by Clare Flynn
Ethel laid a hand on Jim’s arm, gave it a squeeze and slipped out of the room.
Jim stood motionless, his thoughts racing, his mouth unable to form words. He had so many questions, yet he already knew the answers.
Joan continued to stand with her back to him, holding her baby to her breast, as though waiting for him to leave.
Eventually he spoke. ‘It’s mine, isn’t it? That night in London?’
Jim waited, but she remained silent. Suddenly he became impatient. ‘For God’s sake, Joan. You’re one hell of a stubborn woman. I have a right to know.’
She shuddered a long sigh then turned to face him. ‘I didn’t want you to know. It was a mistake and I take full responsibility for it. I was the one who started it. I have only myself to blame.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It takes two to make a baby. Let me see it.’
‘It’s not It,’ she said, ‘He’s He. And he has a name.’ She paused for a moment and swallowed. ‘He’s called James, but we call him Jimmy. I named him for you,’ she said, unnecessarily.
Jim’s heart pounded in his chest. The baby was still buried under Joan’s cardigan, sucking at her partially concealed breast.
‘You should be sitting down. You might drop him and he must be heavy.’
‘So you’re an expert in childcare, are you now, Armstrong? And no, he’s not heavy at all. He’s in a sling under here. I always feed him standing up, otherwise he won’t stay on the breast. He wriggles too much.’
As she spoke he saw she was blushing. Jim stood beside her feeling awkward and uncertain as the baby continued to suckle.
‘Either get out of here or stick the kettle on if you’re staying,’ Joan said. ‘Tea’s in that canister over there. You know how to make a cup of tea, don’t you?’
By the time he had made the brew, the baby was asleep and Joan led him to the parlour at the front of the house, where she signalled him to sit on the sofa and then placed the sleeping baby in his arms and went to stand in front of the fireplace, sipping her tea and watching them.
Jim pulled back the shawl that was partially covering Jimmy’s face and looked at his son. He ran a finger over the baby’s cheek, marvelling at the soft peachy down of his skin, the tiny nose and the delicate rosebud lips.
‘Sit him upright. You might have to wind him.’
Jim looked at her helplessly.
‘He doesn’t often get wind but if he does, you’ll need to rub his back until he burps it up – but he looks happy enough.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ said Jim. As he held his son in his arms, feeling the warmth of the little body against him, listening to the little snuffling sounds of the sleeping infant, Jim was overcome with love. He looked across at Joan and smiled, then he bent his head and kissed the baby’s forehead. The baby opened his eyes for a moment, long enough for Jim to see that they were bright blue, like his own. He held a finger out and Jimmy curled his own tiny ones around it. Jim gazed at him in wonder and a rush of happiness ran through him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Would you have let me go away without knowing? How could you do that? Why?’ He looked at her helplessly.
She moved away from the fireplace and went to stand at the window with her back to him, folding the fabric of the net curtains through her fingers. ‘I didn’t want you to feel obliged to stand by me. You never wanted me. I made all the moves. You played along to be polite. It didn’t seem right to trick you into getting stuck with me.’
Joan turned and went to sit in the armchair opposite, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, looking at the floor rather than at him and the sleeping baby. ‘There have been so many girls in this town that have got knocked up as you Canucks call it and forced their fellas into marrying them. I don’t want to force anyone to marry me. I want to marry someone of his own free will.’
‘But you didn’t even give me the chance, Joan.’
‘No point. I know one thing about you, Jim Armstrong, and that’s that you’re a decent fellow and would insist on doing the right thing. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you doing the right thing, doing your duty, like I’m some kind of sacrifice.’
‘That’s why you wouldn’t open the door when I came to call on you last year. Because I’d have seen you were pregnant.’
‘And if you had, I’d planned to tell you it was Pete’s.’
A cold chill went through Jim. ‘You mean it could be Pete’s?’
She shook her head and sighed impatiently. ‘Of course it wasn’t Pete’s. You know damn well he was in the desert. And he and I, we never… I was a virgin until that night in London. I wanted to give you an out.’
She looked up at him as he sat holding the child. He bent his head again and kissed his son.
‘I don’t want an out,’ he said.
‘Maybe I do. I don’t want to be with a man who's doing his duty or who sees me as second best.’ She spoke the words harshly and the baby woke and started crying. ‘Give him to me,’ she said. ‘I need to put him down upstairs. You’d better go, Jim. We’re doing fine without you. Don’t you worry. Me and little Jimmy have each other now. That’s all we need. We don’t want you.’
Her words were like a physical slap. Here he was again, standing on shifting ground as she ran rings around him. She took the baby from him and moved to the door. ‘Let yourself out will you, Jim. And please don’t come back again. It’s better if you forget about us.’ She left the room and he listened to her footsteps mounting the stairs.
Jim sat on the settee, motionless, in shock, his brain a tumult of emotion. After about ten minutes, he got up and went up the staircase. He stood on the landing, looking at three closed doors, uncertain which to open, listening. The house was silent but then he heard the baby breathing and snorting in his sleep. He opened a door and found Joan lying on her bed, face down, the baby fast asleep in its crib beside the bed. Any doubts left him and he moved across the narrow space, lay down beside her and took her in his arms. She gave a little sob and turned to look at him, her face wet with tears. He wiped them away with his fingers then bent over and kissed her.
‘You silly goose,’ he said. ‘Why on earth would I want to leave you?’ He took a deep breath and then spoke the words he hadn’t known he wanted to say until he was saying them. ‘I love you, Joan, and I want to marry you. Will you have me? Please say you will.’
She looked up at him and said, ‘You silly goose, of course I will.’
Shopping for Shoes
Saturday 3rd April 1943, Eastbourne
One Saturday morning a few months after Jim and his colleagues had left Eastbourne, Gwen was sorting through household bills when Pauline came into the study with Brenda in her arms.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs C, would you mind watching Brenda for a couple of hours while I take Sally into town?’
‘Of course not.’ Gwen smiled.
‘Only she needs a pair of shoes and they’ve not had any in for ages but my friend Vi says they’re expecting some stock and we might find a pair to fit. I’m feeling lucky today.’ Pauline leant against the desk and grinned at Gwen. ‘It’ll be much quicker and easier without the baby.’
‘I’s not a baby,’ said Brenda indignantly. ‘I’s free.’
‘You are indeed three and getting to be a big girl. We’ll have some fun while Mummy and Sally are in town, won’t we?’ said Gwen. She turned to Pauline. ‘It’s no trouble at all.’
‘You get so little time off from that place, I hate to spoil your day off.’
‘I’ll be much happier playing with Brenda than sorting through all these bills.’
Pauline put the child down and the little girl scrambled into Gwen’s open arms.
Gwen turned to Pauline. ‘Be careful in town.’
‘We’ll only be in South Street. And we won’t be long. Straight in and out. I can’t put it off any longer as the soles of Sally's shoes are worn through and her toes are squashed. They grow so fast it’s hard keeping up. Spec
ially with rationing and shortages.’
Both women were mindful of the continuing air raids the town had suffered, many of which had concentrated on the main shopping street, but neither wanted to voice their concerns. Last Christmas German raiders had shot at people in the street as they were out doing Christmas shopping.
After reading Brenda a story, Gwen took the child into the garden to play on the swing Jim and Mitch had rigged up last summer from one of the trees.
Gwen pushed a squealing Brenda back and forth. The little girl was growing up so fast, developing her own personality and gaining in confidence each day. She had an infectious smile and a sunny temperament and was clearly a bright child – Gwen had started teaching her the alphabet and the child was a fast learner. Her blonde hair was tied in pigtails and her cheeks flushed as she puffed them out and swung her little legs back and forth.
Looking at her, Gwen felt the familiar pang of loss for the child she had never had. When the war ended and the house in Whitley Road became habitable again the Simmonds would want to return to their own home. Gwen didn’t want to imagine living without the sound of the children’s voices as they played in the garden and dreaded the thought of having to say goodbye. God willing, it would coincide with the return of Roger, safe from war and she tried to console herself with that thought. There would be nothing to stop Pauline and the children visiting.
Over the two years that the Simmondses had been living with her she had come to see them as an extension to her family. Were it not for the war she would never have met Pauline. Now she would trust her with her life.
The scream of air raid sirens shattered the quiet of the spring morning. Gwen swept Brenda into her arms and ran into the Anderson shelter in the garden. Brenda started to cry as the siren continued its piercing and terrifying wailing. Gwen cradled her, feeling her little heart beating against her chest. No matter how often the raids happened it became no less frightening. Powerless, she crouched in the small shelter, hoping the enemy planes would head away from the town. But their engines screamed as they descended. Please God, keep Pauline and Sally safe.
Brenda’s tears turned to whimpers as the explosions echoed and boomed. Gwen tried to count the bombs but they were coming so thick and fast she was unable to distinguish between individual explosions. The ground shook under them. It was a bad one.
The two of them clung to each other until the all-clear sounded.
She took out her handkerchief and wiped Brenda’s tears away. ‘All over now.’ She bent her head and kissed the little girl. ‘Brenda, my darling, I need you to be a very good girl. I’m going to take you next door so nice Mrs Prentice can look after you for a bit, while I go into town to meet Mummy and Sally. They’ll be back soon but I’ll have to go and help the poor people who might have been hurt by the bombs.’
Brenda began to cry again.
‘You need to be awfully brave and grown-up. Can you do that, Brenda? Can you be a big girl for me and for Mummy?’
Brenda nodded, her little face solemn and her thumb in her mouth.
Gwen quickly changed into her WVS uniform, left the child with her next door neighbour, and cycled as fast as she could towards the town centre. She cursed the fact that her access to petrol rations had ceased as soon as she no longer had to get to the station at Beachy Head. As she descended the hill, dust and smoke clouded the air and she could smell burning.
As she approached South Street, it was apparent that one of the many bombs had fallen nearby and her stomach clenched in fear and dread. Don’t let it be them. She left her bike outside the town hall and, grabbing her tin hat and her ARP armband, began to run along the street, stumbling over the broken glass scattered across the road from blasted shop windows. Please God, let them be safe. Let them have made it to the shelter. She repeated the words over and over again in her head.
A large metal sign lying across the pavement almost tripped her up and, with a sinking heart, she recognised the familiar black tin placard emblazoned with a large white S to signify the entrance to the communal shelter. It must have been torn off the front of the shelter in the blast.
At the junction with Spencer Road, close to the church of St Saviours, Gwen gasped, her knees weakening under her. All that was left of the shelter where she had hoped Pauline would have sought refuge was a pile of rubble in the road. It had been a surface air raid shelter, made of brick walls with a concrete roof. It was not constructed to withstand direct hits – intended only as a refuge from blast damage for people who had been caught outside when the sirens sounded. Gwen froze in her tracks, too shocked and terrified to move forward, certain that Pauline and Sally would be among the dead.
Lamp posts and trees lay in the road, torn out of the pavement by the force of the blast. Clergy from St Saviours wandered between the air raid wardens, hoping to find a living soul to whom they might offer consolation. Home Guards and ARPs were digging through rubble while policemen held back onlookers. Seeing Gwen’s uniform and armband one of the policemen waved her through.
‘I’m looking for my friend,’ she said to a warden. ‘She was shopping in South Street with her little girl and I think she may have sheltered here.’
‘Better hope not, love,’ he said, his mouth narrowing into a thin line. ‘No one in there stood a chance. Direct hit. They’re taking the bodies to the mortuary. What’s left of them. If you want to find out you’d better get over there.’
When she reached the hospital, Gwen sat with anxious relatives and friends, many of them injured, in a packed waiting room, where the atmosphere was febrile. It was two hours before they let her into the mortuary room. A passing hospital orderly spotted her – he knew Gwen from her WVS duties when she had often accompanied distressed relatives to identify family members. The orderly motioned her to follow him and ushered her into a room where she was horrified to see so many bodies, each covered with a sheet. As well as victims of the Spencer Road shelter there were casualties from across the town including from the main shopping street, Terminus Road.
‘Looking for a family member?’ he asked, his voice quiet.
‘My friend and her six-year-old daughter. They live with me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking away. ‘What I’d like to do to that bastard Hitler. You say she had a little girl with her?’
‘Yes, with blonde hair, cut in a short bob.’
The man frowned, tilting his head to one side. ‘Over here.’
He pulled back the top of one of the sheets and there was Sally. Gwen’s knees buckled. Sally looked perfect, her face unblemished, her hair still held back on one side by a tortoiseshell slide. The man reached out a hand and steadied Gwen. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? What a bloody awful shame.’
Gwen nodded, her throat constricted, her mouth dry.
‘You want to sit down a moment? If you can remember what the mother was wearing I’ll see if I can find her.’
Gwen sank onto the wooden chair he offered. ‘She’s blonde too. Permanent wave. Pretty. About twenty-eight. A blue coat.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Wearing a pink dress with navy polka dots.’
‘I’m going to get you a cup of tea and I want you to drink it in the office over there while I find your friend, Mrs Collingwood. Give me five or ten minutes.’
Gwen nodded. Her skin was prickling, nerves jangling. The man handed her a cup and she sipped the sweet tea. Her body was shaking and the cup rattled against the saucer as she held them. Thoughts refused to form. She tried telling herself to focus. What was she going to do? What about Brenda?
The orderly stuck his head round the door again and his mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I think I’ve found her, Mrs Collingwood. She’s in much worse shape than her daughter. We can do the identification by the clothes.’
‘No.’ Gwen shook her head. ‘I want to see her. I need to see her.’
With his hand on her arm, he guided her towards a table and eased back the sheet.
Gwen lo
oked down at her dead friend on the slab and gave an involuntary gasp. Pauline’s crushed face was almost unrecognisable, but there was bright red lipstick still fresh on her lips. Gwen imagined her sitting in the shelter reapplying it as the bombs rained down on the town.
That April Saturday had produced the worst casualties for a single raid of any in the entire war, with thirty-two dead and ninety-nine injured.
There was no Jim to comfort her when Gwen mourned the death of Pauline and Sally. She had never felt so alone. Grief over Pauline and her daughter was mixed with anguish over what might await Jim and an aching loss at his absence.
She would have despaired, were it not for Brenda. The little girl needed her. She remembered Pauline’s words at the death of her husband – bringing up her daughters was her only reason for living. Now Gwen was all Brenda had, and she intended to devote her attention single-mindedly to the little girl. It would mean giving up her work in the typing pool and her WVS duties. In a year or so, when Brenda started school – assuming the schools were open again by then – she could return to work part-time, but now working in any form was out of the question. She was needed at home.
Not long after Pauline’s death, the little girl looked up at Gwen as she helped her eat her breakfast. ‘Are you my mummy now?’ she asked.
Gwen gave a gasp and felt her heart stop. ‘Yes, my darling. I’m your mummy now.’ She scooped the small child into her arms and held her tightly, kissing the top of her head, breathing in the sweet soapy smell of her as she fought back tears.
‘You’re going to what?’ Daphne Pringle’s tone was one of horrified disbelief. ‘Good Lord, Gwen, you can’t be serious. Adoption?’
‘I’m completely serious. As soon as the war’s over I’ll make it official.’
‘But Roger? Doesn’t he have a say in this?’
‘Roger will feel exactly as I do. We will both be Brenda's parents. We’ve always wanted to have children. I love Brenda and I know he will too.’
