by Maureen Lee
The Yanks had arrived. Hordes of cheerful, outgoing, engaging young men in well-fitting uniforms, generous to a fault, had taken over the country. They were everywhere, pockets stuffed with chewing gum and cash, convinced that every British woman, young or old, could be had in exchange for a pair of nylons.
Nowadays, Ruby looked forward to the weekend dances. It was like entering a fresh, new world, talking to young men from places like Texas or California who had done things she’d only seen in films; worked on ranches, driven Cadillacs, played baseball, been to Radio City, Hollywood, Fifth Avenue, Niagara Falls...
Or so they said. She only believed half she was told, but the Americans’ good-natured high spirits came as a relief after the horror of the air raids and the continuing shortage of virtually every single thing that made life bearable, particularly food.
She went out with quite a few, never more than twice, otherwise she would have found herself engaged, a crafty way the Yanks had of getting women into bed who couldn’t be got there by easier means. There was a measure of cynicism in Ruby’s fraternisation with the ‘enemy’, as Charles called them, and she often returned home laden with oranges, candy, tins of ham, and other delicacies rarely seen in war-torn Britain and which Charles happily consumed, despite their dubious source.
Ruby had known Beth was in love before Beth knew herself. They were at a dance at the Locarno, a foxtrot had just ended, and Ruby returned to their spot under the balcony. Beth was already there, holding hands with a tall, black American sergeant.
‘Rube, this is Daniel,’ Beth said shyly, and there was a look on her face, and on Daniel’s, that said everything.
It came as no surprise when they got married six months later in the same church where Connie had married Charles, though it was a very different sort of wedding. Beth wore a simple white frock she’d made herself and there were no bridesmaids. The only guests were Beth’s immediate friends whom she now regarded as her family. There was hardly time for a sandwich and a glass of wine before Daniel and the best man had to return to the base in Burtonwood, where he would continue to live, while Beth and Jake remained in Mrs Hart’s house.
Daniel Lefarge was a lawyer. Back in Little Rock, Arkansas, he fought for equal rights for Negroes. He was one of the few educated black men in the state.
‘It’s terrible there,’ a wide-eyed Beth said to Ruby on the night of her wedding. Everyone else had gone to bed and they were finishing off the last of the wine. ‘We’re not allowed in restaurants or bars. We can’t sit by whites on the buses. We have to use separate lavatories.’
Ruby raised her eyebrows. ‘We?’
‘Black people,’ Beth said firmly. ‘I’m black, like Daniel.’
‘I always thought of us, of you and me, as the same.’
‘If I was the same as you,’ Beth explained, ‘Daniel would have been refused permission to get married. Black servicemen aren’t allowed to marry British girls if they’re white. It was decided in the Senate because it would cause trouble when they returned home with a white bride.’
‘That’s daft!’ Ruby expostulated.
‘It may seem daft to you, but not to Americans, particularly in the South where Daniel comes from. White people there consider negroes less than human.’
‘Will you be happy in that sort of atmosphere?’ Ruby felt fearful for her gentle, sensitive friend, who didn’t seem to realise the awfulness of what she was saying. ‘Remember the time when we were evacuated to Southport? You were terribly upset.’
‘I’d be happy anywhere with Daniel.’ Beth’s face shone. ‘And so will Jake. They adore each other.’
In June, 1944, on D-Day, Daniel Lefarge was among the first American troops to storm the French beaches. From that day on, Beth lived in a state of terror. Daniel’s letters were few and usually arrived weeks late. Beth rarely ate breakfast, but lingered behind the front door with a cup of tea, praying that the postwoman would come. If she did, and there was nothing from Daniel, her disappointment was evident in her tragic face. On more than one occasion, Ruby travelled all the way to A. E. Wadsworth Engineering to deliver a letter with a French postmark that had arrived after her friend had gone to work.
Another Christmas, the sixth of the war, and hopefully the last. Allied troops were slowly advancing across Europe and, at last, victory was in sight.
In the New Year, Charles and Connie found a place of their own, a little cottage in Kirkby, not far from Brambles where Ruby used to live. Beth was advised that shortly she would no longer have a job. Marie Ferguson was making plans to go home.
As soon as the conflict was over, Beth and Jake were going to live in America with Daniel’s mother – he would join them as soon as he was demobbed. There would only be Ruby and her girls left in the house, to which its owner could return any day.
She took down the blackout curtains and began to put the house, as far as she could, back to its original order. There were marks, scars, wear and tear, things broken, missing, changed, that couldn’t be hidden. Mrs Hart was unlikely to think Ruby, who’d only been asked to keep an eye on the place, had tamed the wild garden out of the kindness of her heart – even established a vegetable patch – or varnished the front door when the original varnish had worn away altogether and she’d felt ashamed of the bleached, bare wood.
She had every intention of facing Mrs Hart, confessing what she’d done, but preferred not to be living on the premises when the woman walked through her newly varnished door. But finding somewhere to live was proving difficult, if not impossible. She roamed the streets, anxiously perused the cards in newsagents’ windows, scoured the Echo, but nearly half the properties in Liverpool had been destroyed or damaged. It wasn’t just Ruby desperate for somewhere to live.
The months passed. February gave way to March, March was suddenly April, the Allies were approaching Berlin and victory was imminent, but still Ruby hadn’t found a job or somewhere to live. She and Beth had built a little nest egg between them, but her half would quickly disappear if there wasn’t a wage coming in. She had nightmares about returning to somewhere like Foster Court, and the bad dreams occurred almost nightly as time went by and still nothing had turned up.
At the beginning of May, it was reported that Hitler had killed himself. The following day, Berlin fell. A victory announcement was expected by the hour. Ruby, working in the home of Mrs Effie Gittings, was listening to the wireless in the next room while she distempered the parlour walls an insipid pale blue, the only colour available apart from white. Mrs Gittings kept abandoning the wireless to discuss the latest news and fetch cups of tea as insipid as the distemper.
‘You work ever so neat,’ the old lady said admiringly. ‘It’s nice having a woman do the decorating. Men make splashes on the furniture and look daggers if you dare complain. At least one good thing’s come out of this terrible war; women have shown they can work as good as men in most jobs.’
Later, as Ruby trudged home, she had an idea that made her want to dance along the pavement. She would become a painter and decorator! She liked the idea of being her own boss, working her own hours, being home when the children finished school. As soon as she was settled elsewhere, she’d have leaflets printed and deliver one to every house in the Dingle. She would become well-known again, like the pawnshop runner, not that fame was her objective, but making a living was. The future suddenly looked challenging and exciting, full of hope, and by the time she reached the house, her decorating company had expanded to the extent it had a staff of ten, all women. She would think of a clever name to call herself, something catchy.
At the gate, she paused. The ‘settled elsewhere’ bit had still to be resolved. Some of her excitement faded. Before she could lift a paintbrush, she had to find a place to live.
Sighing, she opened the front door, ready to make for the wireless in case there’d been any news, but froze when she heard footsteps upstairs, heavy, male footsteps.
‘Who’s there?’ she called shakily. For a brief s
econd she wondered if it might be Max Hart.
A young man appeared at the top of the stairs, nothing like Max. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded angrily. ‘There’s people living here, but there bloody well shouldn’t be. This house is supposed to be empty.’
It had always been Ruby’s belief, ever since she was a little girl and couldn’t have put it into words, that the best form of defence was attack. Besides which, she disliked the young man on sight. He looked about twenty-one, five years younger than herself, was very tall, very thin, with brilliantined black hair and a pencil moustache. The trousers of his cheap, chalk-striped suit were several inches too short, exposing shabby brown boots. Not that she presented a pretty picture herself in her paint-stained slacks and jumper.
‘Who the hell are you ?’ she replied spiritedly. ‘How dare you break into my house!’
‘Break in!’ The man clumped downstairs brandishing a key. ‘Your house!’ he snorted. ‘This house belongs to Mrs Beatrice Hart, but not for long, ’cause I’m going to buy it.’
Ruby tossed her head haughtily and hoped she didn’t look as shaken as she felt. ‘She hadn’t told us it was to be sold.’
The visitor frowned. ‘Why should she?’
‘Because she writes to me from Colorado,’ Ruby lied. ‘She’s been living with her sister. Mind you, I haven’t heard from her in a while. She said we could live here for the duration. Her son, Max, stayed with us for a time. Do you know where Max is?’
‘Never heard of him.’ The man’s frown faded, though he still looked suspicious. ‘Why didn’t she say the house was occupied when she wrote and told the estate agent to sell?’
‘I’ve known her for years, she was always very forgetful. Did you say she was selling the house?’
‘Yes. She’s got married again and she’s staying in America. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t write and tell you that!’
‘I expect she will.’ They glared at each other. His eyes were brown, his cheeks hollow, lips thin and stern. There was something hungry about him, and she suspected he’d been raised in poverty worse than she’d ever known. To her horror, a little excited shiver coursed down her spine, shocking her to the core, because he wasn’t a bit attractive.
‘Anyroad,’ he said bluntly, ‘as soon as the final contracts are exchanged, you can scram sharpish. How many live here?’
‘Me and my two children. There’s also my friend and her little boy, but they’ll be leaving soon. How long will it be before the contracts are exchanged?’
‘A few weeks.’
Ruby nodded. Suddenly, the idea of leaving the house in which everyone had been so happy, despite the war, made her feel inordinately sad. She touched the wooden banister and sighed. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she murmured. ‘You’ll like living in it.’
‘I’m not going to live in it. I’ve already got a house. I’m a property developer. Here’s my card.’
His name was Matthew Doyle according to the badly handwritten card. ‘You’ve spelt property wrong,’ Ruby pointed out. ‘It only has one “p” in the middle.’
‘Thanks for telling me,’ he sneered, but looked embarrassed.
‘I hope you’re not going to pull the place down.’ She sighed again. ‘It would be such a shame.’
‘I will, one day, when the time is ripe. Until then, it’ll be rented out.’
‘What’s happening to everything in it?’
‘You mean the furniture and fittings?’ He made an attempt to look knowledgable and superior. ‘It’s being sold as it is. I’ll keep some stuff and sell the rest.’
‘I see.’ She wondered where he’d got the money from to buy the house. And why wasn’t he in the Forces like most men of his age? There was something despicable about speculating, buying up property, while there was a war on and other men were risking their lives. Her lips curled in disgust.
‘Why are you covered all over in paint?’ Matthew Doyle enquired.
‘I’ve been decorating an old lady’s house.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ve just bought a whole row of bomb-damaged houses. When they need painting, I’ll get in touch.’
Ruby looked at him directly, hating him. ‘Don’t bother. I do it for nothing, something I doubt you’d understand.’
He flushed angrily. ‘You know nothing about me.’
‘I know enough. How much rent will you want for the house?’
‘More than you can afford,’ he replied, blinking at the sudden change of tack, ‘seeing as you work for nothing, like. Unless you’ve got a husband who can pay what it’s worth.’
‘My husband died at Dunkirk. I’m a widow.’ She knew he would never let her have the house which she couldn’t possibly afford, but was hoping to get under his skin, make him ashamed, though doubted if he was capable of shame.
To her surprise, he didn’t answer straight away, but seemed lost in thought. She watched him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ill-fitting suit. There was something almost pathetic about such a badly dressed individual who couldn’t spell passing himself off as a property developer. She’d like to bet the estate agents he dealt with laughed like drains behind his back, yet he could probably buy and sell the lot of them. She neither respected nor admired him, but there was something to be said – she couldn’t think what it was just now – for someone who’d so clearly pulled himself up by his bootstraps to get on.
‘You could turn it into a boarding house,’ he said.
Ruby’s jaw dropped. ‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Live downstairs and let the upstairs rooms. Take lodgers. Make their meals, do their washing, and they’ll pay more.’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘Or is being a landlady too good for you?’
‘Oh, Rube! That’s wonderful news,’ Beth cried when she came home.
‘Is it?’ Ruby loathed every aspect of housework and regarded with horror the idea of looking after a houseful of lodgers. But it seemed she had no choice. Matthew Doyle wanted eight pounds a week rent. If she let the upstairs rooms for four pounds each, she’d be left with eight pounds for herself. It sounded a lot, but there’d be mountains of food to buy and tons of washing powder. It seemed she was destined to wallow in domesticity for the rest of her life.
No! No, she wouldn’t. Ruby tightened her fists and gritted her teeth. She’d hang on to her little nest egg, add to it week by week, buy a house if she couldn’t find one to rent. Somehow, in some way, she’d do something with her life, no matter how long it took.
At twenty to eight that night, it was announced on the BBC that the following day was to be a national holiday.
The war in Europe was over.
They took the excited children to a street party by the Malt House, where bunting was strung from the upstairs windows, where the tables were laden with a feast that made young eyes glisten and mouths water. Ruby had been saving food for this momentous day and arrived with two dozen home-made fairy cakes, a jelly sprinkled with hundreds and thousands, a tin of cream, two bottles of ginger beer, and mounds of sandwiches filled with cress she’d grown herself.
It was a mad day, crazy. Total strangers flung their arms around each other and hugged and kissed as if they were the greatest friends. When the children finished eating, the grown-ups sat down to what was left over, by which time half the men were as drunk as lords. They sat on the pavement outside the pub, hugging their ale, reliving the war, fighting the battles all over again, savouring the victory, which they claimed they’d expected all along, having forgotten the dark times when everything seemed to be lost and Hitler was winning.
After tea, they danced; the hokey-cokey, knees up Mother Brown, the conga. Ruby and Beth waltzed together, and Beth said longingly, ‘Don’t be hurt, Rube, but I don’t half wish I was dancing with Daniel. There’ll never be another day like today. It would have been nice to have spent it together.’
Ruby felt a little knot of envy. What would it be like to fall in love, she wondered? Properly in love, not the childish love she’d felt for Jacob, o
r the hopeless way she loved Jim Quinlan. Would she ever know what real love was?
Jim was around somewhere. He looked withdrawn, a bit lost, not joyful that everything was over but he was still alive. Perhaps he felt that death had cheated him, that he had no right to be there, celebrating, when his friends were dead. Ruby had already decided to give up on Jim Quinlan, though he would always retain a special place in her heart.
Still, she had her girls. She looked up to see where they were. They were whizzing round in a circle with Jake, laughing helplessly, as if they, too, were drunk. The girls would miss Jake. He was their brother, although neither she nor Beth had ever felt able to tell them. It was hard to imagine the future without Beth. They’d lived through the war together, shared every single thing. Even Jacob, she thought with a smile.
Connie and Charles arrived. ‘We decided you were the only people in the world we wanted to spend tonight with,’ Connie cried. ‘We’ve been to the house and guessed you might be here.’ She embraced Ruby affectionately, then Beth.
Charles kissed them both. ‘You’ll always be part of our memories,’ he said huskily. ‘You took strangers into your house and made them feel at home. I’ll always be grateful.’
He took them into the packed Malt House for a drink, where Martha was working frantically behind the bar. Above the din, Ruby managed to convey the news that she’d found somewhere to live. ‘In other words, I’m staying put. Some chap’s buying the house, a Matthew Doyle.’
‘Matt Doyle!’ Martha screeched. ‘You’ll have to be careful there, Ruby. He’s nothing but a dirty, rotten spiv. He could get you anything on the black market – at a price.’
Dusk was falling when they went outside. The exhausted crowd started to sing, sitting on their doorsteps, lounging against the walls, happier than most had ever known. The moon came out, and then the stars. And still they sang, until a few began to drift away, and then more.
Ruby and Beth walked back through the lamp lit streets, the weary children behind, dragging their feet. Mrs Hart’s house came into view. Ruby had switched on the lights before they left, feeling extravagent and very daring. But it was worth it to see every window in every room brightly lit, welcoming them home, a sight never seen before in all the years they’d lived there.
