Her mother was coming over to meet them at the weekend; so far Muriel and Florence had stayed away. Muriel had expressed her opinion once again that Grace had no right to fill Charles’s house with waifs and strays and she hoped she had obtained his permission before he went.
Florence she had only seen once since her arrival from London; she had come over to collect some eggs. Grace, who had been resolved to be friendly, was waiting in the kitchen when they arrived, making tea; Florence walked in, unmistakably pregnant, and it had been a shock so extreme that Grace had felt it physically. So that was the reason for her acute need to hide from Robert: not because he was going to beat her up, but because she didn’t want him to know that she was pregnant. Grace stood staring at her, her eyes fixed on Florence’s stomach, feeling sick; Florence stared back, her own eyes defiant. They had scarcely spoken throughout the visit; Grace had been icily polite to them both, Muriel offhandedly brusque, telling Grace the garden looked neglected, remarking that Grace herself looked too thin. ‘It doesn’t suit you, you know,’ she said, as if Grace had been losing weight deliberately, dieting in the face of plenty. ‘I should do something about it before Charles gets home. You must come over for supper one night next week,’ she added graciously. ‘Wednesday suit you?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Grace carefully, ‘I don’t know about leaving the boys.’
‘The boys? Oh, they’ll be all right for a few hours surely,’ said Muriel. She clearly saw them as small animals who could be left perfectly safely locked up in some outhouse. ‘I’ll expect you about seven. There won’t be much to eat, of course, perhaps you could bring something with you, a bit of cheese or some of your nice apples. Now come along, Florence, Mary Davidson is longing to see you. Everyone is so thrilled to have her back,’ she added to Grace. ‘Goodbye, my dear. You really should tie that dog up, you know, she’s ruining Charles’s lawn.’
When she had gone, Grace sat down and went into peals of hysterical laughter. She supposed that must be an improvement on crying.
On the third night after the boys’ arrival, she heard the muffled crying again, and went in; David as always hid under the bedclothes and pretended to be asleep. It was very cold and she had shut the windows tightly and closed the shutters. The room, devoid of fresh air, smelt unmistakably of urine.
In the morning she sent Daniel looking for eggs, went and sat on the old sofa in the kitchen window, patted the seat beside her.
‘Come and sit with me. I want to talk to you.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘David – I’ve been meaning to say – if – well, if either of you – wet the bed, I really wouldn’t mind, you know. I mean Daniel is very little and it’s very upsetting for anyone having to leave home. I used to wet the bed sometimes, until I was quite a big girl, at least ten. So if you – well, if he did, or if you thought he might, the best thing would be to put a rubber sheet on the bed. I’ve got to strip the beds today, and when I make them up, if you think that would be a good idea, I’ll put one on. Just in case. Then it won’t matter. All right? Now I’ll tell you what I really want to talk to you about. Your mum. Don’t you think you ought to write to her? I’m sure she’d like that.’
David nodded silently; but then he slid his hand into hers. ‘Thanks’ was all he said.
‘Tell me about your mum,’ said Grace, ‘and your dad.’
‘Me mum’s really pretty. She’s called Linda. She’s very good at singing. She’s fun. I miss her,’ he said and suddenly burst into tears.
Grace held out her arms. ‘Come and have a cuddle. Come on.’
‘Thing is,’ said David, edging slightly awkwardly up to her, ‘the other lady at the other place, she used to hit us if I – if Dan wet the bed. It was awful. She was awful.’
‘Well, I won’t hit either of you. So there. Just don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. What about your dad? Tell me about him.’
‘What about yours?’
‘Who? Oh you mean my husband. Well he’s very nice, of course. Very jolly and so on. Very good at riding.’
‘Have you got a horse, miss?’
‘Not at the moment, no. I don’t really like them very much, I’m afraid.’
‘The milkman ’ad a horse,’ said David, enunciating with care, ‘ever so big. I used to feed ’im. What’s ’e look like?’
‘Who?’
‘Your ’usband, miss.’
‘Oh, him. Well, he’s got fair hair, blue eyes. He’s tall. Good-looking. I miss him a lot,’ she said, with a sigh. It was true; she did.
‘My dad’s good-looking too,’ said David, ‘but ’e’s got dark hair, like me. You’d like my dad,’ he added, looking at her consideringly, ‘you really would. And ’e’d like you.’
‘The kids sound fine,’ said Linda to Nan. ‘Got a letter from David this morning. With another one from the woman they’ve fetched up with. She sounds nice. Name’s Grace Bennett. She says she and Daniel are getting a goat and she’s teaching David to play the piano. He says, listen: “The house is very very big and the garden is like a field.”’
‘Piano lessons, big houses,’ said Nan. ‘They’ll be getting ideas soon. I should watch it if I were you, Linda. Where you going?’
‘Out,’ said Linda, ‘and don’t talk so daft, Nan. How can I watch it? They’re bloody lucky if you ask me. I’m grateful to this Grace person. I’m going to write to her. Now I’m only going down the pub, and if the siren goes I’ll be right back, all right?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Nan, scowling at her. Linda scowled back. But actually they were getting on better, united by fear, by discomfort, by hardship and a determination not to be beaten.
Linda wouldn’t have liked to admit it, but she was enjoying herself. Ben had been posted to Liverpool and was perfectly safe, she did not have to worry about him; and London was full of soldiers on leave, soldiers and airmen, most of them lonely, happy to buy drinks for pretty young women who flattered them and told them how brave they were. Once a week at least she and Janice went up West; she knew it was dangerous, mad even, but as Janice said, when your number was up, your number was up, and there wasn’t a thing you could do about it, might as well enjoy it while you could.
The atmosphere in the pubs and clubs up there was fantastic; everyone excited, friendly, looking for fun, in case it was the last they ever got. The girls got taken dancing, to nightclubs, cocktail bars, the cinema. Very often after a film had ended there would be a further impromptu entertainment, a recital on the theatre organ, dancing, singing. It was all very good fun. The blokes obviously were hopeful, as Janice said, but would mostly settle for a kiss and a cuddle. At first Linda felt bad about even this infidelity, but she managed to persuade herself that what Ben didn’t see his heart couldn’t possibly grieve over, and it was a war effort of sorts, cheering the soldiers up. She never saw much of any film, that was for sure, not even Gone with the Wind, which ran for three and three-quarter hours, and dancing could hardly be dignified by that name either, just necking to music, but she would no more have dreamt of going all the way with any of the soldiers, however good-looking they were, than she would of walking into the factory stark naked.
The factory was fun too; she loved it. She had passed her trade test, after several weeks of training, and now worked a ten-hour shift, alternating night and day every two weeks. The night did seem particularly long, but it was broken by the hour-long dinner break when there was very often a concert of sorts, occasionally a professional one, but always someone would play the piano, one of the girls would get up and sing, and they would all dance and fool about. The work was repetitive, but when you saw a consignment of guns leaving the factory that you had helped to make, you really felt part of the war effort. And the girls were smashing; there was a sort of competition to tell the filthiest jokes, the most intimate stories, use the raciest language. Freed from the confines of marriage, they had all become young again, young and carefree. It was a funny thing to be, when your life was
in daily danger, but there it was.
When they were caught in the West End and there was an air raid, she and Janice mostly went down to the underground. That was a laugh. People said it smelt, and it did, but nothing like the big public shelters; she’d once had to go into one of those and it had been absolutely disgusting, two latrines between 300 people, set behind two hastily slung-up blankets. By the end of the raid they had overflowed, sending a putrid river over the floor. The shelters in the London underground were terrific: people organized singsongs, poker schools, there was dancing, sometimes an official concert, there were hammocks for the kids slung over the lines and people had their own spaces, where they set up deck chairs. The government had been opposed to the idea, but Mr Churchill had been all for it.
Good old Winnie; the affection people felt for him, the faith they had in him was profound, almost a love affair in its intensity. Linda saw him once, walking through the rubble of a bombed area as if he was inspecting someone’s garden, bowler on his head, cigar in his mouth, his fat face rather pink, waving cheerfully at everyone who greeted him. She was surprised how small he was, she had imagined a huge man from the flowing, booming voice, but she wasn’t disappointed; it seemed indeed to make him more human. She felt more than ever they were in good hands. If anyone could beat Jerry, he could.
And now she knew the boys were happy, she really could relax. Enjoy herself. What a thing to say about a war.
Clarissa and Jack had both got Christmas leave. Defying every fate, every odds, they had decided to spend it at home, in London. Jack had been recalled to the south coast, based in Kent.
‘If we get bombed, that’ll be all right,’ said Clarissa. ‘We’ll go together.’
She was actually enjoying life hugely. She had been posted to Portsmouth and was a dispatch rider, haring about the country on a motorbike, dressed in breeches, riding jacket and peaked cap. She earned thirteen shillings and sixpence a week, was called Wren Compton Brown, and worked in the most difficult and dangerous conditions, often at night, struggling through the blackout delivering dispatches. She gloried in it, careless of the dangers; she was in a permanently overexcited state, often unable to sleep even after a very long trip. She felt she had some idea now how Jack had continued to fly, to risk his life hour after hour, day after day; a strange force possessed her, lifting her above fear, above weariness. One night her lights, such as they were, failed nine miles from Southampton, and she had had to find her way entirely by the light of her torch; she had heard a strange whooping sound as she finally drove into the naval barracks and realized it was herself.
The Wrennery at Portsmouth was in a large private house that had been commandeered; the cabin she slept in was much smaller than the one at Mill Hill, and now that they all had jobs to do, had shaken down, there was a feeling of immense camaraderie between them all.
Clarissa’s friends in civilian life were very surprised she had not become an officer: ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ she said patiently, ‘you have to earn the right to apply. Anyway, I don’t know that I want to be. It’s much more fun being with the other girls. Especially May.’
She had been appalled at first to discover that May Potter had also been posted to Portsmouth, had imagined that when she left Mill Hill May and her tortures would be left safely behind her. May was a cook. ‘Honestly,’ Clarissa had said to one of the other girls, ‘I hope she won’t poison my food. Or spit in it,’ she added.
May had been still hostile when they arrived at the Wrennery, but as the days went by a lot of the fight seemed to go out of her; she was pale and heavy-eyed, and twice Clarissa thought she saw her crying as she passed her on their way to the bathroom. Then one night, as she got up to go to the loo, she heard the muffled sobs she hadn’t heard since Mill Hill days; following the sound, she traced it to May’s bed, and a heaving lump beneath the bedclothes.
Clarissa, who was nothing if not kind, sat down on the bed and put her hand cautiously on the lump, ‘Piss off’ came May’s voice.
‘Oh May, do be sensible,’ she said. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing you’d understand,’ said May.
‘I might. Come on, tell me. You homesick?’
‘Nah.’
‘Having trouble with your work then?’
‘Nah.’
‘May, come on. Let me help.’
Slowly, reluctantly, May’s bright blonde head emerged from the bedclothes. ‘What’s it to you anyway?’ she said crossly, blowing her nose on the handkerchief Clarissa had offered her.
‘Let’s say I’ve developed an interest in you,’ said Clarissa cheerfully, and then, as a couple of voices told them to shut up: ‘Let’s go out to the lav. We can’t talk here.’
‘OK. Got any ciggies?’
‘Yes. I think so. I’ll get them, and meet you there.’
May was sitting on the chair in the bathroom looking pale, clutching her stomach; she took the cigarette Clarissa passed her and pulled on it hard.
‘You look a bit rough,’ said Clarissa sympathetically, ‘Got the curse?’
‘No,’ said May listlessly. ‘I ’aven’t. That’s the problem. If you must know.’
Clarissa listened for a long time in silence as May sniffed and told her story. She had been on leave, had had what she called a high old time with her boyfriend who had promptly departed for Egypt ‘’asn’t even written,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette ferociously in the basin, ‘bastard. I won’t ’alf give ’im what for when ’e gets ’ome.’
‘Well, that won’t do you much good. It could be years. How late are you?’
‘Should’ve come on over two weeks ago.’
‘Did you – well, did you take any precautions?’
‘Course we bloody did. What do you think I am?’ said May indignantly. ‘Used a French letter, every bloody time.’
‘Feel sick?’
‘No.’
‘Got sore breasts?’
‘No. What is this, bleedin’ inquisition?’
‘May, I’m trying to help.’
‘Sorry,’ said May.
‘I bet you’re not pregnant,’ said Clarissa, ‘I bet you’ve just thought yourself into stopping your periods.’
‘Course I ’aven’t,’ said May crossly. ‘How could I?’
‘Very easily. Honestly. Anyway, you must have a test.’
‘A what?’
‘A pregnancy test. Perfectly simple. You just have to take a sample of your urine to one of the birth-control clinics and they inject it into a frog and then they know.’
‘How do they know?’
‘I think the frog lays eggs if you are, or something,’ said Clarissa vaguely. ‘Anyway, it’s very accurate. Lots of my friends had it done.’
‘Go on,’ said May, ‘I didn’t think your sort did all that sort of thing.’
‘May,’ said Clarissa severely, ‘you have a lot of very silly prejudices.’
May was not pregnant. She arrived back at the Wrennery beaming one evening a week later, having wangled an hour off to attend the clinic. ‘You was right,’ she said to Clarissa, ‘all in me mind. And I’ve come on. Came on on the way home.’
‘Told you,’ said Clarissa. ‘Good.’
May looked at her awkwardly. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘I was so rotten to you. I feel awful now. You’ve been a real friend to me and I don’t deserve it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Clarissa, ‘no hard feelings. Honestly. You just got me wrong, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m still sorry.’
From then on, she and May became best friends; May still teased her a lot and called her Duchess and she still had trouble not correcting May’s grammar, but they became inseparable and had, they agreed, much more in common than most of the other girls, not least a blithe ability to enjoy whatever life threw at them.
She arrived in London on 22 December and spent the day shopping. Oxford Street and Regent Street were packed. ‘It was blissfully norm
al,’ she told Florence that night when she phoned to wish her Happy Christmas. ‘Apart from the fact there was nothing to buy, of course. I actually got a turkey in Selfridge’s, desperately expensive, and you wouldn’t believe such a thing, some liqueur chocolates. Bit of a funny lunch, can’t get any fruit to make a cake or anything, but never mind. Masses of wine. I’m off to see your darling old dad now. He’s horribly lonely. He’s coming to have lunch with us on Christmas Day.’
‘Where’s Mrs Saunders?’ asked Florence, surprised.
‘Oh, history as far as I can make out. He’s so low, poor old darling. I sometimes wonder if—’
‘Mother wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Florence firmly, ‘and it would be awful, no one would speak to him.’
‘Grace would,’ said Clarissa. ‘How is she?’
‘Beastly,’ said Florence. ‘To me anyway. She’s taken in two rather sweet little evacuees and she’s doing some voluntary work for the Women’s Land Army. Frightfully pleased with herself. I don’t know why she’s so high-minded, I’m sure. Bit of a prig, she always was. It’s a class thing, I always think.’
‘Darling, how snobbish. Which reminds me, Jack’s going to the Palace in February, to get his D. S. C. Too thrilling.’
‘Oh Clarissa, how wonderful. You must be so proud of him.’
‘I am,’ said Clarissa complacently. ‘How’s baba?’
‘Growing. Like anything. I’m enormous.’
‘Oh darling, how wonderful. I can’t wait. When is it due?’
Forbidden Places Page 23
