by Maggie Ford
Coming up to April and still Vera waited. ‘December they told us it was all OK,’ she fretted. ‘But we’re still ’ere.’
In December an act had been passed by Congress allowing admission into the United States of alien spouses. ‘What an ’orrible word,’ she’d burst out on first hearing of it. ‘I’m not an alien. I’m English!’
At the time it had been a step in the right direction, but the months had passed and no more appeared to have happened. ‘A lot of the wives ’ave bin ’olding marches and ’anding in petitions to the American Embassy,’ Vera told everyone. ‘Somethink’s got ter ’appen soon.’
Her mother nodded, pressed her lips together and kept her own counsel. But Brenda could read her mind.
‘I don’t want her to go,’ she saw in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to lose her, but I’m going to. I’ll never see her again, never see the grandchildren again.’
If it were the last thing she did it would be to send her and Dad over there for a visit to Vera and her husband and the two boys.
Again came thoughts of the house in Leytonstone and silently she blessed John Stebbings. If Harry refused to recognise it as their salvation, she would do what she liked with it – sell it and put the money into the bank to accrue interest. John would never know what good he’d wrought, when some of it paid for Mum and Dad to visit the United States.
It would make a hole in the funds but that was what the money was for: to help her family as John had meant to help her. And then, who knew, maybe after a while Harry would get used to it being there and agree to get his own garage. At the moment though she was heartily sick of this stupid attitude of his. A change of heart would come sooner or later, she vowed, but if it didn’t, what of their marriage? She preferred not to think of that just now, but one thing she did know. Either way she wasn’t prepared to knuckle down under Harry’s rules. After all these years on her own she’d become her own woman and come what may there was no going back to the old ways now. But again she preferred not to think about it, and would concentrate on her mother.
It must feel to her that everyone was leaving her. The war had wrenched her sons from her; though they had come home she must now suffer this other wrench, in fact more than one with Vera sailing to the other side of the world and Davy hardly setting foot in the house before he was off to the home of his French girlfriend, Monique, at St Maur near Paris. No doubt when they married, as he was sure they would, they would settle down there. He was even talking about adopting the Catholic faith, which, to his mum, was like throwing his upbringing in her face. Next year Brian was getting married except he’d only be round the corner, which was not quite so bad; he planned to live with his future in-laws until they found a place of their own, if and when.
It had become accepted, this living with families. Thousands found themselves without a home of their own, after coming out of the forces. And they needed somewhere to live, what with all those wartime marriages. Couples kept their noses to the ground like deerhounds and would pester the milkman, the coalman, the postman, even the rent collector who might know of a couple of rooms going before they got snapped up. Meantime people stayed stuck with parents and in-laws, getting under each other’s feet; quarrels broke out, marriages broke up, normal marital pursuits became a furtive business with so many ears to hear the squeak of bedsprings, the unguarded sigh, the smallest cry of joy.
Brenda felt so sorry for those starting out married life in someone else’s home and she cringed in guilt knowing she had a house standing empty. But that house was her means of keeping the job she loved doing. She was prepared to sell it to help out others, yes, but not to give it away, and ruin hopes of her own for the future. She didn’t think she was being selfish. At least she hoped she wasn’t.
‘The place ain’t ’alf goin’ ter feel empty without them all,’ Mum lamented briefly, but squared her shoulders, ready to face it. ‘As all mums ’ave ter at some time or other, I s’pose. Though yer dad says it’ll be nice to ’ave the place all to ourselves. An’ I suppose he’s right so I mustn’t really grumble an’ upset ’im.’
Her stoic remark wrung Brenda’s heart. But mainly it irked – Mum was knuckling down in the old way of women subservient to their menfolk. She was blowed if she was going to be subservient to hers after all she’d achieved.
*
‘I feel so guilty and rotten,’ Vera had said, ‘leaving Mum like I’m goin’ to.’ But that second Monday in April, all guilt seemed to leave her as she rushed over to Brenda who was working rapidly on an elderly woman’s hair before snatching a moment to go up to her flat to enjoy a quick cuppa and a Spam sandwich for lunch. Adele was at school and Harry was out, having found temporary building work. It was not his cup of tea, still hankering as he was to be a car mechanic, but it paid more.
Vera was out of breath from running as she burst into the salon. ‘Oh, Bren, I’ve ’eard at last. It come this morning. I ’ad ter rush round as quick as I could ter let yer know because I could be goin’ at any moment. Mum’s in a right stew. It could even be termorrer, I really don’t know.’ Vera’s face began to pucker as Brenda stared at her, the comb she was using poised above her client’s head.
‘Quick as that? Oh, Vera, they couldn’t do that to you – or to Mum.’
‘It’s what they’ve said. I’ve bin told ter be in a state of ready – that’s ’ow they’ve put it – ter leave within twenty-four hours.’
‘Twenty-four . . .’ Brenda broke off in shock while her elderly client, sensing some drama, clicked her tongue in sympathy despite being unaware of what it was about.
‘They say it’s the present shortage of shipping and they can’t estimate an approximate date any of us’ll be able ter sail. We come under the United States Transporting Office what used ter move men to the war, and they’re using the same ships ter move us off to America. Bren, it’s come so sudden.’
Brenda breathed in a sigh of relief. Vera was exaggerating again. It could be weeks yet. She bet Vera had already frightened the living daylights out of Mum too with her tendency to panic over the smallest of things.
‘It might not be all that sudden,’ she soothed. ‘They mean you to be ready to leave in twenty-four hours, Vera. They don’t mean it will be twenty-four hours from this very minute. It could still take ages.’
Vera’s face grew even more distressed at the statement. ‘It’s so unfair! They’ve bin keeping us apart all these months, and they still want ter keep us apart. I don’t think they really want their men ter marry English girls. They look down on us. I’ll never get ter see Hank at this rate.’
Vera could be so exasperating, one minute panicking that she might have to leave her home and beloved family at a moment’s notice, then on being reassured that it might not be that quick, turning things completely round to complain of delays. What did she want?
‘Vera, I’ve got customers to see to. I’ll see you at the weekend, love. Then we can talk more about it.’
‘I might not be ’ere by the weekend,’ Vera said, despondently and not a little ominously. But Brenda wasn’t to be cajoled into spending more time and sympathy on her.
‘If you want to go up and make yerself a cup of tea,’ she suggested, but Vera shook her head.
‘I want ter get back ter see if Mum’s orright. I left ’er in tears – or nearly in tears.’
Brenda didn’t doubt it and decided to tell Harry she would pop round there this evening to see if there was anything she could do. Lately she and Harry were on better talking terms; the matter of selling the house had been shelved with all this business of Vera leaving to go half across the world, although he was still carping about this ‘bloody hairdressing lark’ as he called it. He might even consent to come along with her.
‘I ain’t ’alf goin’ ter miss them little ones,’ said Mum, her eyes on the robust little boys, blissfully ignorant of their imminent new life in another country, playing happily on the floor. Vera was out shopping, getting things together for her j
ourney, though it seemed the USA would be providing an awful lot of it.
Two years old now, Vera’s boys, Sam and Henry, had become Mum’s whole life. She spent time with them constantly, urging Vera to go out with friends to the pictures while she gave eye to them. It was as though she was drinking them in, the last sip of precious water to sustain her in her barren world when they finally departed for a new land, a new life with different grandparents fondly gazing at them. She would become consigned to the mists of the past, would become just a name written on a letter: Nanny Wilson.
Watching her gaze at them, Brenda was conscious of just the tiniest stab of uninvited jealousy. Mum used to give Addie all her attention in that way but with Vera’s twin boys in her home now it was practically as though they’d taken Addie’s place in her heart. But naturally they would and should – all three of them were her grandchildren but after the other two had gone, only the one would be left and her attention would return to Addie.
With that in mind, such puny envy dissipated; such sadness for her mother took its place that it was hard to stop her eyes from filling with tears. She too would miss Vera dreadfully, and the children, so how much worse must it be for Mum? But she was taking it so stoically, the only sign of her breaking heart the words, ‘I ain’t ’alf goin’ ter miss them little ones.’
It was the first of May and Vera was in a flap. Tomorrow evening she and her children would be on board ship. She should have been relieved that the wait was over, that soon she’d be with her husband, the children with their father, but all she could do was weep, throwing her arms about her mother’s neck with each fresh burst of tears with Mum patting her gently on the back to console her. Mum’s own eyes remained fixed upon some distant point, arid with grief, while Dad looked on uselessly.
It had turned into such a terrible rush, with Vera torn between excitement and sorrow, anticipation and apprehension, having signed all the forms and read the booklet sent to those leaving for America, A Bride’s Guide to the USA, from cover to cover and got together all on the list of things to take with her. She wore the outfit Henry (the name his family knew him by, Hank having been for the benefit of his pals in the forces) had sent her in a parcel. She’d bought wine-coloured shoes with matching hat and handbag to go with the grey suit, and looked very smart.
‘It’s like I’m in America already. I look just like Betty Grable does,’ she enthused and failed to notice the bleak look these words brought to her mother’s face.
Henry’s parcel had also contained outfits for the boys that made both toddlers look American the moment she put them on Henry and Sam: long trousers, chunky sweaters, tiny baseball caps.
‘As if they’re already livin’ there,’ said Mum, and Brenda, waiting with her and Dad to leave for Waterloo Station where Vera would board a train for Southampton, heard the lonely bitterness in her voice. She wondered if Vera had. But Vera was too taken up with the hastiness of the moment.
It was a painful train journey to Waterloo. The station was crowded; a lot of uniforms could be seen still despite the war having been over a whole year. But they were drab British uniforms, British men still waiting to be demobbed. The GIs had all gone back home. Now Vera was following them, bound for the unknown.
In the while it took for the train to leave, Vera leaned from the carriage-door window, having dropped it down as far as it would go, for a last conversation with her family. Among all those saying their farewells, nostrils filled with the warm odour of engine oil and of acrid smoke, ears deafened by the echoing noise of a busy main station, the rattle of mail trucks, the shouting of porters, the whistle of release steam, thunderous puffing of trains leaving and the shriek of others arriving, they had to practically shout to be heard.
Talk was stilted. ‘You take care now, won’t yer?’
Dad had gone inside with her to hoist her suitcase up on to the mesh luggage rack. He now stood ineffectually on the platform, gazing up at the daughter he would never see again. How would he ever afford for himself and Mum to go all the way to America?
Vera nodded, eyes glistening with tears. ‘I will, Dad.’ The words had become choked in her throat. ‘You take care too.’
‘I ’ope the sandwiches are orright. I ’ope they’re enough.’
Mum had lovingly cut them that morning, opening a precious tin of ham kept back from Christmas. Not the great doorsteps she usually made, but cut thin, each sandwich of ham and cucumber sliced into four dainty triangles reflecting all her love for the daughter who within minutes would be leaving her forever.
‘There’s plenty there, Mum. I’ll look forward to ’avin’ ’em.’
Her voice, harshly Cockney, would eventually soften with the adoption of an American accent. If they saw her again in some future year they’d hardly know her. Again Brenda made her silent vow that if it was in her power to send them over there, they’d get to know her again. But was it wise? Any visit would always be a short affair. They’d suffer this pain of parting all over again.
Sending them, she wouldn’t be able to afford to go herself, and she wouldn’t go without Harry and Adele. She would never see her sister again. It was all she could do not to turn away and hide her tears. She needed to feast her eyes on her sister to the very last moment, consign that face, that way of talking, that way of standing, to memory, even though the reality would change, unseen other than in photos sent back, and the voice would maybe one day be heard only in a long-distance, distorted phone call.
‘There’s a bit of cake in there as well. A bit of me own cake.’
This brought a fresh glistening of tears. Cake made by her mother’s own hands – the last thing she had that had been made by Mum. The look on her face said that she didn’t want to eat it but to keep it until it grew hard and crumbled away.
‘I ’ope there’s enough there fer you and the babies.’
They weren’t babies any longer, but in her eyes they were and always would be.
‘There’s plenty, Mum. Thank you, Mum.’
The whistle was blowing, the guard waving his flag. Doors slammed. People sat back in their seats. Last-second travellers sprinted for the train before it could begin moving, yanked open doors and reached out to slam them shut behind themselves. Scores of women, alone, leaving for the same destination, leaned down to kiss loved ones and wave a last goodbye.
Vera leaned down too, kissed her parents, grabbed Brenda’s hand and pulled her close for a cuddle. ‘Thanks fer everythink you’ve done in the past, Bren,’ she whispered. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’
Breaking away she picked Sam and Henry up and held them to the open window for each to be kissed by everyone in turn, a hasty business, an all too brief touch of lips on the cool, silky, baby skin.
The train was beginning to move, steam erupting from it, the funnel letting loose explosive puffs of dark smoke, the whistle valve giving out a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek. Carriages shuddered, their passengers jerked forward then back.
Vera held her two boys in one arm against the door support, then held up her free arm to wave.
‘Bye . . . Take care . . . ’bye . . . love you . . . love you, Mum, Dad, Bren . . . ’Bye, Mum. Mum, look at me, please . . . turn round and look at me . . .’
But Mum had turned away, merely raising a hand, her back view the last Vera saw of her as the Southampton train bore her and her children off.
Brenda and her father stood until the last carriage disappeared from sight. Brenda came to herself and hurried ahead of her dad to put an arm round Mum’s thickened waist as they walked from Waterloo Station. Neither of them said anything. There were no words to be said.
Chapter Thirty
Vera was gone. Davy was gone, living with his fiancee’s people in St Maur. She didn’t miss Davy so much; he had been away so long in the forces that childhood closeness had melted away long ago.
But she missed her sister dreadfully, missed the times she’d loaded her problems on to Vera: Harry’s refusal to take her hairdr
essing business seriously, sneering at it though apparently willing for her to pay the bills he couldn’t; his refusal to have anything to do with the house everyone believed she’d bought herself; the rows and arguments they’d had over it and her own refusal to bow to his dictates – all of which Vera used to listen to with little noises of sympathy that, while offering no solution, made her feel she at least had a listening ear. Now there was no one to talk to about it. She couldn’t burden Mum with it. Mum was of the old-fashioned type of woman and would judge her unfair to a husband who had fought for his country and now by rights should resume his life as head of his family.
With no one to consult or take her side, Brenda could only ponder on how to raise the question of the house yet again without causing a ruckus. For a while it seemed better to keep her mouth shut. But somehow one summer evening it just sprang up out of a perfectly ordinary conversation while they were having a bedtime cuppa.
It was a perfect evening, the sky still faintly tinged by afterglow. Addie lay asleep, and a shared moment or two of talk would hopefully lead to one of their frequent bouts of snuggling close in their own bed and making love. But her mind seldom strayed far from the thing that forever bugged her.
Harry had in fact been talking about property, about how ‘them with money’ seemed to reap yet more. ‘Buyin’ old places an’ doing ’em up inter flats, makin’ a bomb lettin’ ’em out ter people what’ll pay anyfink fer a roof over their ’eads.’
‘You know, love,’ she said casually, ‘we’re wasting an awful lot of money we could be living on, still paying rates on that place of ours in Leytonstone. Why don’t we let it out then, like other people are doin’, and get something back from it? It’s standing there all empty and—’
