Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘No way!’ He’d sounded insulted. ‘It’s in the good ole US of A!’

  Good enough, she’d thought, and they’d got on really well and got really close and, eventually, he’d asked her to marry him and she’d said yes. He’d even given her a brass ring as temporary confirmation that she was engaged to him. As a warm glow spread over her, he had slid it onto the third finger of her right hand. That night under cover of the blackout, she had felt the hairs of his chest against hers, his hands exploring her body as he mumbled sweet words in her ear. He’d also told her how it would be in Kansas and how his mother would be pleased to see he’d married a girl from the old country. ‘Well, almost the old country,’ he’d added. ‘It’s Europe, ain’t it? What’s in a name?’

  She hadn’t bothered to enquire further because his bulk was slamming the breath out of her and he was breathing heavily in her ear. Even if she got pregnant it wouldn’t matter because Al was going to marry her and she was going to live in Kansas.

  But Al got shot down. One of his friends swore he saw his parachute open. Another wasn’t so sure.

  Her dream stayed with her, but it was six months before she got serious again. That was when she’d met Gavin.

  Her legs were getting cold so she rubbed one against the other in an effort to keep her circulation going. She glanced at the clock then looked towards the end of the platform, willing the train to arrive and for Gavin to be on it.

  Suddenly a shout went up. ‘The train’s coming! The train’s coming!’

  An engine whistle screamed and a cloud of smoke appeared just beyond the link that crossed over the bridge which, in turn, crossed the river.

  Under pressure from the pushing crowd, the barriers were hastily removed. People surged like a wind-driven tide towards the edge of the platform, expectant, excited, and willing to risk falling onto the rails rather than lose their place at the front of the milling throng.

  ‘Keep back! Keep back!’

  The shouts of the railway guards and inspectors fell on deaf ears. They were like Canute before the tide, only this sea of people was far more determined than the North Sea could ever be. The winds of war had at last blown themselves out and people were tired, glad it was over, and hopeful for the future.

  Piles of khaki, navy and airforce-blue uniforms, interspersed with the grey pinstripe of demobilisation suits, hung from carriage windows and doors, jostled by more men behind them jammed into the packed carriages.

  As the train slowed, the men’s eyes searched the crowds of turbans, feathered hats, and hair curled especially for the occasion with the aid of heated irons and water reinforced with a precious spoonful of sugar.

  Eager hands like tentacles sought the smooth metal of handles, doors swung open, and men piled out onto the platforms to outstretched arms welcoming them home. The noise was thunderous, far too powerful to be drowned out by the crackling loudspeaker that attempted to announce the train’s arrival.

  Polly, her eyes searching the windows as the men burst out from gaping doors, started to walk briskly along the edge of the platform, uncaring that she pushed embracing couples aside, her tears blinding her to how they might be feeling, how much they might have been missing each other.

  ‘Gavin! Do you know Gavin?’ she said, grabbing what she recognised as a shoulder adorned with the insignia of the Royal Canadian Airforce. The surprised-looking Canadian shook his head briefly before being engulfed by a pair of feminine arms clothed in the sleeves of a leopard-skin jacket.

  Polly pushed on determinedly, oblivious to bumps from shoving arms, angry glares and shouts of protest.

  She tried to gain more height by jumping in an effort to look over the heads of the crowd just in case she had missed him. People were like a sea around her, pushing, shoving. Shouts of recognition eddied around her from those on the platform, from those on the train.

  There were other shouts too.

  ‘Stop pushing!’ she heard someone shout.

  ‘The handle’s stuck!’

  ‘Watch it!’ shouted someone else.

  The shouts were ignored. Although those in front told those behind not to push, the urge to get off the train and as far away from war as possible was too strong.

  The door sprang open across her path. She screamed as the bottom part hit her solidly in the stomach sending her flying against the side of the carriage. One leg slid away from her and plugged the gap between the carriage and the platform. She felt her shoe slide off her foot.

  ‘My shoe! Where’s my bloody shoe!’

  A bevy of voices commented on her plight. ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Faces, legs and uniforms formed a barrier around her. Hands reached to help her to her feet.

  ‘Make room,’ someone said in a commanding voice, ‘let me through. I’m a doctor.’

  A tall shadow leaned over her. Its owner bent down and began examining her leg. There were definitely bruises, definitely abrasions. She winced as the helping arms pulled her clear of the gap. A numb burning circled her ankle.

  Suddenly the crowds and those gathered round were just too much. ‘I’m all right,’ she said and looked back at the gap and her bare foot. She was still minus a shoe.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the man who claimed to be a doctor. ‘Can you move your ankle?’

  She nodded at the top of his head as his cold fingers carefully manipulated where a rip in her stocking gave way to grazed flesh. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He straightened. She was surprised how tall he was. ‘Nothing broken, but I think it’s badly twisted.’

  Polly looked down to the gap between the platform and the wooden step beneath the open door.

  ‘My shoe!’

  ‘Don’t you worry, luv. I’ll get it for you once the train’s moved out,’ said a young navy rating whose frizz of ginger hair stuck out like a halo from under the round hat he wore.

  ‘There!’ said the doctor, who wore the uniform of an army officer with the ease of someone used to being well groomed. ‘That’s the Navy for you, always at the ready. No wonder they’ve got a girl in every port. Good for you, son.’

  The rating beamed. ‘Pleased to be of service to the young lady, sir,’ he added, perhaps a little tongue in cheek.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Not sir, son. Doctor will do.’ He spread his arms to either side of him, shrugged and smiled. ‘I opted to hang onto the uniform by virtue of the fact that it fitted me far better than the suit I was offered.’

  ‘I know what yer going to say,’ said the rating, his cheeks as pink and round as polished apples. ‘It was for an average man of five-feet-four with a thirty-eight-inch waist. Been there myself, sir.’

  ‘Forty-two-inch I shouldn’t wonder, judging by the way it kept sliding to my ankles,’ laughed the doctor. ‘We’ll be over in the buffet. Can you deliver it there?’

  The rating saluted at the doctor and winked at Polly.

  ‘I don’t want no tea,’ Polly began. ‘I just want me shoe so I can do what I gotta do and go where I gotta go!’

  ‘I’ll thank you to listen to my good advice,’ said the doctor, his tone and the fact that he cupped her elbow in his hand and guided her towards the buffet leaving her in no doubt that he was used to giving orders and used to having them obeyed. ‘I also owe you free consultation at my surgery.’

  Polly hobbled as she looked up at him. ‘Why’s that then?’

  For a brief moment he looked sheepish. ‘My fault,’ he said brusquely. ‘I pushed open the door without looking.’

  Once his apology was out, his chin was up, his head high. He’s like a hawk, she thought, with that hair swept back severely from his forehead, that straight nose, but most of all, the alert eyes that searched ahead and to either side of him.

  Polly was just about to say that it was understandable. But she didn’t get another chance to say anything. The pressure from the mix of men and waiting relatives was too great to resist. It was like a river trying
to filter into a drainpipe. Some of the men were in uniform and others already in demob suits, but all were thankful to have survived. They were eager to get home and get on with their lives and nothing was going to get in their way. She was pressed against the doctor, standing on one leg, her bare foot held slightly off the ground. One moment his arm was around her, the next it was gone. The press of bodies had eased.

  ‘Darling!’

  There was a sudden flash of fur coat, expensive earrings. The woman wore a matching pillbox hat perched at a jaunty angle. Good stuff, thought Polly. Pre-war and bought in somewhere like Castle Street before it got blasted to hell.

  A veil of stiff black net shaded the eyes that now closed in ecstasy. A tear rolled down one cheek, yet the red lips were smiling, teeth showing shiny white before he clamped his lips to hers and they clung together like magnets.

  Two children glanced briefly at her but their interest was short lived. Smiling hesitantly, they eyed the man who now embraced their mother. He was obviously their father.

  ‘How I’ve missed you!’ the woman exclaimed, hugging him tightly and laying her head against his shoulder before turning to the children.

  ‘Children! Say welcome home to your father.’

  Polly sensed he was as nervous as they were. He watched them silently as they stepped dutifully forward, paused, then threw their arms around him.

  Family business, thought Polly as he clung to them, and started to ease away. She felt like an interloper and, although she only had one shoe, she preferred putting up with the coldness of the platform in order to get to the buffet as quickly as possible where the rating would return the missing one to her.

  But she wasn’t forgotten. The doctor turned round, the look in his eyes similar to those she’d seen on a dozen service personnel when they spotted a ‘looker’ like her.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘We’ve still got to wait for your shoe.’

  Frowning, his wife turned to him then to Polly. ‘Her shoe?’

  ‘Look, there ain’t no need to worry about me …’ Polly began.

  His arm stayed around his wife’s waist.

  ‘A modern day Cinderella, my dear.’ As he went on to explain what had happened and made introductions, his wife’s expression became more sympathetic.

  ‘So I decided we should have tea while we wait for her shoe to re-emerge. Then perhaps we could drop you off somewhere,’ he said turning to Polly, his expression a picture of gentlemanly courtesy.

  ‘Well, seeing as me shoe might be in two pieces, I’ll accept yer offer,’ said Polly with a toss of her blonde hair. ‘That’ll get the neighbours talking.’

  ‘My word,’ said Charlotte with an excitable laugh. ‘I’ve already had tea with Edna and I must warn you that it’s very weak and only lukewarm.’

  ‘Edna? Do I know her?’ asked David Hennessey-White.

  Charlotte slipped her arm through the crook of his. ‘No, but you must meet her. She’s engaged to the man who made Geoffrey’s aeroplane, you know, the one I had a terrible job getting hold of last Christmas. He’s on the train today as well.’ Her head bobbed enthusiastically as she searched the crowd for her new-found acquaintance. ‘There she is,’ she said, her face as excited as a child’s with a new toy because she had her man back on her arm. She waved her kid-gloved hand. ‘Look! There!’

  Along with everyone else, Polly looked towards a girl with shoulder-length dark hair wearing a three-quarter coat with patch pockets. She could be pretty with a bit of make-up and some decent togs, she thought, but why’s her face so pale and why is she looking down at the ground? ‘Lost something, has she?’ she said in a careless, offhand way.

  ‘Edna!’ called Charlotte and frowned. ‘Surely she can hear me.’

  As the crowd around Edna slowly fell away, husbands with arms around wives, children bouncing high on the shoulders of fathers they had never seen before, Charlotte’s hand fell slowly to her side and her smile melted.

  ‘Poor girl,’ whispered Polly and really meant it. No one else said a thing. Silently they all took in the scene.

  Edna’s fiancé was still in uniform, medals shining on his chest, his hands resting on the enamelled arms of the wheelchair. Like ill-wrapped parcels the remains of his legs stuck out rigidly before him ending where his knees used to be.

  Chapter Three

  ‘WELCOME HOME COLIN’ shouted a bold banner across the front of number 56 Nutgrove Avenue. Despite the fact that it was a cold day, an avenue of blue sky and a winter sun had tempted everyone, thickly cocooned beneath layers of Fair Isles and tweed coats, to join the party.

  Cheers went up and a host of union jacks were waved ferociously as Charlotte’s car pulled up with Colin aboard. It had been her suggestion to give them a lift. Polly had also been encouraged to come while David and the children waited for her shoe to be retrieved from under the railway carriage.

  ‘It will give the children and their father time to get re-acquainted,’ Charlotte had said to Polly and Edna, with all the confidence of someone who knows how to handle people.

  Colin wound down the window and waved his hand just as vigorously as the many tight fists that were waving the flags.

  ‘Mum! Dad!’

  ‘Colin!’ His mother’s voice was shrill with emotion, her eyes brimming with tears.

  His father raised one hand and wiped behind his glasses with the other.

  Neither of them allowed their gaze to linger on the iron chair securely tied to the car’s rear. In mute understanding they looked at each other, mother biting her bottom lip for a moment, father’s Adam’s Apple rising and falling as he digested the truth. Then he sprang forward.

  ‘Son!’ he said as he swung the car door open.

  A confused murmur ran through the crowd of would-be revellers. Glassy-eyed they gathered around the tables, waiting for the word to be given that Colin was home and, despite his injuries, ready to enjoy himself.

  Edna clutched at her stomach as she saw the disbelief, then the hint of pity that crossed each parent’s face before they buried their feelings beneath an avalanche of determined joviality.

  ‘Son!’ said Colin’s father again, reaching to shake his hand before diving through the car door and enveloping his child in a hug desperate enough to break bones.

  For a moment she thought she saw Colin’s shoulders quiver and was convinced he was crying. But when his face reappeared, he was looking into his father’s eyes and laughing in the same way as he always had.

  ‘Hirohito couldn’t get rid of me that easily, father, and neither can you. Here I am. Home again, home again, jiggity jig!’

  Two men manhandled the wheelchair. Colin’s father lifted his son gently and set him into it. Edna wanted to cry at the pain of it all. But Colin wasn’t crying and neither would she. No one would, until they were alone and night had fallen and no one could see.

  ‘Well, let’s eat some real food!’ shouted Colin. ‘I’ve been waiting for this. Edna?’

  ‘I’m coming. Just a minute.’

  She let them take over. Relatives and neighbours pushed his chair towards the tables, where they all fell to hiding their pity and their tarnished joy at his return in the pleasure of over-eating, a rare phenomenon during the last few years. Colin’s father, a red-faced man with sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses, had sacrificed one of the pullets he’d been rearing out back. The bird’s plump breast gleamed like gold and, just to confirm how special the occasion was, little frills of red, white and blue paper rustled around its naked ankles.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Colin shouted as a leg was ceremoniously torn off and handed to him.

  Edna turned to Charlotte and thanked her for the lift.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Charlotte and affectionately patted Edna’s arm. ‘We’ve stuck together in war, now we’ve got to do the same in peace.’

  Handbag swinging on her arm, she marched off, entering the throng of people and talking to them as if she’d known them all her life. She was like an iron butterfl
y, floating among them with ease, yet all the time influencing them with words of wisdom that weren’t always called for.

  ‘She’s very nice,’ Edna said plaintively.

  ‘She’s bloody nosy,’ Polly added with far less amiability.

  ‘Still, it was kind of her to give me and Colin a lift.’

  ‘Are you still going to marry him?’ Polly asked.

  The question took Edna unawares. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Of course! Nothing’s changed,’ she blurted.

  Polly shrugged and cockily tilted her head sideways. ‘With him do you mean, or with you?’

  Edna felt her throat go dry. She didn’t answer.

  ‘You don’t have to you know, unless, you know,’ she jerked her chin at the spot where Edna’s stomach hid behind her coat. ‘Unless you’ve got to.’

  Edna felt a hot flush creep over her face. ‘Certainly not.’ But for a brief insane moment she wondered if Polly had heard rumours. Perhaps someone had questioned her time away or had seen her with Jim.

  Polly grinned. ‘No need to blush, sweetheart. You wouldn’t be the first respectable girl to get caught out like that.’

  Edna muttered something about she would never have been that stupid. Polly didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Tell you what, Edna. How about you and me meeting up for a girls’ night out? Your bloke wouldn’t mind. Well, can’t see ’im minding much. Nice bloke basically. I can see that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Edna.

  ‘Just the two of us,’ Polly went on, then shoved a sharp elbow into Edna’s ribs. ‘Don’t want old posh pants there spoiling things, do we?’ She nodded towards Charlotte who was overseeing the serving of a group of children with bowls of jelly and paste sandwiches.

  Edna nodded. ‘I suppose so.’ But she had reservations. No doubt Polly was fun to be with, but she sensed she was also selfish.

  At that moment Charlotte came back with the air of someone who’d just issued battle orders to a detachment of Home Guard. ‘That’s that done!’ she exclaimed. She began to rummage in the deep confines of her pigskin handbag which, Edna noted, was a perfect match to her shoes.