by Annie Murray
‘Go on, Len. It’s the right thing. Go back, without me. It’s been a nice time – but I don’t want yer.’
He stood, stunned. Then his face turned ugly. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he snarled. ‘You stupid, spiteful bitch – you’ve messed up everything for me. Everything . . .’ He was outraged, lost for words.
‘Go and put it right then.’ She turned from him. ‘And, Len – thanks for the good times.’
And she walked away.
‘Molly! You can’t just go – not after all this!’ She thought he would follow, but she knew, from the way she had spoken, that he had heard that she meant it.
She left him, and moved quickly back to the pub where they had been earlier. By the time she went to bed she wanted to be so drunk that she wouldn’t remember anything, or think of anything. Most of all, she didn’t want to think of the cold, harsh truth she had discovered in herself: that it would have been the same, in the end, with Tony. That it would be the same with anyone.
Homefires
Thirty-Nine
New Year’s Eve 1943
‘So come on, Ernie – what’re you going to play for us now?’
Dot’s sister-in-law, Margarita, a glass of spicy wine in her hand, leaned over and playfully prodded her husband, who was sitting with his accordion across his knees. Ernie turned from sharing a joke with Lou.
‘Woman, give me a rest! She’s a slave driver!’ he appealed to the rest of the room.
They were all crowded into Dot and Lou’s cosy front room, a little get-together for New Year’s Eve. Em had gone along with Cynthia and Bob, pushing Robbie through the dark streets in his pushchair, and Joyce and Violet had come too. Sam was out with his girlfriend, Connie. Margarita, Lou’s sister, a vivacious woman with her long waves of bouncing chestnut hair, was there with Ernie and their grown-up daughter Carolina, whose husband was away in the army. There was Lou’s youngest daughter, Clara, and her husband and baby, and two of their elderly neighbours who had been asked to join in the party as well.
‘Oh come on, love!’ Margarita insisted. ‘What’s the use of you having the squeeze box here if you won’t play it?’
‘Give us “Auld Lang Syne”!’ Cynthia called to him.
‘It’s not time for that,’ Ernie protested. ‘That’s for midnight. It’s tradition!’
‘Well summat then – anything,’ Dot insisted.
‘Come on, Uncle Ernie,’ Clara urged as well.
Ernie, a jolly, round-faced man, took a resigned swig from his glass and set it on the floor by his chair. ‘All right then . . .’
He pressed the accordion into a happy jig and immediately everyone’s feet were tapping. Em looked round at the faces, pink with drink and the warmth of the room. The two elderly ladies were clearly enjoying the company and music. Cynthia and Bob looked relaxed and Em was happy to see her mom giggling at jokes with Dot. The pair of them were like two girls without a care in the world, and Nancy and Joyce were doing much the same on the floor in the corner. Dot was obviously so happy with Lou, who was a lovely, cheerful man with a big heart like Dot’s own, always with room for others in their lives who might need help or a bit of kindness. Clara, who looked very like him with her big, dark eyes, was smiling, watching Ernie’s dancing fingers. Violet was parked at Em’s feet, a bit left out, so resorted to playing with Robbie as there was no one else her age. But as soon as Ernie had started playing again, Robbie broke away from Violet and toddled straight to him, staring with his mouth open, absolutely rapt. The instrument itself was a lovely thing, creamy mother-of-pearl, and Robbie had been allowed earlier to try pressing the keys while Ernie pumped it to make a sound. Now, hearing the music again, Robbie’s eyes stretched wide and he was bouncing and flexing to the music. He had done the same thing every time Ernie played and they all laughed.
‘It’s like snake charming, ain’t it?’ Lou said through a cloud of cigarette smoke and wheezing with laughter. ‘Now you know what you have to do, Em—’ He pointed a stubby finger at the accordion. ‘You’ll ’ave to get one!’
‘Oh look at ’im again, love ’im!’ Dot said. ‘That’s right – you ’ave a dance, darlin’!’
Em smiled fondly at the sight of Robbie getting all the attention. She heard Violet stifle a yawn beside her.
‘Why don’t you have a dance with ’im?’ she suggested.
‘No!’ Violet squirmed shyly, hiding behind her brown curtain of hair.
‘Can I get anyone anything?’ Dot asked. ‘Cuppa tea?’
Cynthia said she was dying for a cup of tea. ‘I’ll come and give you a hand,’ she said, and she and Dot disappeared, giggling, out the back.
‘Why don’t you go too, Margarita?’ Ernie teased, as if she was a tyrant he needed to get shot of.
‘No – I’m staying here to keep an eye on you!’
Dot and Cynthia came back each holding a tray and looking pleased with themselves.
‘We’ve got a little surprise for yer,’ Dot said. Everyone looked. Cynthia had the teacups on her tray, but when Dot lowered hers triumphantly, they all saw a lovely creamy block sitting on a plate, and already beginning to turn soft at the edges. Margarita was smiling in expectation.
‘Ice cream!’ Violet gasped, amid the other oohs and aahs.
‘We’ve all been saving up for it,’ Dot said. ‘Margarita showed me how to make it. There should be a lick for everyone.’
Making ice cream had long been a traditional living for the Italians in the area, but had been banned months ago as so much of its luxurious contents was rationed.
There was enough for everyone to have a little square of the delicious treat. Em gave Robbie some of hers as well.
‘’E can’t get enough of it, can ’e?’ Dot laughed, seeing the little boy’s ecstatic face.
‘Thanks, Dot,’ Em said. ‘It’s lovely. Robbie’s never tasted it before.’
The ice cream was soon demolished and they drank their tea, but as the evening wore on, Robbie started to get fractious. Em picked him up to cuddle him, but his squalling turned into a full-blown tantrum.
‘I think I’d better get back now,’ Em said over his screams, struggling to her feet. ‘Someone needs his bed.’
‘You can put him upstairs for a sleep,’ Dot said. ‘It’d be a shame not to see the New Year in.’
‘No,’ Em said. ‘I’d better go . . . He won’t sleep without me settling down with him.’
‘You’ll spoil him – I’ve told you!’ Cynthia piped up. ‘Mollycoddling him like that.’
Em ignored her. Violet scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’
The others, who were all looking very mellow, said they’d come on later. Em and Violet managed to get a wriggling Robbie into the pushchair and said their farewells and ‘Happy New Years’, and Dot kissed them goodbye on the doorstep. Robbie quietened down at the feel of the cold air.
‘Mind how yer go!’ Dot called, waving, then disappeared, not wanting to let the light out. Things were more relaxed now, but they were still expected to keep up the blackout.
The two sisters made their way cautiously through the darkness as Robbie grizzled himself to sleep under a blanket, his cries dying gradually.
‘That’s him gone,’ Violet said, as he finally sputtered into silence. The two of them laughed.
The streets were ghostly quiet, except for round the pubs, where there were sounds of revelry.
‘Nineteen forty-four tomorrow,’ Em said. ‘It’s a funny thought.’
‘D’you think the war’ll end in nineteen forty-four?’ Violet asked.
‘Ooh, I don’t know. I hope so.’ Em found she enjoyed Violet’s company nowadays. She was growing up.
‘I can hardly remember before it started now. I mean I can, but it seems like . . . well, it was so long ago.’
Em sighed. ‘Feels like another life. Not four years – more like twenty!’
The sisters walked carefully, comparing memories of before the war started. As they drew close to hom
e, they slowed down on a corner where there was a pub, to ease the pushchair down the kerb. As they did so, the door burst open and a man and a woman came out, on a gust of shouts and beery air. The man seized the woman’s arm and she jerked it away, letting out an angry squeal.
‘Gerroff me! Stop pulling me about!’ she cried shrilly.
‘Well shift then, Aggie. I always ’ave to drag yer along, yer silly cow . . .’
‘Don’t call me that. You’re a bully you are – I hate you when yer like this . . .’
Em and Violet watched as they went on ahead bickering unpleasantly.
‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ Em whispered.
‘No – who?’
‘That was Bert Fox, Molly’s brother.’
‘Oh yes.’ Violet sounded disgusted. ‘He’s horrible, he is.’
As they followed, they could hear the same voices raised in argument for a few moments, before Bert and the woman must have moved on too far ahead of them. Em was relieved that Bert hadn’t seen her. Whenever they met he always said something rude or suggestive to her. He really was a slimy piece of work.
‘Nearly home,’ Em said. ‘Sorry to miss midnight and everything.’
‘I don’t care,’ Violet said. ‘It was boring.’
‘They’re ever so kind though.’
‘Yeah,’ Violet agreed through another yawn. ‘And that ice cream was beautiful.’
They became aware that they were not alone when an odd little sound came from the entry of a house close by, a noise like a stifled whimper. Em and Violet stopped to listen. Violet gripped Em’s hand.
Low whispering followed, and more stifled noises, then a little scream, as if whoever it was had been released.
‘Don’t! Don’t you ever do that to me! Who d’yer think you are, you filthy bastard!’
‘Oh shut yer cake’ole, yer stupid bitch! Just stop keeping on, will yer? I’ve ’ad enough.’
They erupted out onto the pavement this time, him moving away with fast, angry strides, the girl trotting after. Though Em could barely see them, the voices were unmistakable.
‘Wait – Bert!’ She was half sobbing now, petulant and frightened at once. ‘Don’t – why d’yer ’ave to be like that?’
Em and Violet shrank back, standing quite still until the pair had disappeared. They walked swiftly into Kenilworth Street and were very glad to be back in the house, where they closed the curtains against the ugly scene and put the light on.
‘What d’you think he was doing?’ Violet asked, obviously shaken by what they had heard.
Em blushed in confusion as the obvious answer sprang to mind and she didn’t feel like explaining it to her little sister. But she knew really that what they’d heard hadn’t been canoodling noises. ‘I think he had his hand over her mouth,’ she admitted, furious that Violet had had to hear any of it.
‘It sounded horrible,’ Violet said in a small voice.
‘Listen, Vi – I dunno what he was doing.’ Em said, pushing Robbie along the narrow hall. ‘Just don’t ever go near him, all right? He’s a bad lot.’ She looked down at her sleeping son. ‘I’d better get this one upstairs.’
Very carefully she lifted Robbie and carried him up to her bed, praying he wouldn’t wake. He was very clingy towards her and normally wouldn’t settle without her. But tonight he was tired out. She laid him down and sat beside him for a while in the dim glow coming from the stairs, stroking his head adoringly.
‘Happy New Year, little man,’ she whispered, tears filling her eyes suddenly. ‘I wish your dad could be here to see you. I wonder if nineteen forty-four’s going to bring him home to us?’
With an ingenuity that had taken Em by surprise, Norm had suggested to her before he left, a code that he could put in his letters to let her know where he was.
‘I’ll start by making the first letter of every sentence spell it out, somehow,’ he said. ‘So if I say something a bit queer to begin with, you’ll know what’s going on. We’re not supposed to let on, see, and they read our letters and cross bits out.’
Sure enough, before Christmas she had received a letter which began as follows:
I hope everyone at home’s getting on all right. Thanks for your letter, love. And for all the news about our little Robbie. Let’s hope he doesn’t grow up too quick as I’m dying to see him! You’ll have to take careful note of everything he does so you can tell me . . .
She showed Cynthia the letter.
‘See, look – I, T, A . . .’
‘Oh yes!’ Cynthia was amazed. ‘’E’s a clever one – you’d never think it, would you?’ She wandered off, smiling. ‘I wonder what he’d’ve said if he was in Timbuktu?’
Knowing where he was made a lot of difference and she paid careful attention to any news about the Italian campaign. It made her think differently about the war. When they were all being bombed it had come very close: they were living the war. Then there had been occasional raids, but now they hadn’t had one in months. Though they were left with grievous reminders of the Blitz, the people who were no longer with them, the wreckage of houses, shops and firms, by now the war had come to mean other things. It meant shortages, the endless worry and inconvenience of queuing for groceries, of making do and mending, of sometimes wondering how to spin out the food for the next meal. It still meant dark streets, restricted lives, and for some, constant anxiety about loved ones who were away.
Em’s life revolved around home and her little job with Mr Perry. Sometimes she missed Norm terribly, and felt as if she was stuck, forever a child, in her mom and dad’s home, unable to move forward. But it all felt as safe and secure as anything could during a war. Mr Perry was kindness itself, and let her go home if there was any problem, or even bring Robbie into work if necessary. The war became bulletins about huge upheavals; Russia, Italy, the Far East, names which she had never heard before – Smolensk, Anzio, Bougainville – were on the lips of every household, at least for a day or two. It was all so huge, so far away, and for her, now, her real life was centred on one thing – her baby son.
Robbie was seldom out of her thoughts. For almost two years now everything had revolved round him. Watching him grow from a tiny baby into a sweet, toddling child had absorbed her. She could sit watching him for hours, jumping to his every need. Each night, she cuddled up with him in her bed, humming to him and stroking his sweet, fragile body until he fell asleep. He was the first thing she saw on waking every morning – he was her love and her security and she his. Even if she’d wanted to have him sleeping elsewhere, the only space was in with Sid – she was already in a room with Joyce and Violet, who now shared the double bed. And she didn’t want it – she would have missed him terribly.
‘You’re a slave to that child,’ Cynthia would say, now and again. ‘You want to put him down to sleep and get him used to it, not spend half the evening pandering to him. If you had another babby you wouldn’t be able to sit with ’im like that, would you?’
‘No,’ Em said tartly. ‘But I’m not going to have another one at this rate, am I?’
Cynthia had recovered and come home, and of course her being well was a huge relief to them all. But Em resented living under her thumb and being told what to do. ‘I don’t have to do everything just the way you did, do I?’ she’d snap at her sometimes.
Cynthia would clamp her lips together as if to stop a sharp retort from escaping. But something would usually get out, like, ‘You’re making a milk sop of ’im, that you are. He’ll be a proper Mummy’s boy.’
These conversations usually ended with Em picking Robbie up and stamping her way up the stairs.
‘What’s she on about?’ she’d mutter in his soft ear. ‘Bossing me about. No one knows better than me what’s best for you, do they? You’re my little man!’ As he snuggled him up on her lap she laid her cheek against his soft hair. ‘You’re my everything,’ she whispered. ‘What would I do without you?’
She thought about the war, stretching ahead for who kn
ew how long? Those drab, weary days, with her living in dread, like every service wife, of the letter or telegram saying that something bad had happened to Norm, and everything going on just the same, week after week. Sometimes it felt as if it would just go on like this for ever.
It was the end of January, and she had been at work at Mr Perry’s all day.
‘There we are,’ Mr P said, shutting down the awning in front of the shop. ‘Another day, another dollar!’
Em smiled, as he said the same thing almost every day.
‘Tararabit, bab,’ Mr P said.
‘See you tomorrow.’ Em already had her coat and scarf on as it was freezing standing in the shop all day. It was almost dark as she walked home. Keeping her head down, she hurried along towards Kenilworth Street, the bitter wind stinging her cheeks, looking forward to seeing Robbie and to a nice hot cup of tea.
Rounding a corner, however, she looked up only just in time to realize that someone was coming towards her in the gloom, almost colliding with her, and she skipped out of the way. The other person, a woman with what looked like a baby cradled in her arms, gave a startled gasp.
‘Sorry!’ Em called.
The woman acknowledged her with the barest nod. She was wearing a dark-coloured coat and a hat with the brim pulled right down. Em caught a glimpse of a long, pale face, and a glance from dark eyes that flickered towards her for a second before the woman turned away. She vanished into the evening.
‘Well, she was in a rush,’ Em muttered.
Something about the face disturbed her. It took a few seconds before it came to her.
‘Hang on—’ She said it out loud, stopping in the road. ‘That was Katie O’Neill!’
Walking on again, she tried to make sense of it. Of course she hadn’t realized who it was at first. Why should she? And the woman had seemed in such a tearing hurry. She had been carrying a child – hadn’t she? Surely she hadn’t imagined that? She must be married then, Em thought, with a pang of regret. If the two of them had stayed friends they could be spending time together, their children growing up together. Still, no good crying over spilt milk. She hadn’t heard anything about Katie in ages. Had she moved back to the area?
