. The way he’d lean forward as they talked, smooth her hair, caress her hands, touch her cheek, her chin. Little touches full of love, soft and gentle. He’d always been gentle. That was one thing she adored about him, the way he cared for her, considered her, the feel of those hands sending little thrills through her, making her feel so very wanted.

  She hated it when they did bump into each other. He’d be formal and she’d be formal too, striving to keep him at arm’s length. Now and again she’d feel her defences breaking down. He would sense it, move nearer while she stood mute. He would murmur how much he missed her, how often he remembered their being together. Always she would be the first to step back, mumble something about being sorry and hurry on through the gate into the Mile End Road off to wherever she was going, her heart thudding to an empty ache and hardly able to see for the misting up of her sight.

  It was Saturday evening. The short November day had long since faded, and most shops were closed. Why stay open with the job of putting up blackout? Dad had gone down the pub. Vera had gone straight from work for a farewell drink with her friends. She would be leaving tomorrow to report to her unit by Monday morning. Addie would soon to be put to bed, then she and Mum would sit and listen to the wireless, Mum knitting a jumper from two old ones she’d unravelled.

  Brenda put Addie into her nightie. ‘I’d better pop down to the lav, before I settle her down,’ she informed her mother. Then she’d be settled for the evening. She grabbed the torch that she kept by the kitchen door. Its light was shielded by a black paper mask with a slit just big enough to allow the tiniest glimmer, and she felt her way down the stairs to the yard. About to negotiate the Stygian darkness between her and the lavatory, she collided suddenly with something that yielded.

  There came the sound of a falling cardboard box as, nearly losing her balance, she let out a small cry of alarm.

  A hand caught at her arm. Someone said, ‘I didn’t see you.’ It was John’s voice. ‘Brenda, have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know what it was.’

  She let her voice die away, disturbed by the faint but familiar and fascinating mixture of tobacco and brilliantine that in her mind belonged essentially to him and no one else.

  He had stepped closer, so that her nostrils filled with the scent of him. She tried to break away but her own lack of will prevented her from doing so.

  ‘I was just popping down to the . . .’ She couldn’t say it. ‘I’ve got to go back upstairs,’ she said instead. ‘I’ve got to get Addie ready for bed.’

  ‘I’ve not seen you in weeks,’ he told her.

  ‘I know, I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I miss you, Brenda.’

  ‘It had to end eventually. Now it has, I—’

  ‘Has it?’ he cut across her words, but softly. ‘There’s not a day goes by but I think of you, Brenda. I’ve tried to do it your way, but it’s destroying me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could think to say. She wanted desperately to be away from him, his closeness reawakening the longing inside her which she was so sure at times she had succeeded in stifling.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said now. ‘But before I say it, I want to be made certain that your feelings for me have died. Have they?’ he pressed when she didn’t reply.

  In the darkness, Brenda shook her head, but her voic
e spoke. ‘John, you’ve got to understand, it couldn’t . . . can’t go on. I have to be fair to my husband. I couldn’t let him down, not like that, him all that way away and trusting me. I’ve got to wait for ’im. Please, John, you ’ave to understand.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said gently. ‘I realise you want to stay faithful, but you can’t turn away from what you really feel.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back upstairs.’

  ‘What do you really feel?’ he persisted, ignoring her plea. ‘I know you love me. Still love me. That’s something you can’t just turn off.’

  Again there were no words to say against that as he paused. Then, with her silence obviously proving to him that she still did love him, he went on, ‘I love you, Brenda. I’ll love you to the day I die.’

  There came a long pause; in the silence she could hear distant traffic.

  He seemed to wilt. And when he spoke again his voice trembled with despair. ‘There’s hope for me, is there?’

  In the darkness she shook her head again, a little desperately, but this time her voice echoed the negative movement of her head. This time it had strengthened. ‘It’s over, John. It ’as to be. I’m married to Harry and I don’t want to spoil that. I’m sorry it’s had to end this way. I do love you, John, but I’m not going to let it destroy my marriage. Before it all comes out and someone finds out what went on between us, it’s finished.’

  ‘Termination of contract.’ The words, almost inaudible, were laced with bitterness.

  ‘No! It’s not like that!’ she cried out. ‘How can I make you see?’

  More silence as her voice died away. Then he spoke again, his hold on her arm loosening a fraction.

  ‘I know what I have to do now,’ he said slowly as though talking to himself. ‘Last month, when I sensed this is what you’d eventually tell me, I tried again to get into the forces but it’s still the same. Grade F4. Asthma. I would get it quite badly when I was young. It still counts against me.’

  She’d known of it for some time. The time when Harry’s mother had queried why he wasn’t in the forces and his dad had mentioned flat feet and a few other reasons, she had preferred to let them think what they liked, for why broadcast a man’s private business. He’d never had an attack when she had been with him. But the armed forces were finicky, registering him as unfit.

  ‘So I made enquiries about going into the merchant navy,’ he was saying. ‘There seems to be no trouble there. I shall be leaving very soon. But before I go, there’s something I need to tell you about the shop. I’m changing the name on the lease rather than terminate it. I’m putting your name on it.’

  She had been fighting with devastation at his news, but this piece of information dashed it from her. ‘My name?’

  ‘The place is yours, Brenda. I won’t want it. You’ve always needed a salon. So that’s what I’ve done. A buyer will be taking the books. What’s left can go down in the cellar. The business was going down anyway with this war, and I’ve had enough.’

  ‘But you can’t go!’ Her voice echoed in the dark yard. ‘John . . .’

  ‘Ask me to stay, Brenda.’ His tone was even, almost harsh. ‘Say you love me and you want me.’

  She dared not answer that, could only trust herself to say, ‘I don’t want your place. I can’t take it.’

  ‘It’ll be in your name,’ he said softly. ‘And I’ve laid down six months rent for the time being so that you don’t have any worries on that score. When the war is over and your Harry comes home, all you need tell him is that it fell vacant and you took it over. You can even give it up if you wish.’

  There was indifference in his voice and she felt him move away from her; his features, which had slowly been growing more distinguishable as her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, began to recede in the direction of the gate to the main road.

  ‘I don’t suppose I shall see you again, Brenda. Maybe it’s all for the best. I’ll never forget you, my darling. And I’ll always love you.’

  ‘John, no!’ She made to follow as he retreated, but the fallen cardboard box impeded her progress. By the time she’d kicked it to one side and run out to the road, there was no sign of him. The blackout had swallowed him up and she dared not call out his name in the street.

  Was this it, all the love they’d exchanged, the moments they’d shared, cut off without once seeing each other’s face in this total darkness, without one last clinging kiss? But for months there’d been no contact between them so what difference did it make? In reality tears welled up inside her without any hope of escape as she turned and went back through the gate into the yard, stifling that weight inside her with deep breaths as she made her way back up the iron stairs.

  He must have returned the next day and maybe the day after too, to clear up the business, but she didn’t see him at all.

  Three days later, during which time she did all she could to appear normal, avoiding her mother’s enquiring gaze, forcing herself to smile, eat, chat naturally, came a letter from the landlord confirming her as tenant of the premises downstairs.

  ‘I’ve bin saving up,’ she told her mother. ‘I’ll get a lot more clients and run a proper business.’

  ‘What about insurance and stuff and all the things yer need to run a proper ’airdresser’s? Yer’ll need more equipment ter make a go of it. Oh, love, yer throwin’ yer money away. Yer bein’ a silly fool. Yer bein’ too rash. Write an’ tell the landlord yer’ve changed yer mind and can’t afford it after all.’

  How could she tell her the truth? And Dad when he heard showed his anger, said he couldn’t understand her thinking. ‘And yer didn’t even tell us what was on yer mind. If you ’ad, I’d of told yer not ter be such a silly little cow, slinging money abart – wartime an’ all. It’s one fing doing a spot of ’airdressin’ up ’ere. But a shop. Yer must be orf yer bloomin’ chump!’

  But there wasn’t much they, or she, could do about it.

  The following week a letter came for her. Fortunately she was alone when she opened it. Mum had gone shopping while she was doing a woman’s hair. In it lay six large, white, five-pound notes. Thirty pounds! She’d never held thirty pounds in one go in her whole life. The letter merely said ‘To buy whatever you need to start up with. All the luck in the world. John.’

  Nothing more, no forwarding address, no word of endearment. But she knew those few words concealed all the love that lay within him for her. And she knew what he meant for her to do with his letter, as gently, almost with reverence, she laid it on the fire and watched it slowly turn dark, curl and blacken, disintegrating among the coals. The large white banknotes of the sort she had never seen in her whole life, much less held in her hand, felt as though they too had grown scorching hot in her tight-curled fist. Even the tears that flowed down her cheeks seemed to burn; wiping them fiercely away she knew that she was never going to see John Stebbings ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Annie and Dave Wilson went back to their patched-up home around the beginning of December.

  A lot had happened since summer. Hitler had invaded Russia, reaching the gates of Moscow; now the Germans were being repelled by the people and their winter. There was still fighting in North Africa. Harry had been patched up and sent back into it. HMS Ark Royal had been sunk by an Italian torpedo. The RAF was giving Germany what for. Clothing was now on coupons. And on the seventh of December, Pearl Harbor was bombed, so that America, to the satisfaction of all Britons who had all this time stood alone, got drawn into the war.

  But all this and more paled beside the most important event in Annie Wilson’s life: going back home. Dad went under protest, feeling they should have been properly rehoused, but she felt only too glad to be back in her own neighbourhood with people she knew. Though several were no longer there, with homes at the far end of the street razed to the ground, and one couple killed, it was nice having a good gossip at the door again with those who remained.

  The place wasn’t much. Upst
airs of course had been gutted though there was no real structural damage apart from the lack of ceilings and great holes in the floors where they’d been burnt through. Downstairs the ceilings had been replaced so that the occupants wouldn’t have to suffer an uninterrupted view of charred rafters. The doors upstairs, burnt and blackened, had been taken out and the apertures boarded up, so they couldn’t have gone up there if they’d wanted to. The upstairs furniture was reduced to ash, and this was what upset Annie the most.

  ‘All me best stuff, all the stuff what was me muvver’s, and ter think I dusted and polished it every day. Now look at it. I tell yer one thing – I put me ’ands tergevver every time our boys fly over there ter give ’em a bit of what they give us. I ain’t a bit sorry for that lot. They weren’t sorry fer us when they bombed us out of ’ouse and ’ome.’

  In the run-up to Christmas she had made a little haven from the renovated downstairs even though there was no getting rid of the smell of burnt fabric and wood. Lino now lay over scorched floorboards, doors had been replaced – though no two were the same design, they fitted and kept out the cold – and the walls had been distempered a dispirited cream by the authorities. Dave did a pattern on them with an old sock dipped in contrasting beige distemper; actually it looked quite nice.

  The windows had been boarded up, but he had salvaged more glass and after sawing a hole in each board inserted small panes, cut to fit, to at least give some daylight. Her sister had given her some old curtaining which she made to fit each window, enough to be able to draw at night after fitting up the blackout board from pieces Dave had cut out to put in the glass. In spite of the lingering redolence of charred wood it was quite cosy.

  Once the gas was restored, she cleaned the gas stove and went back to making good hot meals while he, working in December cold, cleared the garden of rubble that had been blasted into it from bombed neighbouring houses.