A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Battling to regain a sense of normality, Brenda turned to other thoughts. What was she going to do with the place? She could never live here, not with the shadow of him drifting from room to room. Maybe she should try to sell it. But that was hardly to be contemplated, for the very reason she had told herself earlier. His memory would be desecrated if what had once been his home passed to someone else. Yet it couldn’t stay empty forever. To allow it to fall into decay would be an even worse violation. It would still have to be maintained. For what? To stand here as a monument? He would be appalled. He’d given it to her – it must be used. Perhaps if she let it? But that would mean people trooping through it, filling it with their noise, altering things. Only she was permitted to do that. Maybe she could bring herself to come here periodically to clean and dust without needing to move any of the things from the places where he had left them.

  Still undecided, Brenda let herself out, at the open door taking a final look behind her. It was a lovely house, large and roomy, one which she in her poky flat had always dreamed of owning. All around were trees and front gardens with flowers growing, and not far off open spaces, Epping Forest, Wanstead Flats, open country to take Addie to. It could be made so beautiful. But not yet.

  Shutting her mind to it, Brenda locked the door, dropped the key into the depths of her handbag and without looking back, walked down the garden path, turning left towards Leytonstone Station.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  She hadn’t gone near the place since that one time. In the months that followed, Brenda found herself confronting a constant dilemma. Having told no one, not even Mum or Vera, about the house – and if Mum had harboured any suspicion of her affair with John Stebbings, that suspicion must have died a long time ago – she could hardly start blurting it all out now. But how did one explain away a house?

  Around Christmas she hit on how she might get away with it. Brenda’s Place was doing marvellously well these days and she had accrued a nice little bank balance, to the envy of her mother-in-law who saw her becoming ever more independent of Harry. No one of course knew how much money she had made, some assuming it was quite a fortune. She dressed well, ate well all of which blared comparative affluence. She wasn’t in reality as well off as she looked. Overheads took their share of income, and profits were still only modest. The business kept growing, but there were her two assistants to pay, and Vera, now that she had consented to teach her sister the trade. But in time she could let it be known that she had decided to buy a house while prices were at rock bottom. After the war, she’d explain, prices will rocket.

  She would wait until after Christmas before telling everyone what she had purportedly done. It would arch a few eyebrows in the Hutton camp, but she was sure her own people would be overjoyed to see her reap the reward of all her hard work over the years. Yes, it was an excellent idea.

  Christmas passed in its usual defiant wartime manner, provisions hoarded for half the year going towards making the Christmas pudding and a Christmas cake of sorts with carrot, apple, prunes and dried dates making up for a wartime scarcity of currants, sultanas and raisins. Eggs preserved in something called water-glass did their job, sugar hoarded spoonful by spoonful over the last seven or eight months got brought out with margarine being pooled by the whole family to go into the communal Christmas luxury. All this and the cook’s own skill went to do a fine job.

  Brenda, spending Christmas Day this year with her own family, had still not been able to broach this apparent business of house-buying. She hated to lie. Even with her own people it wasn’t easy. They’d be astonished at her apparent wealth and success after starting out to earn just a bit of pin money. Not green-eyed or begrudging but certainly surprised. The begrudging bit she’d leave to her in-laws, or at least her mother-in-law, who would see Brenda as doing too well with her son not there – maybe much too well and how did she come by it all, and so on? She wasn’t looking forward at all to Boxing Day with her in-laws while this secret lay inside her.

  She needn’t have worried. The talk was mostly of the way the war was going – the situation had become worrying after everyone had earlier been so optimistic. After all that forging ahead, with German troops on the run and even the first German town taken, the enemy had suddenly turned, and in three days had advanced forty-five miles towards Antwerp.

  ‘I only ’ope it ain’t goin’ ter turn inter anuvver Dunkirk,’ observed Mr Hutton, echoing what a lot of people were thinking.

  ‘Not after all that’s been done, it can’t,’ said Brenda. From the dinner table where she sat eating cold meat and bubble and squeak made from potatoes and sprouts left over from yesterday, she gazed towards the fire, wishing Mr Hutton would put some more coal on it against the draught seeping into the room from the coldest Christmas weather they’d had for fifty years, so it was being said.

  ‘How much longer is this rotten war going on for? Sometimes I feel like my Harry’s never going ter come home.’ The British had sorted out Italy and were now in Greece. So was Harry.

  ‘They should of sent ’im ’ome before now. ’E’s done ’is bit,’ said his father at which Daphne pulled a face and reminded him that his younger son was also in the thick of it.

  ‘I get so frightened worrying fer Bob, if ’e should get killed fighting.’

  ‘Oh, Daphne,’ chided Brenda. ‘You mustn’t think that way. You’ve got to say to yerself, “He’s going ter come home all right.”’

  Daphne turned moist eyes towards her and cuddled little Robert, who sat on her lap eating from her plate, a little closer to her. ‘I can’t ’elp meself lying awake at nights wonderin’ if this poor little mite’ll end up with no dad.’

  ‘Daphne . . .’ Brenda began, but Mrs Hutton intervened.

  ‘I read they still ain’t found Glenn Miller yet.’

  She got up hurriedly to go over to her old mother who was hugging the fire to give her a bit more of the cold chicken with some pickle.

  ‘Went down over the Channel goin’ ter play to them in France. They still ain’t found ’im or any wreckage of the plane. I used ter like ’is music.’

  ‘I expect it’ll still be played,’ said Brenda, her mind temporarily taken off Daphne and the war, though still wondering how she was ever going to tell anyone about that house.

  Around the middle of January she finally plucked up enough courage to embark on her tale of buying it. She would tell her own family tonight and tomorrow, Sunday, tell her in-laws when she went round there for dinner. Going over in her mind what she would say as she combed out the now-fashionable loose shoulder-length hair of a client, she was surprised to see a frantic Mrs Hutton come into the salon.

  After a few visits following its opening when she’d come more to black her nose than anything, she hardly set foot here now. Whether out of resentment, misguided disapproval or just because nowadays she cut it herself, Brenda had no idea, but she preferred to think the latter.

  Mrs Hutton almost ran to her, taking her by the arm and pulling her aside. ‘Bren!’ Her voice was a low, harsh whisper. ‘Yer’ve got ter come ’ome with me, now. We’ve ’ad some bad news.’

  Brenda felt her blood run cold. Harry! Already there was a whirling inside her head. Please God, no!

  ‘Daphne’s in a terrible state.’ Her mother-in-law went on without taking a breath. ‘We’ve tried to calm ’er down, but she don’t ’ear us. P’raps you can make ’er ’ear you. Yer’ve got ter come. Now. It’s Bob.’

  The whirling sensation had grown worse, the relief every bit as bad as shock and foreboding had been. So was the guilt that she should dare feel relieved at someone else’s bad news. Her heart went out to Daphne.

  She gathered her wits. It wasn’t easy to leave the salon on a busy Saturday afternoon. ‘You go on back, Mum. I just need to finish off here, and then I’ll follow.’ But the demanding drag on her arm increased.

  ‘Now, Bren! Daphne’s in hysterics. We can’t do nothink with ’er.’

  Poor thing. To l
ose a husband at this time of the war. It had been bad with the Allies being pushed back like that, but the Battle of the Bulge was over, the enemy broken, the Allies rushing ahead once more. It had even so left something like eighty thousand Allied casualties – a terrible price to pay. And Bob was one of them. Brenda felt her heart grow heavy with sadness and sudden grief, knowing that it could have easily been for Harry.

  ‘Vera, keep an eye on everything,’ she ordered. ‘And Joan, you carry on – I don’t think there’s anything you and Vera can’t handle at the moment.’

  Thankfully she’d done the two perms this morning. At this time in the afternoon only a couple of sets and three trims remained to be done before closing. She could rely on Joan, and Vera was coming along very well. Mum was upstairs looking after the babies and Vera had already collected Addie from a friend’s flat. She thought of telling Mum what had happened, but there was no time. She’d tell her later.

  Changing into heavy shoes, donning her coat, woolly gloves and thick scarf, Brenda hurried off after her mother-in-law through the snowy streets.

  ‘When did you hear?’ she queried as they went.

  ‘Half-hour ago,’ explained Mrs Hutton, gazing ahead. ‘We was told they’ll be sending ’im ’ome to a military ’ospital after a while. We don’t know when or where that’ll be yet. Daphne’s beside ’erself . . .’

  Brenda pulled up sharply, her raised voice dulled by the snow-laden air. ‘Hospital! Mum, you made me believe he’d been killed.’

  Mrs Hutton also stopped, turned and looked at Brenda. ‘I never said. I said . . .’ Confused for once, she fumbled for words. ‘I don’t know what I said. It’s because Daphne’s in such a state over it. The telegram said ’e’s bin wounded, lorst a leg and they’re goin’ ter ’ave ter send ’im ’ome.’

  Brenda was angry now. ‘You dragged me away from me work, just over that?’

  Mrs Hutton too had grown angry. ‘What d’ye mean, just over that? He’s lorst a leg! ’Ow can yer be so unfeelin’? If it was your ’usband . . .’

  She stopped abruptly remembering that Harry too had been wounded in North Africa, but recovered herself. Though still angry, she went on, ‘’E didn’t lose a leg. He weren’t crippled. Daphne’s got an invalid on ’er ’ands now, an’ a toddler ter look after, an’ she ain’t strong.’

  She was strong. Just didn’t want to be. But Brenda held her tongue. Here, with the snow falling and the cold biting into their bones, wasn’t the time to have a row. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Maybe I can ’elp to calm ’er down.’

  She told her mum and dad about the house that night, after passing on the news about Harry’s brother. They were sorry about Bob but were genuinely pleased over the house, and, as she had expected, surprised.

  ‘I didn’t think yer ’ad that much savin’s, gel,’ said her father. ‘Good luck to yer, all the same. Yer must of saved bloody ’ard for it. Harry’ll be pleased when ’e comes ’ome, an’ proud of yer. Or ’e ought ter be.’

  There followed a bombardment of questions about what it was like, how had she found it, why hadn’t she told them all earlier, and when could they all go and see it.

  Lying in her teeth to her own parents was an unpleasant business. More than once during the evening she was on the verge of confessing the true story behind the house. The only thing that stopped her was the volume of information she would have had to provide, all the time aware that she’d be disclosing what they’d see as an unsavoury affair. She wasn’t going to subject them or herself to that.

  ‘Once I get it straight,’ she promised, ‘we’ll go and see it together,’ and managed – with a lot of hard thinking and excuses that she wanted to get it looking nice – to parry a natural eagerness to ‘just go an’ ’ave a look from the outside’.

  ‘P’raps in a few weeks’ time,’ she finally conceded, hoping that this interval might dull their curiosity if she did not refer to it any more than she need to. But she could see it cropping up time after time until she did let them view it.

  The experience with her own people was a sobering lesson and it was ages before she could bring herself round to telling her in-laws.

  The day Daphne had been told about Bob had certainly not been the right time with the girl going off into fresh hysterics the minute Brenda walked into the house, immediately looking to her for comfort.

  ‘Yer the only one I can see what might ’elp ’er,’ Mrs Hutton had told Brenda on that particular occasion with no grudge in her voice. ‘She won’t listen to me. She might of listened to my Sid, but ’e ain’t ’ome from work till seven and I didn’t want ter get a doctor, payin’ ’im fer just an hysterical attack. That’s why I came ter get you. You both get on so well tergether, you might be able ter ’andle ’er better than me.’

  Brenda had asked Mrs Hutton to make a cup of tea with lots of sugar in it. The one already beside Daphne lay untouched and cold, but she would make sure of the girl drinking a fresh one. Once she was alone with her, Brenda had held her sister-in-law to her, then eased her away while keeping a tight hold on her arms, and looked into her face.

  ‘Now listen,’ she’d commanded. ‘Listen to me, Daphne. Getting into a state ain’t goin’ ter do no one any good. You’ve got little Robert to look after. Bob won’t thank you fer givin’ way like this. And he’s goin’ ter be all right.’

  ‘But ’ow will he ever get work, ’im crippled?’ sobbed Daphne.

  ‘Of course he’ll get work. It’ll be a while, but this ain’t the First World War when they left men on the scrapheap to manage best they could. These are modern times. They do miracles and they’ll fit ’im up with a new leg, and knowing Bob he’ll be as right as rain. Him and Harry are a pair alike. Harry wouldn’t let anything put ’im down. Neither will Bob. Just trust him.’

  It had sounded so trite, so easy to say; how would she have behaved had it been Harry? But it seemed to work. Slowly Daphne had calmed. Her body ceased its jerking to the spasmodic sobs. Revived by the hot cup of sweet tea which this time Brenda insisted she drank all up, she was even able to smile, at last beginning to see a tiny light at the end of her dark tunnel, a light conjured up for her by her friend and sister-in-law.

  It was the beginning of March, when with luck everyone would be more preoccupied with going to visit Bob some way off in the hospital than with anything she might have to say, before Brenda was able to find the right time to tell them her trumped-up story of house-buying. By that time she had practically come to believe her own story, so well-rehearsed was it.

  Even so, she wondered why she had picked today of all days – Irene Hutton’s birthday. Mrs Hutton had invited her to tea, and Brenda found she’d also asked her immediate family: Iris and Enid, her daughters, and Daphne. Each had their man away in the forces, so Mr Hutton looked utterly isolated.

  With everyone there, Brenda was nearly tempted to shelve her long-held news until yet another time, when it felt right. But when would there be a right time? Then again, today might be that right time with so much going on. Enid and Iris were nattering away to each other and regaling their mother with their own family news; Mrs Hutton had her hands full cutting sandwiches and cake into tiny morsels for her own mother who, as always, had taken her dentures out to eat. ‘Can’t chew wiv a mouth full o’ china shiftin’ about in me poor ole north an’ south!’ she always maintained.

  Perhaps all the distractions were a godsend in a way. What she had to say might be submerged by it all and it wouldn’t be a lie to say later that she’d told them and they’d probably been too busy to take a lot of notice. And the jolt would have gone out of it.

  Taking in a deep breath, Brenda chose the noisiest part of the birthday tea. ‘I thought I ought ter tell you – I bought a house. It’s all gone through at last and I thought now’s the time ter let you know.’

  If she’d hoped for a few casual nods with the conversation picking up where it had left off, it wasn’t to be. Dead silence fell, followed, just as she’d feared, by a rash of raise
d eyebrows from around the table and about as many responses:

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘Bought an ’ouse?’

  ‘Well I never did!’

  ‘Yer mean, yer bought an ’ouse?’

  To which she could only nod in agreement.

  It was Mr Hutton who came out with the longest string of words, his sense of isolation amid all these women cured instantly, his masculinity coming to the fore.

  ‘What’yer mean, Bren, yer bought an ’ouse? What for? Yer got a nice flat, ain’ yer – right over yer work?’ They had begun to accept that she did work. ‘Why d’yer wanna uproot yerself now for? You ought ter ’ave waited till yer ’usband got ’ome. The war’ll be over soon – I’d of waited till then an’ let ’im do it. Not you. Anyway, how’d yer manage ter find that much dosh ter buy an ’ouse wiv?’ It was a demanding question yet delivered not too unkindly.

  ‘Must of set yer back a pretty penny, gel,’ he continued, not waiting for a reply. ‘Bet yer’ve left yerself wiv nuffink. Yer should of bin careful, y’know, doin’ a silly thing like that. Should of told us before you went and did it. Yer could be lettin’ yerself in fer a lot of trouble. Us sort of people don’t go buyin’ ’ouses. Fer us sort of people it’s always best ter pay rent. Yer don’t get no comeback that way. Out of our league, buyin’ an ’ouse.’

  ‘I’ve been saving for ages for it!’ The lie as well as indignation at being questioned and advised made Brenda’s reply more terse than it might have been. Mrs Hutton’s eyebrows shot up even higher, her tone hardened by shock.