by Annie Murray
We hadn’t got to the stage in the war when people were reduced to icing cardboard cakes. This was a real one with fruit and candied peel and it tasted delicious.
As the evening wore on, those who were left sang, led by Nan and Lil who dragged me in with them as well. Mom managed to get through the evening with barely a sniff at a bottle. Len and Molly were the picture of young love on chairs in front of me, Molly still in her amazing frock. And I don’t know exactly what changes took place under the table in our back room that afternoon, but as we were singing, Teresa and Carlo sat smiling and holding hands, their shoulders touching like a couple of budgies. Life would have been perfect, really perfect, if my dad and Joe could have been there too.
Later that week my mental peace was blasted right apart by a letter from Joe telling me he was being re-posted down south, which could mean only one thing. He was going to join the fighters over the south coast and I could not rest easy again. The day I got his letter Gloria reported the RAF as having lost thirty-four planes that day. There was more bombing to the east of Birmingham. The war was real now, and drawing closer. We were on the alert for raids. When the sirens went the tradesmen harnessed their horses to the back of the carts to stop them bolting. Nanny Rawson had cleared the coal hole and started to get back into the shelter mentality. But I wasn’t really worried about the raids. My own safety didn’t feel all that important. It was Joe I worried about, day and night. Gloria was on overtime and one night when the accumulator went in the middle of the news I found myself screaming at her.
And there was Nancy carrying on. She was as nasty to me as she knew how, and had been ever since she found out for sure I’d ‘stolen’ Joe from her. She tried to turn the other women in the place against me by telling malicious tales.
The others knew where Joe was and gave me a lot of sympathy, which drove Nancy into even sorer vexation.
‘What’re you asking ’er for?’ she snapped one day when someone enquired about him.
‘Because she’s the one Joe’s writing letters to,’ Doris said, ‘whether you like it or not, Nance.’
‘’E’s not!’
‘Course he is,’ Agnes said. ‘Ain’t ’e, Genie?’
I nodded. ‘A couple of times a week.’
Nancy suddenly came at me round the table, hands like claws. ‘It was all right before you came along. ’E liked me best!’
She was held back by two other women, both telling her to pack it in.
‘I’m going to give ’er one, the sly bitch!’ she shouted, struggling.
I was wound up tight with worry as it was, and sick to death of her stupidity and all the spite I’d had off her.
‘Joe doesn’t even like you, Nance,’ I shouted at her. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing. You don’t care about Joe. You don’t care about anyone except your pathetic little self, and while you’re here having a go at me he could be out there getting killed. That’s what I’m carrying with me day after day, because I love Joe and he loves me and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
I’d hoped my voice would come out strong, but instead it sounded as desperate as I felt.
‘Shame,’ someone said. ‘Poor kid.’
Doris took a firm hold on Nancy. ‘One more spat like that my girl, and you’ll be looking for a new place to work, make no mistake. I’ll not ’ave it in ’ere.’
Nancy walked out of that factory at the end of the day and Doris never had to send her packing. We never saw her again.
The Blitz began for us at the end of August. The Luftwaffe shifted from the daylight raids to night bombing. They bombed the Market Hall in town, leaving desolate, smoking rafters and a terrible mess in the place where we loved to go shopping. I felt as if this must be a film or a dream and I would soon step out of it. But there wasn’t a way out.
The next night we spent mostly in the Anderson: Mom, Len and me. As they came over they felt very close, and I can’t say the shelter made you feel all that much safer. Less, if anything. What if there was a direct hit? For hours we listened to the drone of the planes, the whistles and bangs of the bombs and our ack-ack guns firing now and then.
I’d thought Lenny might go to pieces. We all jumped at every explosion at first. But Len just perched there with us as if this was normal. He’d always loved fireworks. It was Mom’s nerves that took it badly. As we sat there in the light of the hissing Tilley lamp she kept digging her nails into my arm and sometimes, when something landed close, she let out a squeak or a cry. ‘Oh, I can’t stand it in here,’ she cried. ‘Can’t stand it another minute. I’ll go mad.’
I didn’t choose to remind her of a time when she’d stood it in the shelter very well of her own accord.
In the middle of it all she said suddenly, ‘I can feel it – the babby! I just felt it move.’ She put her hand to her stomach and stared at the little dancing flame. ‘What on earth sort of life am I bringing this child into?’
September 1940
‘It’s a year today since war broke out,’ Mom said gloomily into her morning cuppa.
I was at the table with Len, both getting breakfast down us quick so’s to get off to work, though I hardly felt like eating. Mom didn’t seem too bad this morning though. I thought maybe she was trying to take Lil’s advice and pull herself together.
There was a rattle at the front door which set my heart pounding. Post. Joe. Would there be a letter for me today? My first and last thoughts of the day were of him, and so many in between. Every day Gloria gave us a reckoning of the number of planes lost and pilots missing. I was constantly worried.
Mom was already out of her chair. ‘I’ll go. You get on with it.’
She padded off into the hall in her slippers and I heard her give a little grunt as she bent down. She moaned as if in pain. When I got there she was sliding down the wall on to the green lino in a faint, the letters slipping from her hand. In those seconds relief spread through me like warmth: Joe’s writing on one of the envelopes.
‘Mom?’ I sat her up with Len’s help and we propped her with her knees apart, head between them. She groaned again, her face white.
I picked up the other letter. A card in fact. Recovering from wounds. Prisoner of War. France. Alive! My father was alive!
‘Len, it’s from Dad!’ I shrieked.
‘Victor?’ A slow grin spread across Len’s face.
‘Yes, of course Victor. Mom – he’s alive!’
She was going into shock. ‘Oh God,’ she kept saying in a distraught voice. ‘Oh my God.’
We got her into a chair and I squeezed more tea out of the pot but her hands were trembling too much to take the cup. I told Len to get off to work and cooled a helping of the tea for her on a saucer and she finally got some down her.
‘Go back to bed for a bit,’ I told her. ‘Give it a chance to sink in.’
Her mind was jittering, racing. She grabbed my hand. ‘I’d just got used to the idea of having my babby. Of keeping it . . . I’ll have to have it adopted now.’ She stared hard into my face, wanting an answer from me. ‘Won’t I?’
‘My sweet Genie,’ Joe’s letter said. It was written, I could see, in a very great hurry. ‘The pace of life is very different here at ———. This’ll have to be quick I’m afraid. Scarcely time to eat or sleep. Can’t go into detail. Enough to say I’m on a crash course – but not literally so far!
‘Just to let you know all’s well. Longing to see you – you’ve no idea how much. Keep safe and well my sweetheart, until I see you.
‘All my love, as ever, Joe.’
This short letter, tucked in the pocket of my dress, seemed to glow against my thigh all day and sometimes I took it out to read if I had a spare moment. I was loved, really loved by someone, and it was the best feeling in the world.
I was so excited that day I could barely keep still. ‘My dad’s alive!’ I told everyone. At the factory they shared it all with me as if they were part of my own family. In fact with a lot more enthusiasm come to think o
f it.
Nanny Rawson scarcely said a word to start with, just carried on serving out the kids’ tea.
‘Uncle Victor?’ Patsy said. ‘He’s been taken prisoner? By the Germans? Blimey!’
‘Sit down,’ Nan said sternly. ‘Just get to the table.’ She lifted Cathleen on to a chair, handed her bread and a bowl of soup and started absent-mindedly spooning it into the child’s mouth.
‘It’s hot, Nan.’ Cathleen spat it out. ‘And I can feed myself.’
I could tell Nanny Rawson was turning things over in her mind but there was no use hurrying her. She poured me a cup of tea, then sat on the sofa in her pinner, thoughtfully rubbing her bandaged leg.
‘I had a letter from Joe today too.’
‘Oh ah.’ She got up and beckoned me into the scullery. ‘Eat up, you three.’
‘Your mother all right?’ We were squeezed in between the stone sink and the wall.
‘She passed out. The shock. Said she’d have to get the babby adopted. She won’t, will she Nan?’
Nan rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Daft mare she is.’
‘D’you think it’d be for the best?’
‘No. I don’t. That’s my grandchild she’s casting off. Parting with your own flesh and blood – most unnatural. I’ll ’ave to talk to ’er. Victor’s a reasonable man, not like some.’
Lil burst in through the back door, face alight with smiles.
‘All right, Genie!’ she half sang. The kids looked round, mouths hanging open in amazement. ‘’Allo kids, what’s up?’
‘Victor’s alive,’ Nan said.
Lil flung her bag down, the smile wiped off. ‘Oh dear.’ Then she saw my face. ‘Sorry, Genie. Good news really, in’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said crossly. Teresa had flung her arms round me with joy as soon as I’d told her. There was a chance for us all now, that’s how I saw it.
‘How’s Doreen taken it?’
We went through it all again in the scullery, the ifs and buts. Lil thought like Nan. Adoption was right out.
‘How can she even think of it? Giving away a babby you’ve carried in you? Two wrongs like that aren’t going to make a right whichever way you look at it.’
When this had been chewed over Lil whispered to me, ‘Can you stay and give your nan a hand with the kids? I’m off out.’
I grinned. ‘Course. Len’ll slope over to Molly’s if he gets hungry.’
After a quick bite Lil prettified herself, not that she needed to, being gorgeous already. She changed into the shimmery green dress, put her hair up and her lipstick on and she looked like a Persian queen. Although her life was as exhausting as ever, the colour had come back to her cheeks and her hair was glossy.
‘You look really pretty, Mom,’ Tom said, watching her with admiring eyes. ‘You going out with Frank?’
‘How did you guess?’ Lil smiled into the glass by the door. ‘That OK with you?’
‘Yeah – ’e’s awright Frank is.’ He’d long bought the kids’ affection with pieces of silver.
‘’E gave me a spinning top,’ Cathleen piped up, enthroned on her potty in the corner by the stairs.
‘’E said ’e’d play football with me!’ Patsy cried.
Lil laughed happily, kissing each of them, which was an unusual occurrence at the best of times. Indignantly Patsy wiped lipstick off his cheek. ‘I’m glad you all like him ’cause I think we’ll all be seeing a lot more of him.’
‘What I want to know,’ Nanny Rawson said, ‘is where ’e gets ’is money from. I mean mending cars and the ARP – not places where you find a crock of gold, are they?’
Lil turned. ‘What money?’
‘Well it’s obvious ’e’s got money – the way ’e’s dressed and that—’
‘Mom,’ Lil said patiently. ‘Frank hasn’t got that much money. What’ve you got that into your head for?’
‘It’s ’cause he looks like Clark Gable,’ I teased. ‘Nan thinks he’s a film star.’
‘Oh Mom.’ Lil gathered up her coat. ‘I thought you was the one who didn’t hold with judging a book by its cover?’
I was alone in the house when Mom came in that night. Len had decided to stop over at Molly’s. Her eyes were circled like a panda’s from exhaustion.
Instead of heading straight for something alcoholic as she did every other night, she sat down on the edge of a chair in the back room, stone cold sober.
‘What’s up, Mom?’
‘I’ve got to think,’ she said in a far-away voice. ‘Think things out.’
I wished I could tell her it’d be all right. That Dad wouldn’t mind. But he would. Course he would.
‘I went to the Welfare this morning. The woman said I couldn’t give up a babby for adoption without my husband’s consent. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t say, “He’s in France”, because I knew how she’d look at me and I couldn’t tell her about its real father.’
There was a long silence before she said, ‘It felt such a little thing I did, going with Bob. And it’s turned into all this.’ Bitterly, she added, ‘Hasn’t given him much trouble though, has it?’
On 7 September London had its first big air raid. Four hundred and thirty people died in London that night, so many we could barely take it in.
But the Battle of Britain wasn’t over yet and Joe was still flying while those Germans were making up their mind exactly what it was they were playing at. Were they going to invade or not?
I had a letter from Joe sounding tired out, but full of affection. This affection that felt like a miracle, still unbelievable. Then nothing. Every day I rushed to the front door, waited, heart going like mad. Got to the point of crying with fear and worry when there was nothing. He’d been writing every other day when he could. Something had to be wrong. Of course it had to be. Things didn’t go right for me.
‘Joe – oh Joe, where are you? Write to me and make it all right again!’
I was choked with emotion but like everyone else, tried to keep it down. Always waiting, things out of our control.
‘’Eard from Joe?’ the women asked.
‘No,’ I snapped, not meaning to turn on them. But they understood, kept quiet then, with knowing looks at each other.
On the Tuesday Mr Broadbent came in, so everyone suddenly put on that extra-busy look like they did whenever he put in an appearance. He took no notice, headed straight for me.
‘Could I have a word a minute, out there?’ He jerked his head at the back door, face terribly solemn.
The other women’s eyes followed me out and they all had disaster written in them. He’d heard something, I knew it. The kind of telegram only moms and dads or wives are sent. I didn’t want to follow him, didn’t want to hear it.
We went out into the yard at the back and closed the door on the warehouse. I couldn’t control myself any longer.
‘Joe’s dead, isn’t he? You’ve had a telegram?’ I couldn’t help it. My heart felt swollen fit to burst.
‘No, Genie love!’ Mr B was overcome. ‘It’s all right – we haven’t.’ He put an arm round my shoulders as if he was my own dad. He wasn’t that much bigger than me, smaller than Joe by nearly a head.
‘I was only going to ask you if you’d heard from ’im, that’s all. He’s a good lad for letter writing but I’m sure ’e’d write to his young lass more than to us.’ He was trying to sound light-hearted, make a bit of a joke of it, but I could hear the worry in his voice and this didn’t help me, though I was grateful for his kindness.
I shook my head, tears pouring down my face. ‘I haven’t had a letter since Friday.’
‘Oh,’ Mr Broadbent said soberly. ‘I see.’
Words were swirling round in my head. Where are you Joe? I can’t bear it, I just can’t bear it.
‘Look.’ Mr B rallied himself. ‘They’re very busy, under a lot of pressure. He’ll get in touch when he can, love. I’m sure there’s an explanation.’
The explanation, the only one possible it se
emed, hung in the air between us like a cloud of flies and Mr Broadbent looked sorry he’d spoken.
‘Just hold on, Genie. The moment I hear anything I’ll let you know, all right? And you do the same, eh?’ He patted my back. ‘You take your time now, as much as you need, before you go back in there.’
The endless, gnawing worry took away most of my happiness in knowing Dad was alive. Nothing compared with the way I felt about Joe, how we’d had this bit of time together that was almost too good to be true. I couldn’t talk to Mom about it, she was too wrapped up in herself. Only Teresa knew how sick with worry I was. Carlo had left for his army training and she came round to see me of an evening sometimes, knowing I’d just sit and fret.
‘I know now,’ Teresa said to me as we sat together that evening. ‘Seeing the way you’re feeling. If I thought something’d happened to Carlo I’d be exactly the same. Funny how I never saw him before, right there under my nose. Always trying to get away from the Italians and be different. This lot has made me see us all properly, the good that’s there. I was such a stupid little cow, wasn’t I?’
I managed a grin. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite that strong.’
‘Hear that?’ Teresa said. ‘Wasn’t that your door?’
There was another, louder knock.
Mr Broadbent was outside in the dusk, face all smiles, handing me a folded piece of paper.
‘You’d never believe it – blooming postman delivered this wrong. It came two days ago and they put it through at 87.’
I must’ve just gawped at him.
‘We’re number 37,’ Mr Broadbent explained. ‘Joe didn’t write it any too clear. He must’ve been in a rush. We’ve not been living there long, so they didn’t know to pass it on to us. It’s OK, Genie. Joe’s all right.’
When he’d gone I opened it.
I’ll write properly when I can. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Joe.
I sat down opposite Teresa and burst into tears.
The daylight air battles petered out in the middle of the month. The Germans had worked their way through attacking the coastal convoys, the airfields, the control centres, and now they turned their attention on the cities. London was getting it every night. Churchill made his famous speech about ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’ They were heroes of the age, those flyers.
