by Maggie Ford
With some of the money she attended a sale in February at a salon in Shenfield in Essex which she had seen advertised in the Hairdressers’ Weekly Journal. The salon was closing down. It seemed a long way to travel but everything was apparently going cheap and there might never be another chance of a better bargain anywhere nearer.
Leaving Addie with Mum for the day, she caught a train. The journey, straightforward enough with no changes, took nearly all morning, the train dawdling, as people had grown to expect these days. Not one soul complained while it stopped for nearly twenty minutes to let another train come through carrying troops or arms or something, starting up again with jerks and jolts only to stop further up the line for more or less the same thing.
Passengers suffered it all with resignation, every carriage thick with tobacco smoke, and as ever, filled by servicemen and women with their packs and kitbags taking up loads of space allowing standing room only. She too had been compelled to stand; no one was about to give up a hard-won seat if they could help it. But she was young, so her only concern was to reach her destination by two o’clock. She wished she’d started off earlier than ten o’clock.
Managing to get there just in time she came away later that afternoon having bought at bargain prices three chairs, two upright hairdryers, an electric perming machine with its tangle of wires and metal rods, two oval mirrors and some framed posters fitting to a hairdressing salon, as well as sundry items like tins of hairpins, curling tongs, metal rollers and scissors, which she packed into a large holdall. The rest would be delivered by Carter Patterson – expensive, but she could now afford it.
A sink she would get in a local plumber’s yard and have him plumb it in, with a carpenter to build shelves and an electrician. Luckily she didn’t need to buy any floor covering, which was hard to come by in wartime. Her only problem now: would her little business pay for itself or go the way of that salon ruined by the war, from where she’d bought all this equipment? It was well into March though and, war or no war, with luck women would put the winter with its need for headscarves behind them and look towards spring and nice hair.
‘It looks ever so nice,’ said her sister-in-law, Daphne, when she and their mother-in-law came round to view the results. ‘The pink is so pretty.’
Daphne was more often at her husband’s mother’s than in their own home. Pliable, easy-going and, in Brenda’s eyes, far too easily manipulated, she seemed sometimes mystified by the way Brenda distanced herself from the woman. ‘She’s always bin so sweet and helpful to me,’ she’d say, but then what she might see as helpful, Brenda would have called interfering, though it was probably better to keep silent as to who might be right or who wrong, particularly as she herself couldn’t have said which.
Daphne, now three months pregnant with Bob away in the forces, had drawn even closer to Mrs Hutton. Before that she had paled at the possibility of being forced into doing war work, but that threat had been lifted. Whether or not that was the main reason to have let herself get pregnant with Bob not there to protect her, Brenda had to smile, for Daphne had always struck her as not being capable of taking on the responsibility of motherhood. But she was over the moon, perhaps for reasons other than just starting a family.
‘I think yer ever so brave, doing all this,’ she said with a tiny ring of envy in her voice. The senior Mrs Hutton wasn’t so forthcoming.
‘I think yer must be mad,’ she said, fingering this and fingering that, picking something up to scrutinise it, leaning forward to stare at herself in one of the oval mirrors, studying the framed posters of the latest or nearly latest hair fashions, looking the wires of the perming machine up and down and grimacing at the idea of being hooked up to it. (‘What if yer was tied up on this thing,’ she’d said, ‘and there was an air raid – ’ow would yer get out of it to take shelter?’)
‘Spendin’ out on all this.’ She fingered a newly washed hairbrush. ‘Tryin’ ter start up business like this in wartime. Yer just throwin’ yer money away. Yer was orright when yer was upstairs, but ter take on a shop – yer could go broke quick as anythink. Yer bein’ a fool, Brenda. The cost of all this, yer’d of bin better savin’ it fer when Harry comes ’ome an’ using it ter furnish a nice little rented ’ouse. He ain’t goin’ ter be pleased ter know yer’ve squandered away all yer’ve saved.’
Always what Harry might think. Her precious son, King Harry! Well, King blooming Harry could think what he liked. She was going to make a go of this business whether he liked it or not, she’d make him proud of her when he finally came home, whenever that might be the way the war was going in North Africa. But what would his mother say if she knew that not one penny that had gone on this place had been from savings of any sort?
She had written to him about the shop soon after the New Year. His mother wasn’t going to get in before she did. It would have been just asking for trouble, him hearing it all from his mum first and thinking she was being secretive. She tried to make her letter sound pleasing, laying emphasis on how hard she had saved from the money her hairdressing had brought in though not so much as to make him feel superfluous as a husband, telling him she knew he would have told her to go ahead with the idea.
It had been a hard letter to write. His reply hadn’t been what she had hoped though she’d not been that surprised: he was a bit taken aback; she should have asked his opinion before doing such a rash thing and he’d have advised her against it had she done so; that from now on he’d be spending his time worrying about her; could see the money she’d saved being blown up the wall in this stupid idea of hers; that he only wished he was there to put her right and what did she think she was doing going off half cocked like that. It was almost a telling off, her enthusiasm for their future ignored.
Tightening her lips, she folded the letter firmly, running her thumb nail viciously along the creases, and stuffed it behind the clock. Silly fool! Who did he think he was? Perhaps his mother had got in first. She vowed to write no more to him about the shop.
It was May before the place was really ready to open, but it caused no big concern, the rent having been paid by John Stebbings. By the time that gave out, she’d be raking the money in. She would wonder from time to time how and where he was. She’d at least expected a letter from him but there’d been none. He seemed to have totally vanished from her life. There were times when she still missed him. But there was so much to do trying not to delay too long in getting the place ready that her mind was mostly taken up elsewhere.
She had posters put up on the boarded part of the shop’s frontage, leaving the small glazed area to display the framed photos of 1942 fashions she’d bought at the sale. It certainly drew attention. She would see women pausing as they walked by, to backtrack a few paces for a better look. They would come as soon as she opened, she was sure of it. The clients she did upstairs were all asking about it.
‘Be nice to ’ave a real place ter be done in, luv. I’m lookin’ forward to it. Bet you are too. When d’yer open?’
‘May,’ she told them. ‘Got to get it all ready first. But, yes, May.’
Now was the grand opening, the fifteenth of May, Friday, right in time for the weekend.
Standing there at nine o’clock clad in a pink overall made of material bought with her own precious clothing coupons, her heart beating heavily in the hope that customers wouldn’t be disappointed with all she’d done, the fact that she was having to charge a few pence more because of overheads worried her.
Beside her was her little assistant, fourteen-year-old Joan, daughter of one of Mum’s friends, who would earn a few pence for sweeping hair up from the floor, cleaning the basin, washing brushes and combs, tidying the hairpins away in their containers, polishing, and making tea for clients when necessary. Later she might teach her to wash hair. The girl appeared bright enough and very enthusiastic on this first day.
She stood there, her blouse and short utility skirt well hidden under another skimpy pink overall Brenda had managed to squeeze
out for her from what had been left of the material she’d bought. The girl’s legs were bare but for gravy-browning staining to make it seem as though she wore stockings and thus appear presentable. Her dark shoulder-length hair was swept up with pins towards the back of her head by Brenda herself; a dusting of Brenda’s own precious face powder on her pert little nose and just a touch of beetroot juice on her lips all made her seem less of a child.
‘I can’t wait ter start,’ she said, broom in hand, until Brenda told her she had no need to sweep till much later on.
‘Let’s get my customers in first,’ she said. But three were coming this morning, booked last week, and quite a few more this afternoon, and for the next few days her book was beginning to fill.
The doorbell tinkled – her first customer, wash, trim and tong-wave.
Vera was home on leave. Vera was over the moon about an American boy she had met and was writing to. Even when scarcely inside the house she was telling her mother all about him, hardly giving herself time to draw breath as she dragged off her khaki ATS hat, not caring how she tousled her short fair curls. She threw herself at her mother to embrace her.
‘Oh, Mum! He’s gorgeous! He’s in love with me and I’m in love too.’
Told to calm down and not be so silly and to come into the living room before she went off half-cocked, she was made to say hello to her dad in the proper manner, sit down and tell them how she was and how long she had before going back.
‘It’s only a weekend leave,’ she told them impatiently, and embarked once more on her main topic of news.
‘I ’ave ter tell yer about Hank. He’s an American. He’s in the army and he’s ever so nice, Mum. We met in April at a dance and we’ve been writing to each other for three months now. I didn’t write to you about him because I wasn’t sure, but now I am. His family are nice people – he’s showed me photos, and he’s told his mum about me. She wrote to me and told me what a good boy he was to her and how she missed him so and how she hoped that one day he’d find a really nice girl, and he told me that as far as he was concerned I was that nice girl. We’ve met three times since, and he’s lovely, Mum. Ever so handsome. He’s about six foot tall, and blond, and ever so athletic. He runs for his outfit. Look, here’s a photo of him.’
The photo dug from her breast pocket was pushed at her somewhat stunned parents.
‘I want you to meet him as soon as we get leave together and I can bring ’im home here. He’s never been in with a real English family and he’s dying to meet you.’
‘But he’s an American.’ Mum at last got a word in, her tone stopping Vera in her tracks, and Vera’s happy face fell.
‘What difference do that make?’
‘Well, when the war’s over he’ll be goin’ back to ’is own country and yer won’t ever see ’im again.’
‘Mum, he’s said he’s bin told that American servicemen can apply for their wives to go back with them if they marry an English girl.’
‘Oh, Vera! You ain’t thinking of marrying him?’
‘Not yet. We ain’t even engaged.’
‘Then what’s all the fuss about, gettin’ all excited? By this time next year yer’ll of gorn orf ’im and got someone else – a nice English boy.’ She knew her daughter, who was a bit like her brother Brian, so sure that this was the one, then next minute off them as someone even more exciting loomed on the horizon. ‘Anyway, I ain’t all that keen on you inviting some strange American inter me ’ome.’
‘Americans ain’t bloomin’ foreigners, Mum!’ Vera shot out, and pouting, fell silent, becoming very distant to her parents for the rest of the weekend.
And when her mother was out of the room, her father, making himself busy by filling his pipe so he wouldn’t have to look at his daughter, said as though he had taken her to one side, ‘Them Americans, Vera, they’re just as much foreigners as French or Greek or Polish. We’ve got different ways of goin’ on even though we both speak the same language. You take my advice, Vera, do as yer muvver says and find a boy like ourselves. Yer know where you are wiv boys of yer own sort.’
Which only went to upset Vera all the more.
‘I wish I hadn’t told them!’ she said vehemently to Brenda, having gone to her flat on the Saturday afternoon to ask if she’d like to go to the pictures. Anything to get out of the house. ‘I wish I ’adn’t come ’ome. I’ll be glad to go back tomorrow.’
Brenda had been happy to go to the pictures with her, leaving Addie with Mum who, as always, was only too happy to have her grandchild there. And Brenda was somewhat more forthcoming than their mother, far more interested in the relationship, and far more sympathetic.
‘So how long did you say you’ve known him?’ she asked as she got tea for her and Vera after the pictures.
‘Three months.’ Vera pulled a face. ‘Mum said we’ve only just met and it’s not long enough fer me ter get ter know ’im properly. She said he’ll probably not be the same man at ’ome to what he is here, and she said I’m seeing ’im through rose-coloured spectacles and she’d rather not meet ’im because in time I’ll probably get over ’im and it wouldn’t be worth it.’
Brenda smiled. ‘I don’t think there’s a lot of danger of Mum meeting him, him in the American forces and you in ours. I shouldn’t think it’d be easy for you both to get leave at the same time.’
‘Oh, he can get leave easier than our boys,’ Vera put in, biting into one of the Spam sandwiches Brenda had made them. ‘Their officers are a lot more lenient than ours and they get lots more privileges than what our boys get. If he explained to his commanding officer why he wanted leave, I’m sure they’d give ’im it.’
‘Maybe. But I’d wait until he starts talking about marriage before you start bringing him home, the way Mum and Dad are. Just make sure he’s as much in love with you as you say you are with ’im, that’s all.’
But Vera saw no problems on that score. There was only one doubt that she had. ‘Mum says I’m being silly. You don’t think I am, do yer, falling for a guy from so far away, like the States? I just know I love ’im ter bits. I get tingles all down my spine even getting a letter from ’im. That ’as ter be love. The thing is, yer can’t ask love to discriminate once it gets its teeth in yer.’
Brenda’s mind flew instantly to John Stebbings as she put her half-eaten sandwich back down on the plate. Her heart still ached whenever she thought of him. Where was he now? She had not heard a word since he left.
‘You can’t,’ she admitted slowly. ‘Just don’t go overboard all at once. Let things take their time.’
It was the best advice she could give, but it must have hit some spot inside Vera. She put down her teacup and, getting up, came round the table to cuddle Brenda to her as if she were some generous benefactor.
‘I knew yer’d understand. And I know he’s gonna ask me to marry ’im, eventually. He keeps saying in all his letters that he can’t wait till we see each other again and that he can’t live without me and that when we’re not together the days go by slow and he longs fer when we can both be together, always. Oh, Bren, I’m so happy! I know he loves me, and I’m not going to let Mum spoil it all.’
Daphne would be having her baby in a month’s time, early September, and was spending all her time at her mother-in-law’s rather than at her own mother’s. She had apparently had six children and saw Daphne as a strong healthy woman who did not need coddling apart from motherly support and advice. Daphne however was nursing herself ready for her event with her husband’s mother waiting on her hand and foot, delighting in taking over.
Bob had got leave twice in all that time, and Daphne was all on tenterhooks that he might not get any more when the baby was born.
‘He said he’s trying to get compassionate leave,’ she told Brenda in the quiet living room of their mother-in-law’s home. Tears of apprehension glistened in her light blue eyes as she hugged her lump in both hands. ‘Oh, I don’t think I could go through with it if he can’t get leave.’
‘I don’t think I can cope.’
‘You’ll cope very well,’ Brenda said, trying not to feel impatient.
‘Who’ll cope?’ Mrs Hutton came bustling in with a few slender stems of pink Dr Van Fleet roses, rescued from the rambler over her garden trellis before they could get overblown from the heat of an August sun, and a small vase of water. Brenda turned to look at her.
‘Daphne’s worried about Bob not being home when the baby comes.’
Mrs Hutton placed the vase on the mantelshelf and popped in the blooms, rearranging them tastefully. ‘I’ll be looking after her for ’im.’
‘Your mum will be with you as well,’ Brenda pointed out. But Daphne gnawed at her lips, her fair brow creasing.
‘It’s our first baby. They ought ter let Bob ’ome ter be with me for a little while. Me mum says I’ll cope. She had six with no bother and I know she’ll be with me. But it ain’t the same as me own husband being ’ome.’
Clucking with sympathy Mrs Hutton went to offer a little comfort to her favourite daughter-in-law.
Brenda turned to gaze through the window at the back garden. Sid Hutton was bent over his vegetable patch, forking up potatoes. She could see him framed between the criss-cross strips of gummed paper over the panes of glass that, with air raids seeming a thing of the past and with the full heat of summer’s sun on them, had begun to lose their gum and curl up. If any more air raids did happen, how much glass they would stop from splintering, she wondered idly.
Mr and Mrs Hutton’s house had suffered only superfluous damage: a few windowpanes cracked, a few tiles broken. They had been lucky. Mum and Dad were still having to live downstairs in their house; no one at the Town Hall showed any apparent interest in them.
