Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Ben stuffed a soldier into his mouth and pushed the spoon around the inside of the shell until the white curled round and came out in one piece. It sat glistening on his spoon while he said, ‘Who’s to say I didn’t know?’

  He opened his mouth and spooned in the egg, chewing, looking around as though he’d won the argument. He shoved in his remaining soldier too.

  Fran and her mam were looking at Viola. ‘By, lass,’ said Fran, ‘that’s quite summat to know your quotes like that. Worthy of a crossword setter, eh, Ben?’

  Viola was watching Ben as he continued to chew, his cheek bulging. She hid a grin. ‘It’s common sense to know, young Ben. Then you won’t get clever clogs like me picking you up when you think you’ve been a smarty-pants.’

  Annie rose from the table, collecting the plates and waving them all down. ‘Wait, I’ve something for afters.’

  Ben watched her go. ‘Afters? But we never have afters these days.’

  From the scullery, his mam called, ‘Well, today, we have, so tra la.’ Fran wondered what on earth her mam was up to.

  Annie stood at the doorway holding a plate of four scones, one each. ‘The bairns made them.’

  ‘Scones?’ Ben spluttered, crumbs falling from his mouth.

  His mam held the plate out of range and clipped his ear. ‘That’s disgusting. Not sure you should have one with all this showing off.’

  Ben swallowed, again and again, until finally his mouth was empty. He dragged the back of his hand across his lips and almost earned another clip, but he dodged his mam’s hand and said, ‘I reckon our Viola should be a teacher. She’s clever, knowing the Bible, and she’d teach bairns a lot. And they’d like her an’ all, for she wouldn’t keep clipping ’em.’ He rubbed his ear and grimaced.

  The women laughed. ‘Good try at changing the subject,’ said Viola.

  Ben watched his mam carefully slice open the scones, then fetch butter and honey from the scullery. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Where …?’

  ‘Farmer Thompkins brought the bairns back from school in his trailer in the week and had some butter and honey to spare for Sophia and the co-op. He said that Mrs Massingham looked fair wore out, and time we found her a helper, especially with Joy gone. Someone good with bairns, who’d put up with no nonsense. But where’ll we find such a one?’

  Annie buttered the scones, then added honey, closed them up again and handed the plate to the girls first. ‘Savour these, pets, they’ll keep you going this evening.’

  Only then did she pass it to Ben, who placed his scone on his own plate and just stared down at the priceless object.

  ‘Oy,’ Fran called, watching him closely. ‘Where’s that noddle taking you now?’

  Ben looked at her, then at Viola, then at his mam. He looked again at his scone, then up at Viola. ‘Can you make scones, our lass?’

  She laughed. ‘Of course I can. Why? Have you come up with a crossword clue or something?’

  Fran was cutting her scone into quarters, watching Ben because he so reminded her of her da, and it wasn’t just the dark hair and eyes. She smiled, for she’d guessed where this was going and it was in absolutely the right direction. Oh, clever Mam, clever lad.

  ‘Well, I’ve come up with something,’ said Ben, ‘but it isn’t a clue. Viola, I can see how carefully you washed your fingers before you sat to eat, but, lass, you’ve more than one bandage on that sore hand and it seems to me the top one’s a man’s handkerchief, and see how it’s oozed right through. I reckon ’tis time to give the Factory a miss and help out Sophia, for you know a lot, and it would be different work and more kindly to your hand. What’d you think, Mam, for she’d have a bigger bedroom, I bet? Then you wouldn’t have to squash in with Fran and sleep on that hard truckle.’

  There was a heavy silence. Fran murmured, ‘“Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings” – that’s Psalm 8. See, I know me quotes too, Viola.’

  Viola looked from one to the other, then down at her half-eaten scone. ‘Psalm 8, verse 2, it is. But Ben, Mrs Hall, Fran, you’ve been so kind and made this my home. How can I go up there, to a bigger bedroom? It would be so ungrateful.’

  Fran reached across and grabbed her good hand. ‘Don’t be—’

  Her mam came around and rested her hands on the lass’s shoulders. ‘Aye, this is your home, you know it is. We’re your family, and the same can be said on behalf of Sarah and Beth – that’s how things work round here. But we’re not blind, we see you need to rest your hand. We also see Sophia’s need. I’ve already spoken to Mr Massingham, and he likes the idea. It’d be like being a governess and a big sister to the bairns – and a cleaner, a knee-washer, an ear-skelper.’ They were all laughing now. Viola looked again from one to the other, really looked, her auburn fringe falling over her eyes, her smile broad. Annie continued. ‘The Massinghams and the bairns will also make you feel like family.’

  Annie kept her hands on Viola’s shoulders as the girl tried again to rise. After a minute Fran could see that slowly Viola was relaxing. Ben spoke again. ‘Besides, them bairns need someone who sounds like them, cos though that Mrs Massingham is all right, she’s a bit above, if you know me meaning, and you’re Geordie, like the bairns, and us. Some of them have lost a mam or a da or a sister in the war, or all their family, and so have you. They’re ’vacuees and them that have mams and das could be at the Hall for years before they go home. Them that divint have mams? Well, I’m not sure. They could be there for ever, and how would Sophia manage? Not sure what would happen if the bliddy Nazis win, mind, and I divint think I’m sure of much, when I hear myself bliddy speak.’

  ‘Language,’ shouted Fran and Annie automatically, laughing as Ben crossed his arms and scowled.

  ‘As I were saying …’ he lifted his voice above the noise, ‘… they need someone like them. They said that, when I were up with Stan, Sid and Norm playing footie this afternoon, cos it were more than the footie with us they liked. It was the way we said things.’

  He scowled even more, then slumped. ‘Oh, I divint know how to put it.’

  Fran leaned across and kissed Viola on the cheek as Annie returned to her chair. ‘Stop mithering, Viola,’ Fran said. ‘If you don’t want to go, or do want to go but find you don’t like it, then come back. By then I’ll be in the front room with Davey, when he’s here, and I might as well stay there, so me little bedroom is yours.’ She stopped, turning to her mother. ‘Oh Mam, we were fitted today. Me dress is like a dream, and the girls’ dresses are too, and Gaines—’

  Viola was leaning forward. ‘Aye, Gaines found us, but said nowt, beyond he were pleased with the Factory, right pleased. He’s moving on, probably to investigate other factories.’

  ‘Poor buggers,’ Ben muttered, grinning as all three repeated, ‘Language.’

  Once the scones were finished and they’d washed the pots, Annie put lavender paste on Viola’s hand, then a fresh dressing and bandage, kissing the bairn on her cheek. ‘There, now have a sit-down, for you’ll need to set off for the Rising Sun in time to get there without a fluster. Taking your saxophone an’ all?’

  ‘Oh aye. I’m playing for Beth singing “Ten Cents a Dance”. It’s such a sad, beautiful song about a woman being rented per dance by roughnecks, sailors and all sorts, and sometimes she thinks they really like her, but no, they’re just paying for a dance, using her. It’s one Bob likes, and the music is grand.’

  Fran agreed. ‘I know Bob’s her husband, but I could skelp him for just disappearing. How difficult is it to write a letter even if he had to rush off?’

  ‘She’ll find comfort in the three of you being married,’ said Viola, ‘and like her, you’ll be without your husband, Fran, which will help, for I reckon she’s got a bit agitated with Sarah having Stan to hand, if you get my meaning. Meanwhile, and get your violins out, I haven’t even got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, not soppy stuff,’ moaned Ben.

  ‘For now, Viola, forget about boyfriends,’ said Annie. ‘Think of your hand. Let
me know what you decide about a job.’

  ‘But if I do go,’ whispered Viola, ‘who’d put me paste on? How could I pay to keep me room here, for being in service is never good pay.’

  Fran just shook her head. ‘I reckon your hand’ll be better in no time if you’re not overtaxing it, and won’t need paste. What d’you think, Mam?’

  Her mam nodded. ‘Aye, of course it will. And the money will be enough, and you are family, so you won’t pay to keep your room – whatever next. Just don’t make it too long before you decide, eh.’

  Fran watched Viola relax, moving her fingers in time to a tune in her head, probably one they were singing this evening, and then looked at Ben, growing up so well, and so kindly. She heard her mam singing as she moved about the scullery, the scrape of Viola’s chair as she went to join Annie.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking that once Viola chose to take the job, for she would, Fran could see it in her eyes, there would be time enough to sort out a lad for her. Then they’d be four married women, and their bairns would be marrers, and their mams would be grandmothers. The only things that would make her mam happier would be to have her husband as a grandfather, but not just that, her babe, Betty, growing up to have a family too. She sighed, and in her head she took a step forward, out of thoughts of the past, to stay in the present.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Beth headed for Mrs Adams’ shop once Bert had dropped them all back in Massingham after work. She’d promised her mam that she’d pick up some bacon. The bell jangled. Inside, the shop was dark, as usual, because the windows were not only criss-crossed by blast strips, but pasted with war posters. Mrs Adams waved from the counter. Behind her the jars of sweets were almost empty. There were a few tins on the shelves and in front of the counter was a large sack of potatoes.

  Beth handed over her ration book, and Mrs Adams weighed and wrapped the two rashers in greaseproof paper.

  ‘That’ll make the veggie pie more exciting, eh?’

  ‘Aye, thank you, Mrs Adams.’ She put her hand in her mac pocket. All she had was a few pence for the bacon – was it enough? Like a child, she held out her hand.

  Mrs Adams took the coins. ‘Thank you kindly, pet.’

  Beth turned, but Mrs Adams called her back. ‘Howay, pet, some broken biscuits never go amiss, eh, for your cuppa?’

  ‘I’ve no more money on me, Mrs Adams. Will you put it on the slate?’

  ‘No need. My treat. ’Tis a long time to wait for you lasses between letters, eh? You imagine all sorts. My Maisie did an’ all.’

  Beth just smiled, because Maisie’s husband Derek hadn’t come back from Dunkirk, so how did that help?

  ‘Hurry on home now, pet,’ Mrs Adams continued. ‘You must be weary, and you have a busy evening at the pub.’

  The bell jangled as the door closed and Beth headed away from Brady Square, turning left down their back alley. She dodged through the ten-year-old footie players, who groaned as she caught the kicked ball and threw it to the wrong team.

  ‘Howay, Beth. You should have thrown it to me.’ It was Aiden Martins from next door. ‘You’ve a letter waiting, me mam said.’

  ‘What?’ Beth turned, her heart leaping. ‘From me Bob?’

  ‘Ah, me to know and you to fi—’

  He stuck out his tongue and caught up with his marrers, who were scrabbling round near the goal chalked on the opposite wall. Young Timmy from number 4 yelled, ‘Come on, Aiden, kick the ball.’

  She ran on. He must have been at sea and had written the minute he got back, poor beggar, and what had she been doing? Mithering, that’s what. She was bliddy daft, oh yes she was. She could eat now, and that’d make Mrs Iris happy, and Mrs Oborne too, for she’d said on the bus, ‘You’ve gone skinny, like a wee rabbit.’

  She reached the gate, opened it and tore across the yard and into the kitchen. Her mam swung round, pointing to the newspaper on the floor by the door. ‘Boots.’ It was a command.

  Beth laughed, dropping the bacon and biscuits on the table before backing to the newspaper, tearing at her laces, rushing so fast she knotted them. ‘Bliddy hell,’ she shouted.

  ‘Language,’ her mam called from the scullery.

  ‘Oh Mam,’ she wailed. ‘Let me see the letter.’

  She slipped off her boots and tiptoed on the cold flagstones towards her mam, who stood in the doorway, waving an envelope.

  ‘Who told you? I wanted it to be my surprise.’

  ‘Aiden.’ Beth made a dart for the letter.

  Her mam dodged, laughing, then handed it to her. ‘Here it is, pet. See, it says “Mrs Beth Jones” in his royal blue ink, so maybe you’ll eat your pie, not poke at it, especially as it’s got bac—’

  Beth wasn’t listening, devouring the sight of Bob’s handwriting and the ink he used. She had been ink monitor at school, mixing up the powder and filling the inkwells that were lined up on the teacher’s table. Bob had laughed when she’d told him as they lay in the meadow together years later, saying she must have been a beautiful monitor.

  She drifted into the hall, hearing his voice in his head. Perhaps he was going to be at the Rising Sun tonight. Perhaps they’d arrived back in port yesterday or the day before, and it was his turn for leave. Perhaps, if it were more than one day, they’d lie together in their bedroom tonight? But if not, maybe he’d be back for Fran’s wedding, all the married girls together, and the husbands too, just like she’d been hoping.

  Her mam called after her, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea waiting for you, when you’ve come down from that fluffy white cloud, eh?’

  Beth nodded, walking along the hall, hearing her mam say, ‘You must eat before you leave for the pub, and I’ll put the bacon on top of the veggie pie – not much for a singing star, but there you are.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You’ll already know the others are calling for you at seven, or so Maud Bedley said. That’ll get you there by eight if you pedal fast. I’m working on me rug with Annie and Maud as we thought the last ones you want watching when you have to put on a show are your mams. Ben’ll be with us, winding some wool, though he’s gagging to go. Him and his marrer William think they’re older than they are, daft bairns.’

  Beth laughed again, and holding the letter to her breast slipped into the front room, her bedroom, her and Bob’s bedroom. Soon Fran would be in her own front room with Davey, when he was at home. Lucky Sarah, to have Stan with her, lying with him every night, knowing she was loved. Well, of course, now she had Bob’s letter she knew she was too, but to have that person lying next to you, his arms around you, his mouth on yours. She shook her head and walked to his side of the bed.

  ‘Aye, lad,’ she murmured, sitting where he had lain. She held the letter in her hand, reluctant to open it in case his love tore at her too much. ‘Don’t be so bliddy wet,’ she told herself. ‘First you miss him, then you worry, and when he’s here, in this writing, in this envelope, you still make a fuss.’

  She opened it.

  Howay, Beth. A letter from me at last, lass. I have been trying to write this for a while.

  Beth smiled. So, he had been thrashing about on the waves. Who could write when nowt was steady? She was surprised there weren’t salt-water stains on it. She read on:

  I am imagining you sitting on your da’s chair, opposite your mam, and right glad I am that you are safe and with your friends close by. Friends, family and marrers are real important, lass, you just remember that. And if this arrives on the day of your Rising Sun sing-song, then I hope with all my heart it goes well. For I’m sure it will, with the four of you. I’m glad there are four of you and that you are all there together, when I won’t be.

  She smiled, stroking the bed. Not here, not yet, but soon, she thought – soon. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t coming tonight, for he’d thought of her, remembered, and so she’d sing for him and only him. Aye, Mrs Jones would sing for Mr Jones. She kissed the letter. ‘I can put this in my pocket, my lovely lad, a
nd feel you close. Just as long as you are alive. As long as you keep writing, and come when you can, eh? For we’ve a war to win, and sometimes I forget that.’ She read on.

  As I just said, I’ve been trying to write this for a while, but I couldn’t find the words, but now I’ve got to …

  Her mam called from the hallway. ‘You keep an eye on the time, lass. You need a bit of a wash and brush-up, so make sure you stop dreaming about your man by six thirty. That’s not long.’

  Beth heard her mam, of course she did, outside the door, in a world that seemed a long way from her. A world that began to fade as she read on and couldn’t understand what he was mithering about.

  … because it isn’t fair not to. War is so complicated, like I said to you at Sarah’s wedding. And it was a grand wedding. Just think on it, lass. There was Stan, glowing with happiness, he was, when once he thought his heart were breaking because you’d left him for me. But it wasn’t broke, was it? He found love with Sarah, you see. And love that is so big it spills out for everyone to see.

  War’s a bugger, for everyone, for it takes us to places we didn’t know existed, and to people. You see, well, you see I can say that for I’ve come away from Minton pit, been on a minesweeper and been blown out of it, wallowing in the bliddy water, cold and hurt, and been rescued. I’ve been helped by nurses. Well, one nurse in particular. A nurse – d’you see what I’m saying? D’you see why I say it’s all so complicated?

  Beth looked up from the letter, her mouth dry, her eyes stinging, her mind utterly and completely numb, for she didn’t see, wouldn’t see. Instead, she listened to her mam singing ‘Ten Cents a Dance’ in the kitchen. It was one of the songs she, Beth Jones – yes, Jones – would sing. ‘Yes, Jones, for I’m your wife, I’m your wife, and who hasn’t faced death, Bob? We do every day, sorting out your ammunition. Our Stan faces a dirty death, me da died. Your da died. So, what’s a bit of water, a bit of pain and fear that makes your life more complicated than mine?’