Meet Me Under the Clock

by Annie Murray

  ‘At least Mom understands,’ Laurie said to Sylvia, ‘All I want is a quiet life, not to be in some dead-end job with a retired major bossing me about. I want to be able to think my own thoughts, not what some other bugger thinks I should.’

  It was she who suggested the railways. By then all the factories and railways were turfing women out of the jobs that they had been doing for the past five years. Some went gladly, others with reluctance. Sylvia had already had to make that break because of having little Jonny.

  When Laurie had applied to the GWR, his first job had been – to his father’s disgust – in a clerical role at Shirley station. Sylvia wondered whether he would settle, but he did, and was promoted to assistant stationmaster. They rented rooms nearby for the year he did that job. But then the offer came up of the stationmaster’s post at Wallingbury. Both of them knew he could have done a job requiring more brain power, but he had wanted an occupation that was not hard on his nerves – something that left him time to think, that was steady, but peaceful.

  Sylvia found it a wrench leaving Birmingham, but Audrey had gone by then and she knew it was time to branch out and have a fresh start. It was only a good while later, when the station needed a new porter, that she applied for the job and they had become a stationmaster-porter team. By then their other child, little Barbara, was starting school and Sylvia knew she could manage.

  She loved the job: being back on the railway, working with the station staff and seeing Laurie content in the work as well. The town was small, a beautiful old place on the Thames, and they took lovely walks along the river when they had some spare time. Laurie discovered that he loved drawing. Even with his stiff hands, he could manage very well, and when he had the time he would sit for hours sketching the willows and boats. He liked to read books on philosophy, to try and think things out for himself. Between them they had built a life. She tried never to mention the war. All she wanted was for Laurie’s memories and his sense of self-reproach to fade. And, whatever he felt, he was glad enough to be alive and to know that it was no good dwelling in the past. They had a life together – and a good one.

  During the days after she had received Kitty’s letter, Sylvia could not get it out of her mind. She went about her daily routines of cleaning and cooking, taking her children to school. Jonny, who was eight now, liked to ride along on his bike, with Sylvia keeping him in sight. He was a sturdy, blond boy, very like Laurie, but with more confidence. Little Barbara, or Baba as they always called her, who was six, still liked to walk holding her mother’s hand, chattering away. When Sylvia got home again, the house always felt almost eerily quiet.

  But that week all that had happened with Kitty came rushing back, and she had to let it force its way through her mind. It was as if a boulder had come crashing into these quiet waters, stirring up memories like stinking pond mud. One afternoon she was sitting with a pile of mending in her lap, to which she was paying no real attention, lost in thoughts that had rolled her back to 1941. For her, that year had been full of pain and betrayal. After having pushed those events from her mind for years, now they came back, ugly and bitter.

  ‘Sylv? Sylvia?’ Laurie was suddenly in front of her and she took in the loud chuffing of a train drawing slowly alongside the platform behind.

  ‘Heavens!’ She jumped up. ‘The four-thirty, already!’

  But Laurie stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. His face was troubled. ‘Sylv, is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes – course.’ She pushed her face into a smile. The train’s brakes were squealing as it halted. ‘Come on!’

  Much later that evening, when the children were already in bed, she felt Laurie’s gaze on her across their cosy sitting room with its flowery chairs and bright cushions that she had made. Her eyes met his.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ he asked gently. ‘I know there’s something. You’ve been miles away for a couple of days now. And this afternoon in the garden – you looked like thunder. Don’t say it’s nothing, because I can see that it isn’t.’

  She took a breath. She didn’t want to breathe Kitty’s name, but even more she didn’t want any secrets leaching like poison into her household. Kitty had already done enough of that.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It just all knocked me for six a bit. You know that letter?’

  ‘From your school pal?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly someone I was at school with.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘It was from Kitty.’

  There was a silence. ‘You mean . . . That Kitty?’

  ‘Yes. That Kitty.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’ Laurie looked troubled, but also puzzled. ‘Does she matter now? What did she want?’

  Sylvia got up, wanting to talk, to be close to him.

  ‘Come here,’ Laurie said.

  She hesitated. ‘Sure your leg’ll be okay?’ Though the surgery had much improved his leg, he still walked with a slight limp and it was weaker than the other one.

  ‘I’ll let you know if not.’

  She snuggled up on his lap, her face close to his, feeling the itchy woolliness of the knitted blanket that was over the back of the chair.

  ‘No, Kitty doesn’t matter, in answer to your question,’ Sylvia said, kissing his cheek. He still had freckles, just a few. ‘Of course she doesn’t. It’s just brought it back – what she did, and all of that time.’ She leaned round and looked into his face. ‘D’you think about it much now?’

  ‘The war? Not if I can help it. I think about a few people – the ones in France and Belgium mainly. Apart from that, it was a complete flaming waste of—’ He stopped himself. ‘No, I try not to think about it. I’d rather just get on with my life – since I’ve got one,’ he added. She felt sad at the bitterness in his voice.

  She sank back beside him. The last thing she wanted was to bring his mood down. Her mind showed her a door, and her shoving Kitty out of it and slamming it for good. The past – away with it, she thought. Back to where it belonged.

  ‘Did Baba show you the gold star she got at school today? She said it was her best drawing ever.’

  Laurie smiled. ‘No – I’ll get her to show me tomorrow.’ And he kissed her neck and nuzzled against her cheek. ‘Shall we go up soon?’

  The next afternoon, when things were quiet, she took Kitty’s letter out of the kitchen drawer and went to the bottom of the garden. There was a little charred patch where they had a bonfire.

  ‘Dear Sylv . . .’ She read Kitty’s letter through one more time, then slowly tore it into tiny pieces.

  ‘I don’t need anyone like you in my life,’ she said quietly. ‘You can go to hell.’

  Laying the pieces on the bonfire patch, she took a box of matches from her pocket and set them to burn, watching as they curled quickly into soft grey ash, sending a few thin threads of smoke into the air.

  When it was quiet, later on, she walked round to find Laurie in the station. Smiling, she took his hand. ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  Laurie looked puzzled, but pleased by the sight of her light-heartedness.

  She led him to the big clock on platform one and, standing underneath it, turned to him. ‘Remember when I said “Meet me under the clock and I’ll be there?”’ She saw a glow begin in his eyes and his face lightened. ‘I love you, Laurie,’ she said, putting her arms around his neck. ‘Like nothing and no one. Give us a kiss, my love.’

  A smile spread over his face until his eyes shone. Tenderly, he touched her cheek, then kissed her and held her close as if she was the most precious thing in the world. ‘I’ve always said you were the best,’ he said.

  Sixty-Six

  A few days later another letter arrived – a happy one.

  ‘It’s from Audrey,’ she told Laurie, holding it in one hand and handing out toast to the children with the other.

  ‘Auntie Audrey!’ Baba said happily. She was a rosy child with a cloud of dark hair like her mother’s.

  ‘She says she’s coming on Saturday.’


  ‘With Auntie Dorrie? And Little Dorrie?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvia laughed, thinking how children accepted such situations long ahead of the grown-ups, who had to struggle. ‘They said they’ll come down and see us for the day.’

  Baba jigged with excitement and Jonny grinned.

  ‘Oh, look – she’s sent me their meat coupons! What shall I cook?’ Sylvia said. ‘We must have something really nice!’

  They heard the ‘parp!’ of the car’s horn outside, and Jonny and Baba rushed down the garden path yelling, ‘They’re here!’

  ‘Ah,’ Laurie said. ‘The two sirens have arrived.’

  Sylvia gave him a look. ‘Now, now – none of your jokes.’

  She followed the children outside in time to see Dorrie climbing out of the driver’s seat of the old, black Austin 10 Tourer. The roof was down and all of the car’s occupants were looking windswept and pink-cheeked. The car had once belonged to Dorrie’s father. Though he still barely managed to acknowledge Dorrie’s existence in other ways, he had arranged to hand it on to her when he got a new one.

  ‘Ah – death obviously pays well,’ Laurie remarked the first time he saw it.

  ‘Well, it’s a steady and certain business, that’s for sure,’ Dorrie replied with a grin.

  Audrey called out, ‘Hello, we got here quickly today!’

  She was urging Dorian out of the back seat. He had just had his eleventh birthday and Sylvia had a football to give him. He looked a little sheepish, as his hair was standing almost vertical after the journey and there was always a bit of initial shyness between the cousins when they first met.

  Everyone hugged and greeted each other.

  ‘You’re looking very glamorous,’ Sylvia told Audrey, linking arms with her to go up the path. Audrey was dressed in a full red skirt, a white blouse with red spots and red shoes. She wore her hair in a swinging ponytail. ‘You make me feel quite a frump in this old dress.’

  ‘You?’ Audrey laughed. ‘Never!’

  ‘You do look ever so well, sis.’

  ‘I am,’ Audrey said. She was glowing. ‘I’ve got some good news.’ She turned. ‘Have you got the basket, Dorrie? We made some cakes for the feast.’

  ‘Yep – coming!’ Dorrie was hauling something out of the car. She was dressed in tapering, calf-length navy trousers and a white short-sleeved blouse.

  ‘Let’s have a cuppa,’ Sylvia said. She had managed to give Dorian a kiss before the children all rushed out to play at the back.

  ‘Ooh, something’s good in here – is that beef I can smell?’ Audrey said.

  ‘Yes; thanks for the coupons!’

  When Dorrie came in they all kissed in greeting. Sylvia filled the teapot and the four of them sat round the table. ‘What’s this news then?’ she asked Audrey. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’

  Dorrie smiled. ‘Audrey’s been given a column to write as well!’

  Dorrie was gradually achieving her dream of working as a journalist. After starting off writing for various local London papers, she was now getting articles published in a range of magazines. She had a humorous style, which went down well in the women’s magazines, but she had also had a couple of pieces accepted by The Times and two reviews for The Listener. It was she who had encouraged Audrey.

  ‘Well, you always were good at writing, Aud,’ Sylvia said. ‘Not like me!’

  ‘She tried a piece for Time & Tide – about bringing a child up without his father. They don’t actually know she’s not a widow, of course. And now they want her to do something else.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Laurie said. ‘Bully for you, Aud!’

  ‘I’ve always wondered if I could earn money in a different way,’ Audrey said. Dorrie had been the main breadwinner, and Audrey had done some typing work at home. ‘This is much more of a challenge than just typing up papers for other people. I’m surprised to find I’ve got things I want to say.’

  ‘Oh, you always had that,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Audrey made a face at her.

  ‘We’re not saying our Audrey is opinionated, are we?’ Dorrie teased. Through their laughter she added, ‘Talking of which – young Dr Jack came round the other night.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ Sylvia said. Jack, who had not yet in fact earned the title ‘Doctor’, was at medical school in London. To everyone’s surprise, he had hardly batted an eyelid about Audrey and Dorrie. He just seemed glad that Audrey was happy. ‘It’s so nice that you’re both down there together. How is he?’

  ‘Thriving,’ Dorrie said.

  ‘There’s talk of a girl.’ Audrey winked and she and Dorrie grinned. ‘Called Margaret – we think.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dorrie said. ‘After all, he only mentioned her name every other word.’

  Sylvia saw how happy and alive Audrey looked. After the war, when Dorrie came back from Ceylon and the storm of Audrey’s and Dorrie’s love for each other broke over their family, things had been a terrible struggle for them both. Throughout the upheaval of it all, Marjorie Gould had once again been the saviour of the situation, by pointing out that having children who were alive was the main thing, whatever else they might choose to do with themselves. And, she had said to Pauline, you can’t accuse Audrey of not giving you a grandchild, can you? The two fathers, Ted and Stanley, seemed to have a bemused notion that any relationship with no men involved did not quite count, so they tried to pretend that Audrey and Dorrie lived like sisters or maiden aunts. But what about Audrey’s son growing up with two women? What about all those boys growing up with widowed mothers? Audrey pointed out. Pauline was both anxious and embarrassed.

  ‘I’m not going to cast you off – you know that,’ she said to Audrey. ‘And I’ve nothing against your . . . your friend. But I can’t say I like it. It’s not right.’

  Having them both living a distance away in London seemed to make things easier, though it was a great wrench when Pauline had to part with her grandson. But things settled down. They had to, one way or another.

  They all enjoyed a happy lunch together, with roast beef and heaps of crispy potatoes, and the children all squeezed round the table with them. Sylvia had made pies with some early rhubarb and they drowned them in custard.

  ‘Oh,’ Audrey groaned afterwards. ‘I’ll have to walk this off. Shall we go down to the river in a bit?’

  In the mellow late afternoon they wandered through the old town and went to the meadow by the bridge where the children could run about. It was even warm enough to paddle, in a spot where the bank slipped gently into the water, forming a little muddy beach. There was a big house on the other side, its garden stretching down to the river and, further along, willow trees hung dipping into the water’s wide flank.

  Sylvia and Audrey sank back on the grass together, watching the children splashing and screaming amid the sunlit ripples. Laurie stood nearby, chatting with Dorrie. The sun was warm on their faces, gnats jittered in the air and it felt as if summer had truly arrived.

  Audrey watched the three children with amused eyes. ‘He loves seeing your two,’ she said, smiling as Dorian chased the younger ones in the shallows.

  ‘Does he get comments – at school?’ Sylvia said anxiously.

  Audrey turned. ‘You mean about his mother and mother! I don’t know – he’s never said. I think they think Dorrie’s his auntie. Half the kids in his class have no dads about, for one reason or another.’

  Sylvia nodded, reassured.

  ‘It’ll all be different for them,’ Audrey said, watching the children again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything. Attitudes – things are changing.’

  ‘That’s what Laurie says. Things can’t stay stuck as they were – everyone knowing their place, and all that.’

  ‘No.’ Audrey looked thoughtful. Then, with her usual spirit, she said, ‘I want to know new places, not be stuck eternally in the old ones.’

  Sylvia laughed happily. ‘Trust you,’ she said. Then she a
dded softly. ‘It’s good to see you so happy, Aud.’

  Audrey smiled joyfully at her. ‘You too. Hey – come in for a paddle?’

  She held her hand out to pull Sylvia up and the sisters waded in, holding up their skirts and giggling like little girls, up to their shins in the cool, shining water.

  Acknowledgements

  Stories like this contain a huge number of researched details, ranging from breeds of chicken to the names of bomber aircraft, and it would be impossible as well as tedious to record them all. However, some sources I have used deserve particular acknowledgement.

  A great deal has been written about the mechanics and the awe-inspiring machines of the steam railways; rather less about the people who worked on them. I am particularly indebted to Helena Wojtczak’s recent book, Railway Women: Exploitation, Betrayal and Triumph in the Workplace, and to Rose Matheson’s Women and the Great Western Railway. Also to Frank Popplewell’s excellent series of articles on Hockley Goods Yard in the Great Western Railway Journal, nos 15–19. My thanks also go to Derek Harrison for his two books, Birmingham Snow Hill: A First Class Return and Salute to Snow Hill: The Rise and Fall of Birmingham’s Snow Hill Railway Station 1852–1977; to Tom Quinn for Tales of the Old Railwaymen; Bob Brueton for All Change and Pete Waterman for Rail Around Birmingham. Thanks also to the Museum of the Great Western Railway at Swindon and the Tyseley Locomotive Works Visitor Centre in Tyseley, Birmingham.

  For details about the WAAF I drew on John Frayn Turner’s The WAAF at War, Beryl E. Escott’s Our Wartime Days: The WAAF in World War II and Joan Rice’s WAAF Diary: Sand in my Shoes.

  Details about the Second World War, and the war in Birmingham in particular, come from many sources, but especially How We Lived Then by Norman Longmate, and Angus Calder’s The People’s War, as well as Mark Arnold-Forster’s The World at War and Nella Last’s War: The Second World War Diaries of Housewife 49, edited by Richard Broad and Suzie Fleming. Carl Chinn’s book Brum Un-daunted: Birmingham During the Blitz was helpful, as was the website www.bhamb14.co.uk/index_files/WW2.htm, about the bombing in Kings Heath. The Birmingham online History Forum is always a rich resource for local details.