by Annie Murray
Kitty was staring at her with wide, sympathetic eyes. ‘Oh, that must be so difficult. But I do think you’re right. It’s better to wait. It would make getting married more of a special thing, wouldn’t it?’
‘Have you found this – with boys you’ve been out with?’ Sylvia asked. ‘I feel so silly asking, but I haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. One or two when we were quite young. And then Ian came along, and bingo! That was it. But he does get quite grumpy, and I feel as if I’m doing the wrong thing, denying him.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not,’ Kitty said. ‘I’m not the most experienced person with boys. I always find I’m too shy with them. Maybe that’s one of the things about not having any brothers. You don’t know how to talk to them. But Ian will respect you for being like that, won’t he? And then you can have a lovely white wedding. I’m sure that’s how it should be, Sylvia. And your dress is nearly ready too; you must show me – it’ll be lovely!’
Twenty-Four
May 1941
The late spring brought warmer weather and fewer raids. Sylvia found her work easier without the harsh ache of cold in her fingers and toes, and with a proper night’s sleep. But the news of the war grew more and more desperate. The family gathered round the wireless to hear one piece of bad news after another: the encirclement of Tobruk by the German tank commander, Rommel; the German invasion of Greece and the capitulation of the Greek government. It was hard to say anything after such news. Everyone looked at each other and then waited for something funny to come on to take their minds off the dark despair of it.
Amidst it all, though, in some ways Sylvia was happier than she had ever been. Their modest wedding plans were going ahead. Sylvia’s dress, a slender pearly silk shell, which had been fashioned out of another dress, fitted her perfectly and was almost ready now. Marjorie Gould had done a lovely job on it. When Ian’s mother, Mrs Westley, heard that their neighbour was making Sylvia’s dress, she said snootily, ‘Oh, aren’t you going to have a professional tailor?’ But Sylvia knew that making it was something to distract Marjorie from her sorrow, and in any case, by then she had already started. To her enormous relief, Ian had told her that soon after the wedding they might be able to rent a couple of rooms from a friend of his father’s in Moseley. So she might not have to live under Mrs Westley’s chilly eye after all!
With the wedding only two months away, it started to feel real at last. Sylvia would have to give up work. She would be moving out of her family home and would lose her cosy times with Kitty. Mom was happy for Kitty to stay on as a lodger, and Sylvia knew she would see a lot of her, but she was starting to feel very nervous. All these changes felt strange, and the joy of getting married was tinged with sadness at the other things she would lose.
Life in the Goods Yard was as busy as ever. Sylvia’s job seemed even more precious now, as she knew that she would soon have to leave it.
One morning she was in the middle of unloading a flat cart stacked with heavy boxes into one of the wagons. Wheeling her empty barrow back out to the delivery yard, smiling at a joke one of the carters had just told her, her face sobered at the sight of a burly figure hurrying into the yard. Something about this large man caught her attention. He had his head down and seemed intensely preoccupied. She realized she had seen him before.
A voice called to him from along the yard, ‘Oi, Joe! You after Pat’s cheese ration again?’
The man did not react, did not even seem to hear the joke directed at him. The shunters, like Pat Sheehan, had extra cheese rations because they did such heavy work. Sylvia remembered that this big man had been into the yard a number of times, looking for Pat. The men were cousins, she had been told. And he was the man she had once seen talking to Kitty. She turned, slowing her own progress to watch him for a moment, as he disappeared across the yard.
‘It was you told her, wasn’t it, you stupid bastard?’
Joe Whelan caught his cousin, Pat Sheehan, by the throat and pinned him up against one of the stationary minks. They were in the shunting yard, hidden in a spot between the tracks occupied by two long lines of wagons. Pat, a strong, wiry man seven years Joe’s junior, was taken by surprise and found himself sandwiched between Joe and the faded W of the GWR letters painted on the wagon.
‘Joe! What the . . . ?’ Pat protested. But Joe had him in a terrible grip and he could feel the force of the man’s anger. Though Pat struggled hard, he could not shift him. Joe was as strong as steel and explosive with rage. ‘For God’s sake man, what’s got into you? Get off me!’
‘It was you – it had to be. You said something to Ann . . .’
‘No, Joe! What did I say to Ann: about what? I haven’t even laid eyes on her . . .’
But there was something too shrill in his denial. It didn’t ring true. Joe felt the muscles in his arms bunch tighter as he squeezed Pat’s throat. ‘Liar!’
‘For pity’s sake . . .’ Pat was starting to choke. He seized Joe’s arm and wrenched it away from his own throat with all the force he had in him. Joe’s arm gave, and Pat doubled up, coughing and cursing. ‘What the hell’s got into you, Joe Whelan? You’re a madman!’
Joe was panting as well, his colour up. They faced each other in the shadow of the wagons.
‘Well, Pat, if it wasn’t you, who was it, then?’
Pat Sheehan looked along the track, towards the goods sheds. An engine was getting up steam on the other side of the wagons.
‘It wasn’t me, Joe!’ Pat almost had to shout over the whoomping of the train. ‘It could have been anyone. Anyone who knows her, I mean.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
Joe advanced on Pat, looking as if he was about to grab his throat again.
‘Joe, back off.’ Pat held his hands up to defend himself. ‘I can’t be talking if you’re going to keep throttling me . . . Look, everyone knows you’ve been carrying on with that girl. You’ve been spotted with her, more than once.’ Seeing Joe’s darkening expression, he hurried on. ‘There’s no need to be looking like that. Is it my fault if you’ve been caught out fornicating? How could you, Joe – and be so careless about it? The walls aren’t blind, and people will talk. If someone’s told Ann, then I’m sorry, though I’m not surprised. But it wasn’t me.’
The energy seemed to drain out of Joe and he sagged miserably. ‘God knows, Pat, what am I going to do? As if Ann wasn’t in enough of a state already.’
‘Why d’you do it then, you fool?’ Pat demanded. Things seemed simple to Pat Sheehan. Right was right, wrong was wrong. And he was married happily enough.
‘I couldn’t help myself.’ Joe spoke to the cindery ground. ‘God knows, I tried.’
‘Not hard enough, by the look of things,’ Pat said scornfully. ‘Ann’s a good woman. Shame on ye.’
Joe was turning away as if he had something else on his mind now. He walked off, along the narrow path between the tracks.
‘Good luck to you, mate,’ Pat Sheehan muttered, rubbing his neck where Joe had squeezed him like a madman. ‘Looks as if you’re going to need it, you silly old fool.’
Joe staggered back to the goods yard. His blood was up and he was full of explosive rage and frustration. He felt drunk, even though he was dead-sober. His control over his life had been snatched from him. The one thing in the way – the block over which he stumbled again and again – was Kitty Barratt, from whose eyes and scent and body he could not free himself.
He knew she worked somewhere in the big building at the side of the yard and he steered himself there. What was it she did again? Some sort of number-cruncher . . . He lurched into the building, past caring what anyone else thought. His wife was sitting at home, pale as a stunned fish. He had done that: him, no one else. His was the heavy conscience. But there had to be some result from causing such distress. Kitty had to come to him, to be his. The thought of it made tears press at the back of his throat.
People appeared out of rooms. Joe asked, asked again, until he was down in the
murky depths of the building. A door was ajar before him. Women young and old hurried in and out.
‘Yes?’ A matronly figure with spectacles stopped him. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Kitty Barratt. I have a message.’
‘She works in there.’ The woman inclined her head. ‘But . . .’
He was looking into a room full of desks and female heads bowed over calculating machines, fingers punching them very fast, as if they were a kind of musical instrument. For a few seconds everyone looked the same, cogs in a machine, hair colours all blending in. And then he saw her: her hair, her astonishing curving figure, so neat and beautiful at the desk.
‘Kitty!’ He thought he had just breathed the word like a sigh of appreciation, but heads shot up all around the room, including hers. Those large grey eyes took him in. He saw her face register who he was, and the dismay and disgust that widened her eyes and chased away her initial look of surprise. She sat quite still, her mouth slightly open, seeming to have no idea what to do.
‘Kitty, could you come out and speak to me . . .’ he began saying, knowing already that he sounded pathetic, instead of commanding, and not like someone with a real message to impart other than: God, Kitty, I can’t live without you. I’m enslaved by you, body and soul; don’t make me suffer like this . . . And she was already shaking her head, her face appalled, looking around for someone to help rid her of this embarrassing spectre.
An older woman with her hair tied back austerely in a bun stepped up to him.
‘What is it you want?’ she asked sharply.
‘I need . . .’ He was crumbling, but forced himself to keep going, to stand upright and try to sound like a man who had something sensible to say. ‘It’s important that I speak to Miss Kitty Barratt.’
The woman glanced at Kitty, who had half-stood up and was shaking her head, mouthing No, and Joe was mortified by the look of desperation on her face. All the other eyes in the office were fixed on him. He could feel their curiosity, their amusement. He knew he was setting himself up as food for gossip, but it was too late. He couldn’t stop himself.
‘Kitty!’ he begged.
‘Do you know this man?’ the harridan with the bun asked, and Kitty started to shake her head.
‘No – sort of. I mean, he won’t leave me alone.’ She hung her head.
‘Ah now, Kitty, come on!’ Joe burst out. ‘Don’t be like that. Just come out here and talk to me a minute, for God’s sake.’
‘If you don’t leave, now,’ the harridan said, ‘I shall have to call for assistance. If I were you, I should go without making any more fuss.’
He was trembling. ‘Just let me speak to her,’ he said in a low voice, appealing to the woman. He looked across at Kitty, his eyes pleading, but she looked away and sat back down on her chair.
‘Just go, please – now,’ the woman, who seemed to Joe like Kitty’s gaoler, commanded him.
He knew he was beaten. But, as he turned, he couldn’t help himself. He shouted out, ‘Meet me later, Kitty. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll wait!’
And then he was outside, scarcely knowing what he was doing.
‘What on earth happened today?’ Sylvia asked, as soon as she and Kitty were on their way home. News of the incident with Joe Whelan, the guard from Tyseley, had travelled fast. The man had come in, shooting his mouth off, demanding to speak to Kitty Barratt.
‘The bloke made a right exhibition of himself, I heard,’ Elsie had told Sylvia as they were working together, shifting more sacks of flour. Tiger, the cat, was prowling round inside the wagon, making sure he was not disgraced by overlooking any rats.
‘Was he a big bloke, quite old?’ Sylvia squatted down to stroke the cat, which grudgingly accepted this attention.
‘I don’t know,’ Elsie said. ‘I never saw him. But he’s got it bad, by all accounts, whoever he is.’
As she stood next to Kitty now on the crowded train from Hockley, Sylvia could see that her friend looked upset.
‘It’s just . . . Oh, Sylvia.’ Kitty looked up with big eyes from under the brim of her hat. ‘I’ve never said anything about him, because I thought it was all over . . . He’s an older man who just got a thing about me. He wouldn’t leave me alone. But it all started around the time my father was . . . you know, the bombing, and I had so many other worries.’ Sylvia saw Kitty’s eyes fill and she looked away for a moment, trying to gather herself. ‘It’s quite sad really,’ she went on, still tearful. ‘He’s nearly as old as my father and he thinks he’s in love with me.’ She looked round anxiously for a moment. ‘Oh Lord, I hope he’s not the guard on duty today. I thought he’d seen sense; that it was all over. He’s not a bad man, but he’s just kidding himself. I just haven’t known what to do.’
‘Oh, poor you!’ Sylvia said, squeezing her arm. ‘It must have been a shock.’
‘It was. He came into the office, demanding to see me, even after Miss James had asked him to leave. I felt such a fool. Everyone was staring. I just didn’t know where to put myself.’
Sylvia tried to tease Kitty out of it. ‘I suppose you can’t help being so pretty that men keep falling in love with you!’
Kitty pulled a face, wiping her eyes. ‘But they don’t, do they? Not the right ones – men of my own age. Not that there are many of them left around here at the moment. They’re either so young they’re in short trousers or over the hill.’
‘I know,’ Sylvia said, ‘let’s do something nice tonight, cheer ourselves up. Play some games or something.’
‘Will Ian be coming round?’ Kitty asked.
‘I think so, yes. Why?’
‘Well, I don’t want to be a gooseberry, you know, get in your way. You must both get sick of me being around.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Sylvia said, affectionately. ‘Ian and I will be married and in our own place soon. We’ll have all the time in the world. And he’s been saying what fun it is to have you around. If we set up some games, Jack’ll want to join in – even Dad maybe. Let’s make a night of it, shall we? You can put all that trouble out of your mind.’
Kitty looked a lot more cheerful. ‘That sounds lovely. All of us playing together!’
Twenty-Five
‘Audrey’s coming home – she’s got leave at last, in a couple of days!’ Pauline announced as soon as Sylvia walked in from work, after an early shift. Sylvia could hear the happiness in her mother’s voice. ‘She says she’s got something to tell us.’
‘Well, I hope it’s good news,’ Sylvia said, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, wearily pulling off her work boots. ‘How long’s she coming for? She’ll want her room.’
‘A few days, she says. She’s been poorly, apparently.’
‘Kitty can come and sleep in mine,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’ll make her up a bed on the floor.’
As she went upstairs, Sylvia felt a tingle of excitement. It would be good to see Audrey. And she knew Audrey would like Kitty!
By the time tea was ready that evening, Kitty was still not home.
‘I expect she’ll be here soon,’ Sylvia said. ‘They do keep them very late sometimes.’
‘We’d better get on and have it,’ her mother said. ‘Your father needs his meal. I’ll keep some for her.’
They sat round the table in the back room. The evenings were lighter now and the curtains were still open.
Ted looked round the table. ‘That girl not here, then?’
‘That girl has a name, Ted, as you well know.’ His wife was spooning something pale onto his plate. ‘And the poor wench’s not long buried her father, so be kind to her.’
‘That’s rotten,’ Jack said, for once not making fun.
‘Pauline,’ Ted said, eyeing his plate. ‘What is that?’
Jack snorted with laughter and Sylvia saw her mother stiffen. She rested the spoon for a moment and fixed her husband with a forbidding eye. ‘That, Ted, is potato pie with turnip and a bit of swede . . .’
Sylvia couldn’t help smiling w
ith Jack at the gimlet-like stare their mother was directing across the table.
Ted turned his dark eyes innocently upon his wife. ‘Any onion, by any chance?’
‘One,’ she said, digging the spoon determinedly into the pale concoction again. ‘Cut up very small. It was the only one we had. And there’s a bit of cheese on top.’
‘Sounds nice, Mom,’ Sylvia said carefully.
‘So where’s that wench, then?’ Ted asked, surrendering to the food. Though he seemed fond of Kitty, he always talked about her in a joking way and Sylvia realized that it was because he was shy of a young woman who was not his daughter.
‘Working late, I think,’ Sylvia said.
Her father was tucking into his turnip-flavoured meal. ‘This is all right, Pauline . . .’
‘Thanks very much,’ she said tartly. ‘We do our best.’
By the time Kitty came in it was nearly half-past nine and dark. They had started to worry. Ian had come round, and Sylvia was with him in the kitchen.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Whitehouse,’ Sylvia heard Kitty saying. ‘There was ever such a lot to do today – it all just got piled up on us and we had to stay till it was finished.’
‘It’s all right, love,’ Pauline was saying. ‘It can’t be helped, if there’s a job to do, can it? I’ve kept you a bit of tea . . .’
Sylvia and Ian jumped apart as her mother and Kitty came in.
‘Sorry!’ Kitty said to them. ‘Oh dear, there’s no peace with me around, is there? I’ll take it in the back and leave you to it.’
‘It’s all right,’ Ian said politely. ‘It sounds as if you’ve had a long day?’
‘Oh,’ Kitty wilted, ‘it’s endless. Piles and piles of it. Thank you, Mrs Whitehouse, that looks lovely.’
