by Lizzie Lane
‘Get out of it,’ growled Meg, ‘before I change me mind.’
‘Thanks.’ With a jaunty air that she always got on a day when a troop train was due, Polly was off.
Meg stared at the closed door before wiping her eyes with the blue gingham apron that was almost a dress because it crossed over her breasts and tied at the back. How many trains had Polly met in the hope, a fainter hope now after twelve months, that her Canadian would be on it? How many more would she still meet until she finally gave up and admitted to herself that she would remain unwed and her child fatherless?
Men, even nice young men like Gavin, a squadron leader at only twenty-five years old, did foolish things before they went overseas to do even more foolish things. Who was to know he didn’t have a family already back home in Alberta or Manitoba or wherever it was? All over the country, men from overseas were being repatriated. No questions would be asked when they got home as to whether they’d left any dependents behind.
The sound of crying drifted in from the backyard where Carol was lying in a pre-war pram that had a deep body and small wheels. Meg would have liked a new one for the baby, but Polly had told her there was a waiting list. Besides, married women got priority, or at least it seemed that way.
Time for Carol’s feed, thought Meg with a sigh, and turned back to the scullery door, dragging her slippered feet over the cold floor and wishing she could do more than she’d already done for her niece. If only Polly’s parents were still alive. She especially missed her own sister, Marian. John, Polly’s father, had died of TB and Marian had been in an air raid shelter at the aircraft factory where she’d worked which had taken a direct hit. She had been another casualty of war. But, Meg thought with a sigh, there were a lot of casualties in war, and not all of them were left dead or injured, just hurting.
Chapter Two
THE MINUTE HAND on the station clock that hung over platform nine was just approaching five minutes to twelve. The smell of soot mixed with the dampness of steam exhaled from engines called Bristol Castle, Truro Castle, or any other castle with West Country connections. The grey, pungent clouds rose only as far as the iron beams, where they hung like a brewing storm before gradually escaping into the sharp blue beyond.
Temple Meads Railway Station was showing signs of wear. Wartime neglect had left paint peeling like crisp skin and, although signs bearing the station’s name were being re-erected after their long absence during hostilities, they looked dull and tired as though they’d just been roused from a long, dust-laden sleep.
Already the platform was crowded with people. The waiting families were herded like cattle behind barriers by railway personnel who informed them they had to stay there until the train came in. A few grumbled. After two, three, even four years, they still had to follow orders.
Privations aside, there was bright expectancy lighting the faces of most of those waiting though, like the station, many of them looked shabby unless their means went beyond wartime clothing coupons or they’d acquired friends in the US Army.
Charlotte Hennessey-White was one of those whose clothes, although pre-war, were of a quality made to last. They had been bought with David’s encouragement on the day after war broke out. They’d driven to Castle Street in the centre of Bristol, parked just across from the Dutch House, a fine old seventeenth-century black and white timbered building whose upper storeys hung over the street like a benevolent frown. Despite some people insisting that the war would be over by Christmas, David had not been convinced. He had been generous, purchasing clothes for her and the children. She felt close to tears as she remembered asking him why he wasn’t buying clothes for himself. With a wry smile he had answered, ‘Because the government will be supplying me with all I need for the duration.’
Bittersweet as it was, she cherished the memory of that day. And memory was all it was now. Castle Street was no more and the Dutch House that had survived three centuries and Edwardian demolition plans to widen the road was gone. Only ash and rubble remained.
David had been right about the length of the war and he’d been right about being needed. As a doctor he was called up almost immediately.
She parked the car, her hands trembling with excitement so that she was barely able to lock the door once she had unloaded Janet and Geoffrey. It was as though there were no bones in her fingers or as if they had minds of their own.
David was coming home! David was coming home!
The words were like the lyrics of a song running through her head, the music spilling into her fingers, making her drop the keys. And all because David was coming home! It was like being eighteen all over again and meeting him for the first time. But it’s only been two years since you last saw him, she told herself. Just two years!
She paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What could she say? What would he say? Would he have changed that much since his last leave? He had seemed a little strained back then compared with pre-war, but was she really remembering how he had been? It was difficult to say. Nineteen thirty-nine seemed so long ago. September had been a russet-red season when they had walked and talked more than they had for a long while. They’d snatched moments to discuss with nervous excitement what might happen, how the gas masks smelled of something lately dead and how small the Anderson shelters seemed. But none of it had been as important as just touching and talking. It seemed as if each minute was snatched in lieu of a future when they would be apart, perhaps for ever. Suddenly Charlotte was overwhelmed with a great feeling of relief. He’d been one of the lucky ones. Her legs felt weak. Solid objects in the world around her seemed to wobble and blur around the edges. She closed her eyes and leaned against the car.
‘Thank you God,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank God he’s safe.’
Her moment of gratitude was swiftly shattered.
‘Noooo!’ Geoffrey, then a scream of car tyres.
Her eyes snapped open and she turned sharply.
‘Geoffrey!’
He was standing at the kerb, one foot in the gutter. The wooden aeroplane was wedged under the front wheel of a gleaming Bentley and the driver was looking peeved rather than upset.
‘Let me get it,’ she heard someone say. ‘There. It’s not broken.’ The young woman who had spoken and now handed Geoffrey back his toy looked vaguely familiar.
‘Geoffrey!’ Charlotte ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and angrily spun him round to face her. But her ire was short lived, overwhelmed by excitement and anxiety. Please. Don’t spoil this very special day.
She took a deep breath. ‘Geoffrey!’ Gently she held him by the shoulders and manoeuvred him around until he faced the young woman. ‘What do you say to this kind young lady?’
‘Thank you,’ Geoffrey muttered sheepishly, eyes downcast and his chin resting on his tie.
‘I’m sorry, but today is a day for us all to remember,’ Charlotte said apologetically, aware of the excitement in her voice but curiously unable to control it. ‘Geoffrey’s not usually so careless. It’s just that his father’s coming home today. I think all three of us are far too excited.’
‘I suppose you are, ma’am,’ said the young woman, already moving away as the unmistakable discomfort of class deference came to her eyes.
Charlotte immediately felt that pang of regret she always did at times like these, that yearning to reach out and explain that she was no different from her. Show me who you are without fear or shame, she wanted to say. She had seen that look on the faces of people she’d helped in the Marriage Advisory Centre she’d been working in during the last two years. Before that it had been the WRVS. Marriage guidance had been available before the war but had been promptly disbanded on its outbreak. Then, as men went fighting overseas and long periods of separation and loneliness ensued, the service was rapidly re-formed. Charlotte found she was a natural at giving help and advice.
She offered her hand, judging that the young woman would consider it impolite not to take it. ‘My name’s Charlotte Hennessey-W
hite,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’
‘Edna Burbage,’ answered the young woman.
Charlotte held on to her hand a little longer and said, ‘He’s very fond of that aeroplane you know. I got it locally from a man who serves on an aircraft carrier. Apparently he made it in the lull between battles.’ I’m prattling, she thought and, although she wanted to continue and tell Edna that she was more excited than the children that her husband was coming home, she was an adult and was therefore expected to control herself.
To her surprise, Edna’s gaze went straight to the little plane as if it were very familiar to her, but she had only just been reminded of it.
‘I got it in Nutgrove Avenue near Victoria Park,’ Charlotte went on.
Edna smiled a little pensively. ‘I know. I saw you there. The man that made it is my fiancé. I was round visiting his mother.’
‘Well,’ said Charlotte in a very slow and thoughtful manner, ‘that is a very strange coincidence.’
Edna frowned then smiled. ‘He’s coming home on the midday train. His name’s Colin Smith.’
‘That’s the man!’ said Charlotte, her pent-up excitement endowing the exclamation with more enthusiasm than it deserved. ‘Look,’ she went on, determined to overcome Edna’s initial discomfort. ‘Let me buy you a cup of tea. You did save my son’s answer to the Luftwaffe.’
Edna hesitated, eyes shyly downcast. ‘Well, I didn’t really do anything.’
‘But we could talk about Geoffrey’s Christmas present for this year. I dare say your fiancé – Colin did you say? – must have plans to continue with his talent.’
Edna smiled. ‘I don’t know, but it is a possibility.’
Charlotte, pleased with herself for making such a useful suggestion, added, ‘I do hope you don’t mind me saying, but you should do that more often.’
Edna attempted to blink away her confusion. Her cheeks reddened.
‘Smiling,’ Charlotte explained. ‘The war’s over. You can do a lot more smiling from now on.’
She meant it. In that small moment when Edna had smiled, her brown eyes sparkled and her nut-brown hair seemed streaked with the richer tones of French brandy. Edna had problems, Charlotte thought, and made a mental note to offer her help if required. Offering help to other people came naturally. Taking advice herself was something she rarely had to do.
They walked into the station and got their platform tickets together, Charlotte bubbling with excitement, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, and Edna, apprehensive, her hands shoved deeply into the oversized patch pockets of her plaid, three-quarter-length coat. The children chattered and squabbled at their sides and the two women exchanged looks of understanding that held the seeds of friendship.
‘I wish I could be as calm as you about all this,’ said Charlotte. ‘I mean, a woman of my age feeling like a silly sixteen-year-old …’
Her voice trailed off. Crackling and buzzing came from overhead, a sure sign that something was about to be announced over the loudspeaker system.
‘The train’s late,’ said Edna before the station announcer had the chance to say anything.
Sure enough they had a thirty-minute wait before the train was expected. Frozen points according to the information crackling from the overhead speakers.
‘I can believe it,’ said Charlotte wrapping her fur a little closer around herself. Then, seeing Edna’s envious look, she wished she’d worn something less ostentatious.
‘Would you like that cup of tea?’ Edna asked, taking up Charlotte’s earlier suggestion.
Charlotte was just about to say that she would pay before realising that could hurt Edna’s pride. ‘I could certainly do with one,’ she said with a smile.
The buffet was crowded but they managed to squeeze into a set of rickety wooden chairs that surrounded a table by the window. Smears of whitewash and the remains of sticky tape on the panes testified to the fact that it hadn’t been that long since a blackout was in force and shattered glass from exploding bombs was a real danger. But at least they were in the warm. Despite it being a fine, dry day and the sky a summer blue, the air was raw with the crispness of December.
Cream distemper was flaking from the walls and brown painted doors were scuffed and scratched from thousands of service boots and mountains of kit bags. Despite the drab neglect, someone had made an effort to be seasonal. Faded paper chains straggled across the ceiling, their tattiness relieved here and there by a single sliver of tinsel. Obviously the decorations were of pre-war vintage but the very fact they were there at all heralded the hope that things were returning to normal.
Tea was served in big, ugly cups that had chips around the rim. The liquid itself was weak but palatable, although the woman in charge of the sugar allotted only one spoonful per person.
The children stayed outside, squashed against the barriers, sniffing the soot-laden air, and watching the giant, black engines steaming in and out of the station.
Charlotte took a sip of tea then looked out of the greasy window.
‘Peace,’ she said plaintively. ‘Is it possible that we’ve got so used to war that we won’t be able to handle peace?’
‘My mother said it’s a new beginning,’ said Edna, her gaze following Charlotte’s to the smoky world outside the buffet room. ‘She said the war made us do things we wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing before. It made the world unreal.’ She blushed, wishing she hadn’t said it. Her guilt showed too easily.
Charlotte turned to look at her. ‘Do you believe that it’s a new beginning?’
Edna looked nervously down into her cup. ‘I don’t know. It might be for us, but I don’t know how the men will view it. They must have got used to living dangerously, giving orders and taking orders and all that.’
Charlotte felt for her. She shook her head. ‘But how wonderful not to take orders, not to have to duck flying bullets and explosions and goodness knows what else.’
‘It’s the most thrilling time so I’ve heard, that moment when you think you are about to die,’ said Edna.
‘I’ve heard that too,’ said Charlotte recalling the words of Doctor Julian Sands, a psychiatrist at the hospital. On one or two occasions she had turned to him for advice when dealing with some of the more difficult relationships resulting from the war. ‘Some get such a thrill from being that close to death that they can’t help courting it, daring it to try them again. The adrenalin flows. It becomes like a drug. They have to have it. They have to risk their lives, but they also risk the lives of others in the process. Some view them as heroes. Others as maniacs.’
*
‘Hello again,’ said the ticket inspector as Polly showed him her platform ticket. ‘Definitely on this train, is he?’
‘That’s what it said in his letter,’ she lied, her smile broad enough to convince anyone that she was telling the truth. ‘I don’t suppose the train is on time?’
‘Oh ye of little faith!’ said the beaming inspector, who’d been called back in from retirement to fill this post back in nineteen forty-one but was likely to be put out to pasture again now that a brace of more able-bodied men were coming home. And thank God for that!
‘Trust to the Lord and the railways,’ said the ticket inspector.
‘Blasphemy!’ snapped the woman standing immediately behind Polly’s right shoulder.
Polly exchanged a quick smile with the inspector before moving to the platform where she would wind her way through the crowds waiting at the barrier until the train came. Once it had come, she would walk up and down looking for the familiar uniform that represented a dream she was desperate to fulfil.
Gavin had not been her first Canadian airman. There had been Pierre before him. His colleagues had called him Snowshoe because he was from some small place in the Rockies and knew how to trap and fish in the Canadian wilderness. He had been a tailgunner on a bomber that had been saddled, like a lot of others, with the job of bombing the enemy without the benefit of fighter protection. He’d told her he
would marry her when he got back from his last mission.
Even now, after falling in love with Gavin, she could still remember how dry her mouth had been that day as she waited for Pierre to return. She had wanted to burst with happiness because he was so big and strong and was going to take her to a new place that was bigger than Europe and untouched by war. With mounting tension she had watched as his plane banked over the airfield, last of a force of twenty-one, not all of which had come back. But his plane had. With mounting excitement she had watched it land, then suddenly spotted the holes in its wings, bits of metal hanging like ripped skin from its main body.
As the plane swerved its tail round to face her, she saw the place where the tailgunner’s turret should be. Instead of the usual bubble of glass there was nothing except a gaping hole. It was as though someone had drawn a tooth and made a mess of it. Her heartbeat had seemed to slow to a monosyllabic dirge. Snowshoe was gone and it hurt like hell. So she partied and threw herself into being the bubbliest blonde, the one with the loudest laugh, the most raucous singing voice. Gather ye rosebuds … But in her case it was men she had gathered and she didn’t care who knew it. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her because life was for living and young men were dying and who knew if she mightn’t die too. So what was the point of being a little Miss Goody Two Shoes and waiting for the bomb to drop on her? Besides, she still had her dream to achieve.
She thought she’d found her dream when she met Al Schumacher. He was coarsely built with hands like shovels and pink cheeks.
‘I farm with my folks,’ he’d told her. ‘In Kansas.’
‘Is that in Canada?’ she’d asked him.
