A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  Flossie handed over the paper carrier she was carrying. ‘Can you give me two pounds for this?’

  ‘Two pounds!’

  Mary Anne balked at the figure asked, but took the bag anyway and peered inside. What she saw surprised her.

  ‘I didn’t know your Frank played a trumpet.’

  Flossie sniffed. ‘Frank ain’t musical. He brought it home one night. Next morning, I asked him where he got it, but he didn’t remember.’

  ‘So it’s stolen.’

  Flossie shook her own head vehemently, sending the baby’s head jiggling like a rubber ball against her bony shoulder.

  ‘No! No! I wouldn’t say that. My Frank’s not a thief. He got drunk and this thing got mislaid.’

  Mary Anne sighed. ‘You should know better, Flossie. Take it away. I don’t deal in stolen stuff. Besides, what am I going to do with a trumpet round here?’ She offered her back the carrier bag. ‘Best for you to take it down to Uncle’s. You heard me say he’s back.’

  The carrier bag swung on its string handles. Flossie’s expression hardened and her pert chin quivered with indignation.

  ‘I need this money, Mary Anne. My Frank’s joined up, but he swears he won’t go without a penny in his pocket. He reckons on buying a few rounds down at the Admiral Nelson before he goes, and swears he’ll have a good send-off or stay home. And don’t look at me like that, Mary Anne. Be in no doubt, I want the bleeder to go and the sooner the better. I can’t go down Uncle’s. I had a loan. I owes money there, and that new bloke might not be as obliging as his uncle.’

  ‘Well, that’s a different excuse to those I’ve been hearing. Women all around are bewailing the fact that their men are being called up and you, Flossie, can’t wait for yours to go.’

  Flossie was the picture of defiance. ‘Can you blame me?’

  Mary Anne eyed her for a few seconds only before shaking her head. ‘No. I don’t blame you. Won’t you be worried about him spending all his army pay before you get any?’

  Flossie smiled secretively and pulled her dingy blouse up from her breast so the baby could get at her nipple. ‘Unbeknown to him, I’ve already looked into that. They’ll apportion it so I don’t go destitute. He’ll get a bit of spending and I’ll get the rest, which no doubt will be more than I’m getting from the drunken sod now. So you see, Mary Anne? I’ll be better off.’

  Mary Anne shook her head and smiled. ‘Good for you.’

  There were too many run-down women, she thought. Flossie had once been a good-looking girl, but she was thirty now and had a few teeth missing. Her hair, which had once been shiny and shingled, was now like rats’ tails hanging around her face.

  Poor cow, thought Mary Anne, her gaze shifting between the bag and Flossie’s face. It wasn’t in her heart to refuse. Look at her, she thought, as she eased a few shillings from her purse. Straggly, greasy hair, no brassiere or vest, and God knows what the rest of her underwear was like. She had to agree that Flossie would quite likely be better off without Frank. It occurred to her that the war might change women’s lives quite a bit if it was already changing the way they behaved, like Flossie being outspoken about what she would gain if Frank wasn’t around.

  ‘I must be soft in the head. Take this on account,’ she said, thrusting five shillings into Flossie’s hand. ‘Like I said, it wouldn’t be wise to hawk it around here. I’ll take the trumpet down Uncle’s for you. I can’t promise two pounds, but you should get at least fifteen shillings for it.’

  ‘Ooow, ta ever so much,’ Flossie said, secreting the coins into the safety of her cleavage. What came next was barefaced cheek. ‘As quick as you can, eh? I’m desperate, Mary Anne. Really desperate.’

  ‘And cheeky with it! Be quick indeed!’

  She smiled as she said it, though it struck her that Flossie was too saucy for her own good. She wondered how far she would go for the sake of her kids. To her mind, kids were the centre of a woman’s world so she couldn’t help but sympathise. There were too many husbands like Frank and, Christ knows, she had one of them.

  Aggie Hill agreed to keep an eye on Stanley while Mary Anne went off to hock Flossie Davies’ trumpet so long as she took the mother of pearl vase along too.

  Mary Anne warned her. ‘He’s not to go out. Not in this fog.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he stays inside,’ said Aggie. ‘And thanks for this, Mary Anne. I’d go meself, but your legs are younger than mine.’

  Mary Anne lifted her skirt a little, gazed down and was pleased with what she saw. ‘They’re getting older, but still stride out well and are still worth a look.’

  Aggie winked. ‘Never say die, girl, never say die!’

  It wasn’t until the next morning that she got round to doing it. A thick November fog choked the streets, dampened the daylight and deadened the sound of trams, buses and tradesmen on their rounds.

  She wasn’t comfortable doing the errand. The string handles of the carrier bag cut into her palms, not because of the instrument’s weight, but because it was stolen – or might as well be. Frank Davies had a reputation for getting into trouble when he was drunk. Goodness knows where the trumpet had come from.

  Aggie Hill’s vase was just as heavy on her hands, but not on her conscience. Still, no point in dwelling on it, she thought, as she considered what she would say and what the pawnbroker would say to her.

  She walked half the length of East Street, dodging the grey shapes of people, their faces half hidden with scarves, hat brims pulled tightly down, shivering hands shoved into deep pockets, all going places, though slower than usual because the fog had come.

  In order to walk swiftly, it was best to look at the pavement, though it did mean bumping into people, but at least she could find her way. Intermittently looking upwards, she judged where she was by the shop signs: Reynolds Biscuits; David Greig, teas, fine hams; Stan Butts the butcher, the greengrocer’s, the cockle shop, the shoe shop and the haberdasher’s.

  When at last she saw the sign of the three brass balls, they loomed out of the fog like black spots floating in a sea of grey.

  She paused outside, rehearsing what she would say. First, she would apologise for threatening him with the garden spade. It was the right thing to do.

  But you did make amends, she told herself, fighting the urge to turn round and go home. You did save him from being beaten up because he was foreign.

  She hadn’t realised she was about to step into the road until the rattle of a tram and a shout from someone up top burst her thoughts.

  ‘Got a lot on yer mind, luv?’ shouted a costermonger, his barrel perched at an angle, partly on the pavement, partly on the road.

  ‘We all ’ave,’ said a woman he was serving with five pounds of King Edwards. ‘We’re at war with Germany. Ain’t that right, luv? Can’t keep yer mind on anything fer two minutes.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mary Anne.

  All this talk of war, she thought. What is it really to do with us? Why do we have to fight the Germans all over again?

  So far nothing really concrete had happened except for the building of a communal air raid shelter at the end of the street and an air raid warden station at the other. Then there was all this talk of call-up papers and joining up. So far Harry had not received his; she hoped he never would. She hoped it would all prove a storm in a teacup, a bad dream from which they would all shortly awake – including Adolf Hitler.

  The door groaned as she pushed it open. The shop smelled of beeswax and old paper. The sound of music came from the living quarters at the rear of the shop, loud enough to drown the jangle of the brass bell above the door. Mary Anne peered through the thick wire mesh running around the countertop towards the living quarters. There was a passage with stairs going off to the right. Straight ahead was a door. It was half open.

  Leaning over the counter she shouted, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

  There was no response.

  She tapped her foot and looked around. Surely there was another bell?
She didn’t see one and the string handles of the carrier bag were cutting ever deeper. It had been an ordeal carrying it here and she certainly didn’t want to carry it back home.

  She called again, more vigorously this time. ‘Hello? Are you dead or just sleeping?’

  It came to her then that it was gone one o’clock. All the shops she knew closed at one for a bite to eat. Perhaps the pawnbroker had forgotten to lock up before eating his meal.

  No matter, she thought with a determined thrust of her chin. This trumpet is not going back and Flossie needs the money. So does Aggie.

  There was a doorway in the wire that gave when she pushed it. The countertop was of polished wood, dissected halfway along with a lift-up lid and a bolted gate beneath it.

  Lift up the lid and go inside. That was all she had to do. First she put the carriers down. By the looks of the countertop, she’d need both hands to open it. She was right; it was made of shiny wood, but one big heave and it was open. Retrieving her carriers, she passed through the gate and into a passageway where rugs of various colours and condition covered the floor.

  Being behind the counter gave her a strange feeling of crossing a barrier between shop and owner, between the public face of the business and the private world of the man who lived behind it.

  The smell of beeswax was left behind in the shop with its glass-fronted cabinets, deep drawers, cupboards and china knobs.

  Mary Anne wrinkled her nose. The passage and the room it led to smelled of a man living alone, a man who thought he could cope. Clothes sat on a chair; more spilled from a suitcase. The smoke from a cigarette curled upwards from a full ashtray. Both doors of a green-painted cupboard at the side of the chimney breast hung open. Boxes of records, newspapers and dusty old documents cascaded in a jumbled heap from the cupboard shelves, the drawers gaped open and singed sheets of paper hung half-burned from a glowing coal fire.

  The music came from a gramophone beside a chair in which lay its owner. Michael lay oblivious to music, his cigarette or the stale air that badly needed replacing. He was slumped in a chair, his head thrown back, eyes tightly closed.

  The sleep of the just, she thought. She was struck by how good-looking he was, and no younger than twenty-five, no older than thirty.

  Before her amusement had barely creased her lips, something struck her about his face. The tension around the lips, the strain of flesh over cheeks; it was as though he were holding something in, something that caused him great agony. If he had been a woman he would have been crying.

  The music ended, replaced by the crackling whirr of the needle digging into the centre groove.

  His eyes flicked open. On seeing her, he jerked upright in his chair causing her to jump back. ‘Ja?’

  ‘I came to …’

  He ran his hands nervously through his hair and looked embarrassed. There was a moment when he seemed to collect his thoughts, a sudden realisation that he’d responded correctly but in the wrong language.

  He shot to his feet, his shoulders level with her head, making her feel small. He eyed her questioningly. ‘What is it? What are you doing here?’

  Suddenly intimidated by his height and presence, Mary Anne backed closer to the door. She raised the carrier bag. ‘This, I brought you this,’ she said lifting the bag in her right hand. ‘And this,’ she added, lifting the one in her left.

  He glanced at the bags then back at her, his deep-set eyes unblinking and thoughtful. ‘To hit me with?’

  She winced. His eyes were too intense, surprisingly dark compared with his blond-streaked hair.

  ‘Oh!’

  Just as she’d expected, he’d brought up the garden spade, making her feel surprisingly foolish. Her cheeks burned like hot coals, but she remained defiant.

  ‘You had no right to tell me to stop my business. I make pennies doing what I do. You make pounds.’ She jerked her head at the shop behind her and the piled shelves, the glass display cases full of watches, necklaces and rings. ‘Look at all that stuff out there. It must be worth a fortune, far more than the little bit I deal with. You must make lots of money.’

  For a moment his stare held, though the tension in his jaw visibly slackened. He threw back his head and convulsed with laughter all the way down to the hands he rested on his hips.

  ‘This place …’ He jerked his chin towards the shop. ‘It makes nothing. People bring in their valuables for money. The valuables stay here. It is a storeroom. Nothing else. Just a storeroom. My uncle was a fool.’

  Mary Anne cocked her head to one side as though she hadn’t quite heard correctly.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Pawnshops have always made money round here.’

  ‘Not any more. No one comes in – except to stare at me.’

  Mary Anne eased her weight from one hip to another, both hands clutching the carriers now held in front of her.

  ‘Well, I suppose it may have changed a little. Back in the twenties and thirties it did all right, when a lot of people were out of work, and back in Victorian times it was even worse. I know from my customers what it was like; women pawning their wedding rings on a Monday and redeeming them on Friday when their husbands were paid.’

  ‘So your family were better off?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You did not need to. Your voice is different – the way you speak – not like others around here. And you did not mention the pawning of wedding rings as being your own experience. You heard this second-hand.’

  He had a forthright way of looking at her, as though challenging her to explain herself. Admitting that he was right was difficult. Her own background had been different, but over copious cups of tea, her customers had told her some pretty grim stories of how it was; stories of the street, their families and times gone by. Tea was a great leveller. Yes. Tea. A brew shared could heal all manner of things – including the tension between her and this man.

  ‘Are you going to offer me a cup of tea? It’s a very English thing to do, you know.’

  Something about his expression altered. He nodded and regarded her as though it was indeed a very civilised idea. ‘Yes. I will.’

  Turning his back on her, he made his way through the door and into the small kitchen. She could see a sink, a stove and a large table, a larder in the far corner.

  Pipes banged and clanged as a tap was turned. She noticed he’d had to use both hands to turn it on. The old place needed pulling down, or at least a good lick of distemper.

  Her eyes scanned the shabby room. The furniture was old, the dining chairs dating from before the Great War, horsehair-stuffing poking through worn velvet that might once have been quite luxurious. A black marble clock sat silently before a huge overmantel, its mirror pockmarked with rust. Another clock sat just as silently on the wall, its brass pendulum gleaming despite the gloom. On another wall hung a black-framed copy of Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen, the same as she had in her own living room and just as dislikeable. Besides an ebony-legged side table, the armchair he had been sitting in and a chaise longue rested against the back wall. The wallpaper was dark and overly ornate – red flock and smelling of dust – another leftover from the previous century.

  He came back and placed two teacups on the table.

  ‘The clocks are stopped,’ she said dispassionately, as though it had some bearing on his predicament.

  ‘Ah! Does it matter?’

  Her gaze was steady, her voice soft. ‘I was just thinking, if we could turn back time, would we do things differently? I mean, would Mr Chamberlain have handled things differently and perhaps averted a war. Would I have done things differently in my life?’ A half-smile playing around her mouth, she looked directly into his eyes. ‘Would you have done things differently?’

  For a moment, he paused and she wondered whether the tea he had just swallowed was too hot. It wasn’t. Mary Anne could see from the floating tea leaves that he hadn’t quite mastered the art of tea-making.

  Averting his eyes, he put his cup bac
k into the saucer. He couldn’t answer her question in the general terms demanded. He sensed the warm heart beneath her steely tenacity and couldn’t help get the impression that the woman he saw had only recently broken out from a different person; like a butterfly escaping from a chrysalis. He wondered if she was always so different when her husband wasn’t around. For now, being reminded of his own history stymied his thoughts about her. If he opened his mouth and gave the slightest hint of how much he would like to change things, everything, the whole story of what he had done would come pouring out. So he held his tongue.

  ‘These are such difficult times, and are likely to get more difficult,’ she said.

  Michael leaped on the chance to change the course of the conversation.

  ‘War! Difficult times! What do you know about difficult times, you living here in England? Nothing! Nothing at all!’

  Mary Anne could hardly believe the change in the man, one minute amiable, the next downright pompous. When her face reddened now it was from anger, not embarrassment.

  She got up from the shabby chair, a spring making a zinging sound as she did so.

  ‘I am a mother. Mothers have difficult times bringing their babies into the world, difficult times watching them get sick, difficult times putting enough on the table to feed them, difficult times watching them grow up and make the same mistakes their mothers made. And now, in war, difficult times wondering whether our sons will be killed, our daughters made widows before they’re barely wives! That’s what women know about difficult times, Mister whoever you are … that’s what they know! England is really no different than Holland.’

  Holland!

  Germany, he thought. If you could only see Germany.

  Mary Anne failed to see the consternation in his face, the fight between truth and lies, not because she didn’t want to, but because walking the length of East Street carrying bags and in her present condition had sapped her energy. The details of the room swam before her eyes and her legs felt as though the floor had turned to water and was rising to her knees.