by Casey, Jan
This time Dad was waiting for them at the bottom of the road, shifting from one hip to the other to give his legs a rest. He waved the envelope above his head when they turned the corner and Sylvie ran towards him and opened it then and there, with a tabby sunning itself on the pavement and a breeze stirring the leaves on the silver birch. Sylvie held the letter at an angle so Dad and Evelyn could read over her shoulder.
28th May 1944
My dearest Sylvie,
I am so sorry if the letter from Nurse Kendall was a shock. I did not mean to alarm you in any way, but all casualties are asked if there is anyone other than their NOK they think should be informed of the incident that has taken place and of course, there was you, my lovely.
A bullet skimmed my cheek and eye, but the area has been patched and stitched by a very clever, careful doctor. I’m not sure if he used blanket, back or cross-stitch but my guess is that he used a combination of all three. I haven’t seen the wound as yet, but I’m sure I’m not as pretty as I was, so am beside myself with worry that you will no longer want to be Mrs Alec Buchan. I promise that if you will still have me, I will stay on your left side for as much of our life as possible so you do not have to be repulsed by the change in my appearance.
The fact of the matter is, darling Sylvie, that I have been very lucky. The doctor said another fraction of an inch and I would have been missing my brain as well. That, I told him, would have been difficult as there would have had to be a brain in my thick skull to begin with.
I have not been told where I will be sent next and don’t think I will be until I get there. I will keep you informed as best I can, but the news will have to be patchy for obvious reasons.
My thoughts of you are what keep me going.
Give my love to Evelyn and your dad. Take care of each other.
Your Alec X
Sylvie’s worn, pallid skin turned to the colour of curds.
‘God help us,’ Dad said, winding his arm around Sylvie and guiding her home. ‘That poor man.’
Revived somewhat by the sweet, weak tea Evelyn made, Sylvie sat under a blanket on Dad’s easy chair, the letter next to her. ‘I’ve made up my mind, we’re going tomorrow,’ Sylvie said, emphasising each word with a jab of her index finger. ‘First thing.’
‘We can’t go to Italy,’ Evelyn said with gentle patience, presuming that’s where Sylvie meant.
For a moment, Sylvie hesitated then chuckled, the first suggestion of a smile since Nurse Kendall’s letter had come. ‘I know that, you daft mare,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Canada House.’
*
They linked arms, weaving in and out of the crowds leaving the Tube at Piccadilly Circus. Sylvie had wanted to make an effort with her hair and lipstick that morning and asked Evelyn to do the same so they didn’t let Alec down. Wearing heels and a bit of costume jewellery, they looked like any other pair of girls making their way through familiar territory to jobs in an office. But to Evelyn, the West End seemed like a foreign country, even though it had only been a matter of weeks since she and Sylvie last visited a dance hall. Evelyn wondered what everyone could be doing that was so important.
What had she used to do that occupied her mind so fully before this happened to a loved one in her own family? Of course Alec wasn’t that yet, but it seemed inevitable he would become so.
They walked straight down the Haymarket towards Trafalgar Square, and it hurt Evelyn to know they were walking parallel to Regent Street where the WES was located, one of the places she’d hurried to, absorbed, before this crisis. She remembered Cynthia Blackwood and how she had made mastering engineering sound easy and within reach for any woman who showed an interest. But, for Evelyn, it seemed at times as if the obstacles were insurmountable.
As they approached Canada House along the bottom end of Cockspur Street, they could see a queue of about thirty people, mostly young women, snaking along the pavement from the steps leading to the heavy, closed doors. Marching past them, Sylvie asked the first girl in line, a toddler clutching her hand, what time the doors opened. The woman shifted the child’s fist to the hem of her coat, checked her watch and said, ‘Nine. Ten minutes or so to go.’
Sylvie stood where she was and Evelyn was afraid she would cause a scene, saying her need was greater than this young mother’s. But looking down at the boy rubbing his eyes and leaning against his mum’s leg, Sylvie seemed to come to.
‘There’s nothing we can do, Sylvie,’ Evelyn said. ‘Except join the back of the queue and wait like everyone else. Let’s go now, before it gets any longer.’
Trailing behind, Sylvie joined her sister at the tail end of the row. She leaned back against the warm bricks of the building, its boarded windows flat and lifeless, and closed her eyes.
Evelyn nodded to a well-rounded girl who joined the queue behind them. The girl smiled back, a crooked eye tooth catching on her upper lip. The top part of her brown curly hair was caught up in one clip, the underneath length in another at the nape of her neck; it looked very fetching and showed off the young woman’s round cheeks and pale neck.
‘Ain’t it annoying?’ she said, looking rather cheerful and far from fed up. ‘All this waiting around.’
‘We had no idea we’d have to queue,’ Evelyn said.
‘Oh. You always have to queue here.’ The girl sounded a bit like Gwen. Definitely from the East End.
‘Always? You must be an old hand. Why ever do you have to keep coming back?’
‘Trying to find out when I can get to Canada. That’s what all the wives are doing.’ She swept her dimpled hand in the general direction of the rank and file of waiting women. ‘So, which of you is married to a Canuck? Or is it both of you?’
‘Neither.’ Evelyn shook her head. ‘My sister’s been told her Canadian boyfriend’s been injured in Italy. She wants more information.’
The girl’s chubby cheeks slackened a bit. ‘That’s a shame.’ She nodded to the impenetrable facade of the building. ‘But they only deal with wives.’
‘Really?’ Sylvie opened her eyes. ‘But I’ll be his fiancée soon.’
‘Don’t matter, I’m afraid,’ the girl said, twirling the gold band on her finger. ‘They can’t offer much help unless it’s official.’ She turned her attention to a young woman who’d come up behind her. They exchanged a few words, then broke out into peals of laughter.
‘What do you want to do?’ Evelyn asked. Perhaps it would be better to leave now and save Sylvie the humiliation of standing here for hours, only to be turned away because her lack of marital status rendered her officially insignificant. On the other hand, the podgy girl might not have got her facts right. Or maybe the bureaucracy had changed to meet the dynamic needs of the situation.
Sylvie scanned the street, as if the right answer would magically appear along it. ‘What do you think would be best?’
‘Let’s wait,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ll never know unless you ask.’
They found themselves in and out of the sun at intervals as the line moved forward at a creeping pace. The first woman in line passed them with her boy in her arms, his head lolling on his mother’s shoulder. In her hand she clutched an authoritative buff envelope.
‘I am a stupid bint,’ Sylvie said, kicking the pavement. ‘Daft and stupid.’
The two gossiping women behind looked down at Sylvie’s foot, then up at her face. Evelyn smiled at them and they turned back to each other.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Evelyn lowered her voice, hoping Sylvie would follow her lead.
‘He asked me. He wanted to fix something up in a hurry before he went away but I said no.’
‘Didn’t you think enough of him?’ Evelyn asked. ‘I mean, were you still not sure? You had us all fooled if…’
Looking maddened, Sylvie ran her fingers over her eyebrows, roughly brushing them into place. ‘I wasn’t fooling anyone,’ she said. ‘I think more of Alec than I ever imagined possible. But I told him I wanted to wait until he came back to do things
properly.’ She was choking up and Evelyn fished a hanky from her pocket. ‘Not for the dress, or the cake or the toast and speeches. Not for the ring or the honeymoon. For Dad.’
Evelyn understood. Dad would have agonised about the possible reason for a quick wedding, and when that anxiety was quashed he would have fretted that Sylvie wouldn’t have the ‘do’ Mum would have insisted on. Groaning, she pulled Sylvie towards her and kissed her cheek.
‘Now more than anything I wish I was Alec’s wife,’ Sylvie said. ‘Mrs Alexander Gordon Buchan. But we are engaged,’ she added, her eyes widening. ‘Informally.’
‘Alec’s fiancée, then.’ Evelyn nodded. ‘That sounds lovely.’
Sylvie managed a smile. ‘Yes it does, doesn’t it? And I’d like you to be my bridesmaid.’
‘Only if I can have a new frock,’ Evelyn said.
Sympathy was all the administrator behind the counter could offer Sylvie. He couldn’t say when Alec might be shipped out or to where, although it was unlikely he’d be sent straight back to Canada at this stage. No further information regarding Alec’s injury was known, and the best thing Sylvie could do was write to him in Andria.
‘Of course I’ll write to him,’ Sylvie told the man, whose moustache followed the sad, downward contours of his mouth. ‘But can’t I… Oh, I don’t know… go to him?’
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that even if by some miracle I could arrange that, your fiancé would be very angry with me for having done so.’ Not looking down, he played with the papers in front of him. ‘I’m sure you agree.’
Sylvie nodded.
‘Go home and write a letter,’ he said. ‘Unless there’s something else I can do for you?’
It was too late for dinner, too early for tea when they walked back the way they’d come that morning. Evelyn was worried because they hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but Sylvie didn’t want to stop; she wanted to get home and start a letter to Alec.
*
The changing room was a hot, stuffy jostle. A few women stopped and spoke softly to Sylvie, including Olive who lowered her voice to a muted honk and told her to keep her end up. Hanging her things on a hook, Evelyn was surprised to see Gwen’s navy coat and worn satchel drooping off their usual peg. She spun around, squinting over and through the women in various states of dress and undress, but couldn’t see Gwen anywhere, which made sense, as Gwen was on her way to Wales. Would probably be there by now, cuddled up with George and the kids. But she wouldn’t have gone far without her coat. And Evelyn knew she hadn’t bought herself anything new to go away in; every penny and ration coupon was spent on treats for Will and Ruth.
Evelyn pushed her way through to the fresh air, across the decks and over to the temporary bridge. From a distance, she could make out a figure waiting at her station, hands deep in pockets, sparks of sunlight glinting on spectacle lenses.
‘How are you, Gwen?’ Evelyn asked, hoping for an explanation.
‘Can I get started?’ Gwen asked.
‘Let’s give it a minute.’ Evelyn didn’t want to let Gwen loose with a flame in her agitated state. ‘Perhaps we’ll wait for the others.’
Gwen shrugged.
‘Sorry if I’ve got the days muddled,’ Evelyn said. ‘But I didn’t expect to see you here.’
Sitting on the edge of a waiting beam, Gwen rested her arms on her knees and examined her work boots. When she spoke, the effort she made to sound offhand was pitiful. ‘Oh. Well, George wrote that his leave was cancelled. Same for everyone.’
‘That’s a disappointment,’ Evelyn said. ‘Still, I suppose there’s a good reason for it.’
‘Must be,’ Gwen said, looking at Evelyn. ‘So you’re stuck with me again, I’m afraid.’
Evelyn started her daily inspection of the equipment. ‘Good job, too,’ she said. ‘We’d never get this lot done without you.’
‘I’m ready whenever you are,’ Gwen said, plucking her hands from her pockets and nestling them straight into the waiting gauntlets. Two of her nails, Evelyn saw, were bitten to the quick.
*
A piece of good news, at last. Rome was taken by the Allies and everyone’s step seemed lighter, shoulders less hunched, eyes livelier. Sylvie wondered how Alec would be feeling, confined to a hospital bed when he should have been sharing in the victory. He was part of the win, Evelyn told her, as was Malcolm and all the others who’d been prevented from physically being part of the city’s overthrow. And she imagined barred trattorias and vibrant oleanders along dusty Italian roads, strewn with broken uniformed bodies.
Eating breakfast two days later while wind and rain assaulted the windows, John Snagge read a special bulletin on the BBC Home Service. Dad turned up the volume with one hand, shushing his daughters with the other. ‘D-Day,’ Snagge said, ‘has come.’ Allied armies were landing on the northern coast of France.
The bridge was buzzing. Olive said it was all over and was demanding everyone down tools to celebrate. Gwen squeezed Evelyn’s arm and said, ‘You were right. There was a good reason to cancel leave.’ The gaffer did his best to keep the job going, saying this was all the more reason to stick to their schedule. But he sounded a klaxon and as many people as possible gathered in and around his hut to listen to broadcasts by the king, calling for prayer, and Churchill, giving the numbers. Upwards of four thousand ships, plus several thousand smaller vessels. Eleven thousand first-line aircraft. Reports of everything going to plan. And what a plan! His voice rose to the occasion. Fighting proceeding at various points. A very valuable first step. But he had a warning: this was no indication of what might be the course of the battle in the next days and weeks. A most serious time was being entered upon.
Both statements were long, and straining to hear in the middle of the jostling crowd, Evelyn was elbowed in the back, her shin scraped by the toe of a boot. Next, she picked up parts of a statement read out by a drawling Eisenhower.
‘People of Western Europe. A landing was made this morning on the coast of France by troops of the Allied Expeditionary Force. This landing is part of the concerted United Nations’ plan for the liberation of Europe, made in conjunction with our great Russian allies. I have this message for all of you: although the initial assault may not have been made in your own country, the hour of your liberation is approaching… This landing is but the opening phase of the campaign in Western Europe. Great battles lie ahead. I call upon all who love freedom to stand with us. Keep your faith staunch. Our arms are resolute. Together we shall achieve victory.’
The drizzle dribbling down the back of her neck, a welding iron that wouldn’t flame, boiled parsnips for dinner in the canteen again, the WES, the men who got all the best jobs, the filthy river. None of that seemed so awful now if it really was coming to an end. It hardly seemed possible and Evelyn didn’t want to get carried away, but perhaps this once, Olive was right.
At knocking-off time, Stan jumped out at her from behind the works entrance, his arms wide and a beckoning look on his face. The surprise caused Evelyn’s hands to flutter to her chest, but her next reaction was to throw herself at him and bask in the solidness of his arms, the traces of tobacco and engine oil on his skin, the tickle on her ear when he whispered that he had missed seeing her. She drew back and took his cool face between her hands. ‘I’ve missed you, too. Stanley Philip Richardson.’ And at that moment she could honestly tell herself that she had.
‘What news!’ Stan said, pulling on her sleeve. ‘Come on, shall we get a drink?’
Someone on the bridge had suggested that same thing and a whole crowd, with the exception of Sylvie who wanted to go home, sit with Dad and fill Alec in on the day, was meeting at the pub.
For a split second, Stan’s face dropped when she explained where she was heading then it lifted again when she insisted he join her. Tucking her arm under his, he shone with pride as he escorted her along the busy pavement.
*
Kids had to be dragged off the streets by their mothers when they heard the muf
fled drone of an approaching doodlebug. Jerry’s retaliation for D-Day sounded like a motorcycle under water and was, Dad read aloud from his paper, the size of a spitfire, with short, squat wings, a venomous front end, flame for a tail. And no pilot; a bomb with a motor attached. They travelled singly, in pairs, in huge black clouds like furious bees. As long as you could hear them you were alright, but when the buzz stopped the wicked things glided down and exploded on the surface of the ground, the blast rippling out six hundred yards in every direction from where they landed, causing devastation.
If the guards in their chapel across from Buckingham Palace couldn’t save themselves from a buzz bomb, then there was nothing for the rest of them but to run for shelter or drop to the ground, hands covering their heads. Many a blouse was ruined or shoes scuffed. One of Evelyn’s favourite jackets, a deep burgundy with grey velvet trim, sustained a serious oil stain right below the shoulder. As luck would have it, an ostentatious brooch hid the damage to that item; others weren’t so fortunate. They’d been right, Winnie, Ike and King George; it wasn’t over yet. Olive got it wrong. And the elation that had bolstered them on D-Day petered out with the incoming whirr of the dreaded V-1s.
*
One by one the white crescent moons on Gwen’s nails disappeared; the old, fragile wounds around her cuticles opening up easily. Her skin and hair looked brittle and rough; she was troubled and preoccupied. But, like Sylvie, she didn’t miss a day’s work.
‘Any news on George’s leave yet?’ Evelyn asked, handing a cup of tea to Gwen during their morning break. She watched Gwen’s eyes narrow and cloud over. Her hand, when she reached for the cup, was shaking with the slightest of tremors.
‘Oh, he’s been home for a couple of days. Gone back now.’
‘Not long enough to visit the kids? That’s a shame. Might you go again on your own?’
