War Brides

by Helen Bryan

  And if Elsie went off to be a housemaid they’d have to feed her. That was something. Which made her remember her hungry brood at home. She hurried after the cat’s-meat man.

  8.

  Crowmarsh Priors,

  November 1939

  Two months of living on and off in the middle-of-bleedin’-nowhere Crowmarsh bleedin’ Priors with the local police constable and his new wife had convinced Bernie Carpenter that the country was worse than prison. He had never imagined that a place so dull and quiet existed. He missed Bow and Shoreditch. He missed the excitement of the dog track and the bookmakers who deferred to Uncle, the dance halls to which he accompanied Uncle and stood by importantly holding the satchel while they filled it with notes, their protection money, and nodded to “Uncle’s boy.” He missed the dance hostesses with painted faces and silk stockings, who crowded round Uncle and smelled nice. They brought Bernie ginger beer and tousled his hair and said they were waiting for him to grow up. He missed the street markets where stall owners shouted their wares and tossed him an apple while Uncle checked the stolen merchandise hidden under the carts. He missed “smash and grab” too, with the nighttime excitement of breaking into a shop or a house and scurrying off with a bag of valuables, listening for the lookout to yell, “Fire!” when he spotted the police. But most of all, he missed the little dark room under the pawnshop, the smell of ink, the presses, and making pound notes, doing the watermark over and over again, practicing with the tints on different currencies that had foreign writing and funny old codgers in beards, while Uncle looked critically over his shoulder showing him how the smallest details made all the difference.

  “That’ll do,” was high praise—Uncle never wasted words—and Bernie lived for this fleeting sign of Uncle’s approval. And then one day, Uncle drew in his breath and muttered, “By George, you’ve got the eye and the hand, lad. Some things can’t be learned—it’s in the blood. Couldn’t have done it better meself.” Bernie almost burst with pride.

  Since he’d been in Crowmarsh Priors—he didn’t know where it was exactly or he would leave—they’d come to fetch him and then they drove ever so far to somewhere else in the country. Once he got there, though, he had to admit, it was a little bit like old times, which was nice. The geezers there were a funny lot, like they were always half joking and didn’t give much in the way of praise, but he wasn’t stupid. Way he saw it, if they was depending on a sixteen-year-old boy to make their counterfeit notes and passports and other gear, and paying him to do it, as well as Constable Barrows for his board, then it was their way of saying he had the gift. They talked funny, posh, like, saying one thing and meaning another, but they weren’t a bad lot. He’d almost stopped nicking their cigarettes, lighters, and the odd bit of money.

  There was nowhere to spend it, was there? When he wasn’t wanted he bought a bar of chocolate and wandered aimlessly around the village not knowing where to put himself.

  When he spotted the scrawny girl from North Street polishing the door brass at the big house at the edge of the green, he could hardly believe his eyes. What in the name of Moses was the Pigeon girl doing there? He stepped behind a giant laurel bush by the gate and watched her. She rubbed her eyes and swiped the back of her hand across her nose, like she’d been crying. She must have gone into service at the big house. He couldn’t believe his luck at seeing a familiar face. ’Specially her. And her old dragon of a mother wouldn’t be around to stop him talking to her.

  For days after he had seen her, Bernie hung about outside the gates of the house as often as he dared, waiting for her to come out. They must have kept her hard at work because she rarely appeared. Instead, he saw a large old lady with white hair and a walking stick who stuck her nose in the air all the time like she could smell something bad. There was also a pretty girl coming and going. She had the sort of brownish-red hair that Uncle liked, and she dressed like stars in the pictures, in furs, little hats, and high heels. The gentleman from Gracecourt Hall called for her most days, with a roadster full of friends, and they would speed away, laughing, down the drive. Just the sort of girl Uncle would see set up well in St. John’s Wood or even Kensington.

  Thinking about Uncle made him sad. Constable Barrows had told him, not unkindly, that Uncle was ill in prison, too ill for anyone, let alone a lad, to visit. However, when Bernie had asked Constable Barrows who the big house belonged to, the policeman lost his genial expression, grabbed him by the collar, and said, “One word of warning, you little weasel. Don’t ever think of trying anything at Glebe House. None of your shenanigans there. Lady Marchmont’d have your guts for garters. Put you in handcuffs, I will.”

  So he’d had to bide his time. Eventually he saw her again. Only the top of her head was visible as she crouched in the tall weeds in the churchyard, behind the old stone tomb with the fellow in armor that had his legs crossed, his sword and shield on his stomach. The sound of her blubbering had brought Bernie up short. She had on a black dress, too big for her, a huge white apron, and a little white frilled cap askew on the back of her head. Talking to the dance hall hostesses was easy because they started it, teasing him, like, leaning close and patting his leg. But what did you say to a girl? How were you meant to start? He kicked a loose stone. “Ow,” he said loudly, hoping she’d look up. She didn’t.

  Nothing else occurred to him so he kicked another stone that ricocheted off the tomb. This time she must have heard, because she hiccupped and turned her head. Her nose was running and her eyes were red. There was a red welt on her cheek, as if someone had slapped her.

  “Cold day for cryin’, innit?” he remarked.

  “Bugger off,” she muttered and wiped her nose on the hem of her apron, which was wrapped twice round her little waist.

  He grinned. He had to watch his language around Constable Barrows and his wife.

  Inspiration struck. Constable Barrows’s young wife, brimming with enthusiasm for housekeeping in her newly married state, had been horrified by the state of Bernie’s paltry belongings, spread out in the spare room, and had furnished him with a pile of her husband’s old shirts and handkerchiefs, freshly washed, starched, and ironed. Now he felt for the handkerchief in his pocket. “’Ere, you’ll be wantin’ this.” He moved closer and held it out to her. “Go on, it’s clean.”

  “Was it you washed it?” she asked ungraciously, but took it. Her hands were red and chapped. She gave a great shuddering sigh as she mopped her face.

  “Go on, blow,” he encouraged her, and she did, a great honking sound.

  “I seen you before,” he said, squatting down beside her.

  “I know,” she said dully. “I seen you too. You’re the lad what’s livin’ at Constable Barrows’s.”

  “No, afore that. I mean North Street. You’re one of them Pigeons, ain’t you?” She nodded. “’Ere, let’s get off the ground. We can sit on this.” He hauled himself up onto the knight’s tomb. It leaned a bit, but it was dry. He held out a hand. She got up, brushed off her skirt and apron, then repinned her crooked cap. “Come on, then. Mind that skull thing sticks out at the end.” He scooted over to make room for her. He took out a packet of Woodbines and offered her one. “Smoke?”

  “No, fanks.” Up close her face was heart-shaped and pale, except for the mark on her right cheek.

  Elsie watched him strike a match expertly on the side of the tomb and light his cigarette. Up close his profile was lean and sharp featured as he drew on the cigarette like an old man, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. A shock of brown hair fell untidily over his forehead, almost down to his nose. There was something restless and alert about him—even sitting still his eyes darted about. He reminded her of the ferret her dad had once brought home, having bought it from a man in the pub. It had escaped when he took it out of his pocket to show the children. Mum had screamed as it scampered across the floor, then chased it into the street with her broom.

  “You’re Uncle’s boy,” she said, remembering the day Mum had summone
d the pawnbroker because she had to sell her wedding ring. Many people living on North Street made furtive trips to Uncle’s narrow little shop, but Mum hadn’t wanted to go to the shop in case anyone saw she was pawning her heavy gold ring, the last badge of her respectability. Instead she had sent word asking Uncle to call on her. When he came the children had been banished upstairs, but Elsie had crept down and seen Uncle and the lad who carried his case. The lad had caught her eye and winked as she peeked round the corner of the stairs. She had grinned and winked back before Mum saw her and ordered her back upstairs. After that she had seen him loitering in North Street a few times, but Mum had always made sure he didn’t talk to her.

  “Well, s’pose I am.” He looked down modestly. It was like admitting he was the Prince of Wales. In a way he was. In North Street they were proud of Uncle; he was a celebrity, with expensive suits, a motor, and soft-spoken good manners. He raised his hat to the ladies, bought rounds of drinks for all in the pub every Saturday night, patted children on the head and gave them a shilling, wore cologne you could smell a mile off, and was said to keep a fancy woman. No one would have dreamed of grassing on Uncle when the police came looking for stolen property or investigating a bookmaking racket. But forgery was his true business. Uncle was an artist, it was said, not just your common criminal. The local lads envied Bernie his luck in being chosen as Uncle’s apprentice. Even the Italian gangs in Clerkenwell, the worst of the worst, respected Uncle.

  “’E’s looked after me since I was a little ’un. Me dad was gone in the navy, and then me mum died. They was going to send me to the ’ome, but ’cause I used to run errands for ’im, penny a time, Uncle said I seemed like a likely lad and ’e took me in. Told ’em me dad was ’is bruvver.”

  “Was he?”

  “Not really, but they don’t care long as they’re not bothered. Uncle treated me proper, never lost ’is temper. But he’d keep me up all night learnin’ the trade. I’d copy things an’ all, pound notes, five-pound notes, till you didn’t know which was which. The thing you got to remember is, never make ’em perfect. It’s the imperfections marks the genuine ones. ’E said I were a good learner.” He cleared his throat. “A credit to the profession, ’e said I was, a great credit. He even said I…”

  He stopped. Elsie was gazing at him, wide-eyed. She was a little thing, but it felt nice making an impression on a girl.

  “Why ain’t you wiv ’im now, then?”

  A shadow passed over Bernie’s face. “Uncle’s in prison again, ain’t he? That’s why. Sick, too, wiv ’is lungs, somefink. Fevers. Coughs up blood. That’s why I’m doing the work ’stead of him.” His thin chest swelled. “They say they’ve never seen anybody good as me—exceptin’ Uncle, of course—keep me at it too, they do, I can tell you.” He wasn’t supposed to talk about it—been warned never to talk about it, or else—but he wanted to keep her looking at him in that admiring way.

  “What work? Who says they never seen?”

  “The government. I fink.” A note of uncertainty crept into his voice.

  “The wot?”

  “Truf is, I dunno exactly. They can’t be some kind of gang, can they, if they come straight to the police station? I were in the station at the time…’eard ’em asking for Uncle. Coppers say Uncle’s dyin’ in prison ‘where ’e’—copper nods over at me—‘looks like joinin’ ’im in no time, ’cause Uncle taught that little sewer rat all ’is tricks. ’E’s been caught nickin’ from shops, runnin’ for the Italians, smash an’ grab. Couldn’t make none of the charges stick,’ the copper says, ‘but ’e’s Uncle’s lad all right. Only a matter of time before we gets ’im sent to an approved school.’

  “’Earin’ Uncle’s so ill they looked at each other and swore a bit, said what were they supposed to do now. One of ’em asked the coppers, innocent, like, did they think Uncle ’ad taught me all ’is tricks? The coppers laughed, said I knew as much as Uncle about anyfink criminal.

  “The one what ’ad asked said in that case they’d no choice but to give me a try. They showed the coppers some bit of paper and the coppers looked like they didn’t believe it. Then one copper grabbed me off the bench, mad as ’ell. He tells me to be’ave or ’e’ll cuff me to kingdom come. Then the geezers put me in their motor and we drive up west in London, to a big buildin’ with secretaries an’ offices an’ all. First thing, they ’ad a row with some other bloke, who said not to credit the coppers and ’ow old was I anyway and stop wastin’ their time. Finally, to settle the argument, they takes me into a room. Uncle would’ve thought ’e was in ’eaven—engravin’ things, paper, presses, like you never seen. Gave me some passports, some foreign notes, and official-looking papers, said could I copy any of those? I were at it all night, but it were easy. Next mornin’ they came back an’ took ’em away. They come back, they says ‘By George! Bank of England couldn’t tell the difference!’”

  Elsie was staring, eyes like saucers. He puffed out his chest a little. “They goes off to get a cup of tea, and quick, like, I grabs a five-pound note they’d given me to copy, thinkin’ I’d done them enough of a good turn, and skipped out. They sent the coppers after me. Blow me if they didn’t find me in Berwick Street market. One copper says to the other, ‘They bleedin’ want ’im back!’ In the end they sent me to live with Constable Barrows, supposed to keep me out of trouble. Now they come get me, I does the work, they pays me, takes me back to Constable Barrows. They don’t care what else I do, long as I keep workin’ for them. The look on the copper’s puss! But can’t none of them coppers do anythink about it. Blimey.” He chuckled and straightened up. “Uncle would be proud, say I landed on me feet!”

  Elsie regarded him steadily. He would swagger when he walked, she was sure of it. She also knew instinctively that if Mum knew he was talking to her, Mum would have her broom out, smacking him into the street same way she’d chased out the ferret. Elsie perked up. For the first time since arriving in the country, her misery eased a little. “What’s your whole name, then?”

  “Bernard Carpenter—Bernie, really. I know yours already—it’s Elsie.”

  “’Ow old are you, then?”

  “Nearly seventeen. Older’n you. But not so pretty.”

  Elsie tossed her head. “Sauce! Well, I’m fifteen. What’s it like at Constable Barrows’s?”

  He lit another cigarette. “It’s all right. You know. They ’aven’t been married long so they’re still lovey-dovey. And Mrs. Barrows don’t ’alf feed you! We ’ave a cooked breakfast with an egg an’ all and dinner an’ then a big tea with proper bread and butter, sometimes scones and jam, and last Saturday, tinned pilchards! Then,” he added as casually as possible, “on Sundays there’s a roast dinner wiv beef an’ roast potatoes an’ Yorkshire pudding, an’ there’s bread and drippin’ for Sunday tea.” He drummed his heels on the tomb, a faraway look in his eye. “Bread and drippin’s me favorite. You gone into service then?”

  “Evacuated to be a ’ousemaid for Lady Marchmont.” Elsie sighed and rubbed her right cheek.

  “I seen the ’ouse. The old bat in the uniform looks like she’s suckin’ a lemon.”

  “That’s the ’ousekeeper Mrs. Gifford. She’s a ’oly terror.”

  “And the old lady who acts like she’s the queen. Is the girl ’er daughter?”

  “Oh, that’s Miss Frances. She’s Lady Marchmont’s goddaughter, whatever that is. She got into trouble in London, ’ad ’er picture in the papers, it was a big disgrace, and they made ’er come ’ere to keep out of trouble, but she’s taken up with the crowd at Whatchmacallit ’All. She sneaks out at night when Lady Marchmont’s gone to bed. Then they drive to Brighton and go to nightclubs. I sneak down to unlatch the window very early in the morning so she can climb back in wivout ’er ladyship knowin’. She’s got ever such pretty things to wear.

  “But Miss Frances is a good sort really, the only one’s been nice to me, asked me about my family, if they was still in London. When me older brothers wrote last month and said they�
��d enlisted, I were frantic because I wanted to send a letter to say cheerio and wish ’em good luck, but I didn’t know where to send it. I felt bad ’cause Mum wouldn’t like them go off wivout all of us all sayin’ good-bye. When I told ’er, Miss Frances went straight to the telephone an’ rang this person and that person, even though Lady Marchmont was looking at her like thunder, till she turned up their address in the navy. Men send her flowers and chocolates—she gives ’em to me sometimes.”

  For a minute Elsie was silent. Then she went on: “There’s ever such a lot of things in that ’ouse want polishin’ or dustin’ or puttin’ away or gettin’ out, and it’s scrub this an’ wash that an’ sweep the other an’ make the fires or black the grates…everyfink all proper. I never do things right, and the ’ousekeeper boxes me ears.” Elsie rubbed her cheek again.

  Uncle didn’t hold with hitting women, and Bernie felt a flash of anger at the housekeeper. “Can’t you go back home?”

  Tears welled up again in Elsie’s eyes, “They ain’t at ’ome now, are they? All evacuated, that’s what. Somewhere called Yorkshire. The people they’re billeted wiv were cross because Agnes and the boys didn’t bring none of the things they was supposed to, except their gas masks. First thing, they cut off all Agnes’s ’air and shaved the twins’ ’eads. Nits, they said. Agnes looked in the mirror at ’erself and nearly died of coughin’ brought on by cryin’. Mum wrote to me about it, wasn’t ’alf cross they didn’t tell ’er first, bein’ as how she’s only in the next town with Vi’let and Baby Jem. Agnes ’ates it where she is, but they say she ’as to make do for the time bein’. The people Mum’s billeted with don’t like her usin’ the kitchen an’ their pots and pans, and she and the woman argue about who’s to tidy up until Vi’let howls. The man ’as asked them to move Mum somewhere else.”

  Bernie was at sea with such a litany of domestic difficulties, but he wanted to comfort her. “You and me got to stick togevver and be friends. ’Ere, you said you like chocolate. I got a bit of Cadbury’s.” Elsie’s face brightened. He took a penny bar from his pocket, broke it in two, and gave her the bigger half.