by Carol Rivers
Connie’s mouth was watering. Not for food. She wasn’t hungry. But the thought of bathing Lucky’s little pink body, trickling the water over his bald head and dressing him in some of the fresh clothes that Pat had given her, was a sweet torment. How she longed to care for him herself, she thought, as she sat in one of Nan’s large armchairs set either side of the blacked-out window.
It was a pleasant room, if cluttered, unlike her own home, not a cushion out of place. Nan and Lofty cared little for the appearance of their nest. The sideboard was overflowing and the old upright piano was in use as a clothes horse. But the room was easy on the eye and restful, as though the turmoil of the outside world had not yet reached in.
Connie listened to Nan’s hearty laughter and saw the twinkle of a smile that Lucky gave her as he rested in her arms, all clean and scrubbed. Connie ached to take part in all these baby developments. Work had been miserable! Mr Burns had kept his staff ’s nose to the grindstone all day. Even Len had been out of sorts after a terrible night with his mother, who had refused to leave her warm bed when the warning went. He had been forced to stay up all night, as the bombs exploded around their ears. Ada had not seen Wally, either, and was pining for her boyfriend. The atmosphere at work had been sombre now that the raids looked set to continue.
‘Here we go again!’ Nan exclaimed when the siren wailed. ‘Lofty! Where are you? Get this girl and baby home quick!’
Nan handed Lucky over. Connie wrapped him in his shawl, all thumbs as Lofty appeared. They ran together along the street and the sky grew dark against the searchlights.
Her mother and father were just leaving the house. ‘Constance, are you coming with us?’
‘No, I’ll wait for Billy in the Anderson.’
‘I don’t know how you can—’
Ebbie gripped his wife’s arm. ‘Come along, Olive. Connie, take care of yourself, love.’
‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ Olive cried as Ebbie dragged her on. ‘It’s still warm.’
Connie rushed through to the kitchen. Balancing the baby in one arm, her dinner in the other she rushed out to the Anderson. Having forgotten to bring the milk with her, she laid the baby in the cart and rushed back in again. A few minutes later, back in the Anderson, she was too scared to move as the bombs began to fall outside. Her dinner went untouched and when Billy arrived she threw her arms around him.
‘Oh, Billy, thank goodness you turned up.’
‘What’s the matter? Has Hitler landed?’ Billy teased as he secured the iron door and lit the Tilley lamp.
‘I don’t like it here on my own.’
‘You’ve got Baldy.’
At that moment an explosion rocked the Anderson and Lucky began to scream. Connie lifted him from the cart and held him tight. ‘What can I do to comfort him?’ she asked helplessly.
For once, Billy didn’t come up with an answer. ‘I don’t know about babies,’ he said lamely.
Connie was beginning to think she didn’t either.
Vic Champion inspected his face in the washhouse mirror. He groaned. He’d had practically no sleep in two nights and it showed. His jaw was covered in sharp, dark bristle, there were bags under his eyes and his thick, dark hair needed a good wash. As did the rest of his body, but with just a pitcher of water available he would have to be careful. He’d brought two big jugfuls from the standpipe this morning on his way home from night duty. Gran would certainly need one of them for her household chores and he always left her a spare, just in case the water was off for the day.
It was an irony he looked so rough, he thought as he rubbed his face with the penny-sized fragment of soap that he kept aside for shaving. Saturday had arrived, the day he had been looking forward to all week. The day he had intended to make a good impression!
Removing his greatcoat, he flipped his braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. Pouring the freezing water into the enamel bowl, he bathed himself the best he could, then proceeded to shave. The cutthroat razor, freshly honed against the pummy stone, sliced off the stubborn beard and at last a smile formed on his face. That was better. He felt human at last.
After throwing the dirty water into the lavatory, he poured the remainder from the jug into the bowl. This time he washed his hair with the same tablet of soap, whistling as he did so. He was relieved to complete another daunting night standing in as an unofficial ARP warden. The noise of the bombs and the Mudchute ack-ack still resounded in his ears. As did the cries of the unfortunate victims he had worked to save from their ruined homes. Against his will, pictures flashed up in his mind. The distress, the blood and broken bones and, in some cases, the horror of a lingering death. He had worked desperately to free one man and his wife in the ruin of their home. She was dead, but the man was still clinging to her hand. The doctor had arrived and had known at once his lower limbs were crushed for ever. Even before the doctor had begun to amputate, the man was dead.
Vic blinked his eyes at the memory. He was twenty, young and able, but he had seen enough in one week for a lifetime. Did he still feel the way he had on that day in May when Operation Dynamo had begun? The whole island had turned out to salute the flotillas of small boats as they sailed down the Thames to France. Rescuing the Allied forces stranded at Dunkirk had been no mean feat. His heart had been heavy with yearning to help as he’d made his way over the bridge and turned left before the donkey field opposite the Seaman’s Mission and the Dock House pub, to stand at Pier Head. He had been filled with patriotic pride at the awesome sight. Our boys were being slaughtered on the beaches of France and every man who owned a vessel was turning out to help. He’d felt the same way in July and August when the Spitfires had protected London and the coasts with such tenacity against the Luftwaffe. All he’d wanted to do was to be up there with them, shooting the enemy down before they could create more carnage. But instead he’d been sitting safely behind an office desk in his reserved occupation at the Port of London Authority. He’d told his boss he was determined to join up. He was still waiting for his papers, still hoping to prove that he was prepared to fight for king and country.
But after this week, he felt sick to his stomach. So much death and destruction. And he hadn’t even set foot out of England! Did he really have the guts to be a warrior, to look a man in the eye and shoot him? Did he have the courage to risk his life and, if necessary, sacrifice it?
‘Vic? Breakfast, son.’
Gran’s voice rocketed out of the back door. Vic quickly dried his hair on the ancient towel full of darns. He fingered the wet locks across his scalp and plastered the weight flat with the palm of his hand. He glanced in the mirror once more and saw someone he at last recognized.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of frying bacon. ‘Blimey, where did you find a porker?’ Vic asked his Gran, who stood at the stove.
‘Less said the better on that score,’ Gran muttered, tapping the side of her nose. Her beady eyes looked up at Vic with mirth. He grinned, stretching his muscular arms above his head. ‘Never quiz a woman about her coupons, eh?’ he chuckled.
She pushed him out of her way. ‘Now, you might look like Rudolph Valentino standing there half naked, but you can’t sit down undressed to breakfast in this house. Lower the rack and put on a clean shirt. There’s one ironed already.’
Vic did as he was told. ‘Where would I be without you, Gran?’
‘Oh, don’t give me any of that flannel,’ she cried. ‘Hurry up, your bacon’s getting cold.’
‘It’s not out of the pan yet.’
‘It will be by the time you get your arse on the chair.’
Enjoying the familiar banter, Vic removed the pristine white collarless shirt from the wooden slats and raised the rack to the ceiling again. When he was dressed, he sat down in front of two fat slices of crispy bacon, one egg and two thick wedges of bread spread with lard. A cup of tea stood beside his plate and a round of toast as back-up.
Gran sat beside him, her small, plump figure lost in th
e folds of her black garments. He had never known her to wear any other colour. Woollen jumpers, long skirts, headscarves, gloves and coats, all as black as night.
‘Go on,’ Vic urged, lifting the plate of toast towards her, ‘indulge yourself. Have a slice.’
‘No thanks, cock, I prefer me Bemax. The tin says it’s gas proof!’ Gran chuckled as she tilted her spoon into the chipped china bowl.
‘That stuff ’ll put hairs on your chest, you know,’ Vic teased as he attacked his cooked breakfast.
‘Shut up and eat up, you saucy sod,’ Gran replied gamely.
He would have preferred to see her eat a good breakfast once in a while. But she wouldn’t hear of it, no matter how hard he nagged. Relishing the feel of the perfectly cooked hot food sliding down into his empty stomach, he had to admit the sustenance made him a whole man again.
Vic thought, as he did every day, that he couldn’t have had a happier life. He was grateful to Gran for the gift of it. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d be an orphanage kid and so would Pat. None of their relatives had stepped forward when their parents had died. Had it not been for Gran, they wouldn’t have known what life or love was about. Vic worshipped the old woman who sat beside him now. And he knew the feeling was returned.
They talked for a while, discussing the raid last night and how Pat and her husband Laurie had converted the cellar of their house in Manchester Road into a nice little sitting room. And how even Dorrie was getting used to the explosions and how Gran slept on the put-u-up next to Dorrie’s camp bed and caught a draught down her neck. Vic related some of the events of his warden’s rounds but not all. Though he could see by her eyes roving his face that his Gran was well aware of the horrors that had passed.
‘Now,’ said Gran as she scooped the last puddle in her bowl to her dry, wrinkled lips, ‘where are you taking your girl today?’
Vic almost dropped his knife. One thing about Gran that he wasn’t too struck on was her second sight, as she termed it. She’d had the knack all her life, coming out with things that even he or Pat didn’t know were about to happen. She read the tealeaves and could give an answer to a problem or foretell the future. And she didn’t ask you whether you wanted to know it or not. Out it came, like this morning, when he hadn’t even finished his tea, and he knew that once the tealeaves were strewn out before him he’d be hot at the back of his neck, wondering what she was about to say.
‘What are you on about?’ he demanded, playing for time.
‘You’re meeting a lady, aren’t you?’
Vic blushed as he tried to swallow his bacon. ‘You’re an old witch you are.’
‘No, that was deduction, boy,’ she clarified swiftly. ‘You washed and shaved and put on a clean shirt without an argument. You’ve got a smile on your mug as wide as Greenwich Reach, and that means only one thing.’
Vic relaxed a little, though not for long.
Gran bent forward. ‘But I can tell you something more, lad, and this isn’t guesswork. She’s special, this one. She’s got good lights. The only problem being there’s other lights around her I don’t like. Mucky stuff.’
This time Vic did drop his knife. It clattered on his plate and he almost choked. He took a long swig of tea. Before he’d finished swallowing Gran was pointing her bony finger. ‘Tip your cup and turn three times.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Gave you the best china, didn’t I?’
Groaning, he tipped and the tealeaves swam over the saucer in rocky little piles. To Vic it looked a mess. But he knew that to Gran it was probably the meaning of life.
She took a sharp, wheezy gulp of breath. Her eyes went wide until Vic could see their whites, then slowly she relaxed and her eyelids fluttered. ‘Well now, that’s a to-do, that is, a real to-do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sorry to say she has trouble ahead.’
Vic sighed inwardly. It wasn’t fair. He’d hardly got back to knowing Connie yet. He’d been sweet on her at school and too shy to do anything about it. She wasn’t giggly or mouthy like the other girls. She’d had these amazing blue eyes that filled her face and warmed him up the moment he looked in them. Her hair was all wavy right down her back, like a field of corn in the wind. And now Gran was telling him about troubles and mucky stuff, just what he didn’t want to hear.
‘Gran, you know I don’t understand all this stuff,’ Vic protested miserably. He wanted to enjoy today with Connie. In fact, he wanted to enjoy a lot more time with her if given the chance. It wouldn’t be so bad in a reserved job if he had Connie as his girl.
‘I’ve told you before, son,’ Gran said patiently. ‘We all have lights. Around us, shimmering like a second skin. You can tell if a person’s not well, or what troubles they’re in—’
‘Yeah yeah, I know that, Gran. But it’s only you that see them. How should I know what Connie’s got—’
‘So it is Connie Marsh?’
Vic rolled his eyes. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ he insisted, but Gran was already shaking her head.
‘It’s dead serious, lad, you mark my words. Your lights are an identical match, like rainbows you both are, like the sun and the rain, they need each other.’ She shook the saucer gently. ‘And there’s something else too.’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Vic groaned, pushing back his chair.
Gran was silent then and reached out to grasp his hand. Her fingers were shaking as she squeezed his knuckles. ‘There’s an envelope on its way. Brown it is. Same as the mucky lights.’
‘A letter’s nothing to worry about,’ Vic joked, clasping the frail hand tightly between his own. ‘There might be money in it.’
‘No, it’s not money.’ Gran frowned as she indicated a little pile of tealeaves that bore an uncanny resemblance to the shape of the British Isles. ‘Britain see? The old woman sits on her pig. Scotland, the rider, Wales, the pig’s head. Over here, the east and the beast’s bum.’
Vic gave a little shudder as he shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yeah, I remember me geography, Gran, though I can’t say it was taught like that.’
‘Well in my day it was – now concentrate. I don’t like the pig’s head. My advice to you is sit astride the animal and take fate into your own hands.’
He laughed nervously. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Remember what I said.’
‘Righto, Gran,’ he said quickly and stood up. ‘And just to put you out of your misery, yes, I am seeing Connie, that is, if I can find any trousers to put on.’
Gran waved her hand. ‘They’re hanging over your chair upstairs. Oh, and don’t go up West today. I’d stay local if I was you.’
‘Why’s that?’
Gran looked up. ‘Me water’s telling me they’ll be over soon.’
Vic didn’t stop to ask any more. He wanted to see Connie more than he wanted to listen to any more forecasts about the future.
Chapter Five
‘Vic, this is Mum and Dad.’ Connie knew she was stating the obvious but was too embarrassed to stop as the family lined up in order to be introduced. ‘And this is Kevin and Sylvie – and Billy.’
If it hadn’t been for the bus being late when she’d left Dalton’s, she would have been safely outside the house now and waiting on the corner with Lucky as arranged.
Vic was standing in the middle of the front room, nodding and smiling at the full complement of the Marsh family. Even Billy’s presence was a rarity; Saturday mornings he usually vanished before anyone was up.
‘Pleased to meet you all,’ Vic said several times again, beaming another smile as he looked slightly confused at the effusive greeting.
‘And we’re pleased to meet you – again – son.’ Ebbie winked at Connie as she held a freshly changed Lucky across her hip. ‘Used to watch you playing football when you were knee high, but I don’t expect you remember me.’
‘I do as a matter of fact, Mr Marsh. It was a long time ago, but I know your face.’
Vic was relieved o
f his coat and a tin of Jacob’s Assorted Biscuits was found and offered swiftly past the noses of the family, to linger in front of the visitor. Vic sat on the couch, drinking more tea than Connie suspected he had ever drunk in his life before.
She was relieved when all the questions were over and they were on their way out to the car. ‘Sorry you had to knock for me,’ Connie apologized as they climbed in. ‘I was late getting Lucky ready otherwise I’d have been on the corner waiting.’
‘When you weren’t there,’ Vic said as he started the engine, ‘I thought you’d changed your mind.’
‘I wouldn’t have done that.’ She gestured to Lucky, who she had dressed in Dorrie’s rompers, a blue bonnet and a blue coat that Nan had picked up from the market. ‘As you can see, I didn’t go to the Welfare people. Do you mind if he comes with us?’
Vic winked at the baby. ‘Course I don’t. He looks grand now he’s washed up. Look at them big eyes. Same as yours. As blue as a clear blue sky.’
Connie blushed. ‘Yes, they were dark at first, but now they’ve changed.’
‘Did your Mum have him whilst you were at work?’
‘No, I had an unexpected offer of help from our neighbour, Nan Barnes. She’s wonderful, bless her heart, but does go on a bit. I don’t like to be rude so by the time I left her house and got back home today it was almost two o’clock. I didn’t even have time to change.’
‘You look lovely.’
Connie grinned. ‘I’m still in my working clothes.’ She hadn’t had time to put on a dress, or pin her hair up.
He glanced at her. ‘Well, you still look lovely. The pair of you do.’ He looked back at the road. ‘I’ve checked all the missing lists, by the way. No one’s reported a missing girl and her baby, not a whisper.’
‘But she must have an identity and so must he.’
‘If anything turns up, you’ll be the first to know.’
Connie didn’t like to admit she was in no hurry for the baby to be claimed. Instead, she wound her fingers through his and looked into his eyes. It was very strange that he had her colour eyes. She wondered what colour his hair would be when it grew.
