The Grafton Girls

by Annie Groves

  ‘All right then.’ Ruthie gave in. She wasn’t sure she felt comfortable about handling black-market goods, but she couldn’t refuse to help, not when Maureen had described the children’s hunger so vividly. It was bad enough being grown up and feeling hungry all the time, but it must be truly awful for the children, who couldn’t really be expected to understand why there wasn’t enough for them to eat. Everywhere you went people talked longingly about the food they would be able to eat once the war was over. Sometimes it occupied people’s minds as much as the war itself. That aching, gnawing feeling of hunger was always there, and no amount of Lord Woolton’s pie, or Spam brought all the way across the Atlantic by the convoys, could banish it. Everyone talked longingly of proper fruit cake, and Victoria sandwich cake with real cream and dripping with jam; of chocolate, of roast beef Sunday dinners, rich meaty stews with light-as-air dumplings, of proper bread, and as much of anything as you wanted.

  ‘It’s all right us talking about food like we all had everything we wanted to eat before this war,’ Jess had told them all at dinnertime earlier in the week when they had sat down together for their canteen meal of thin watery stew and boiled vegetables, ‘but, like my Auntie Jane says, there’s many a family now getting more to eat than they’ve ever had, and more money coming in as well.’

  ‘Well, we might have more money coming in,’ Lucy had sniffed, ‘but we ain’t got anything to spend it on, ’ave we?’

  ‘It will be different after the war.’ Those were the words on everyone’s lips and the hope in everyone’s heart, the belief they were all clinging to now with the war in its third year and the struggle of the last three years showing in people’s faces.

  Liverpool, more than any other city outside London, had been savaged by bombing raids, the heart wrenched out of it with the destruction of its streets and buildings. Or at least that was what Hitler hoped. The reality was that the people of Liverpool were using their well-known sense of humour to keep them going.

  ‘We can’t do owt but go on,’ Ruthie had heard their neighbour saying. ‘Hitler won’t give up until he has us by the throat or we’ve beaten him, and I know which I’m putting my money on. Our lads can do it and, by golly, I intend to make sure that I do all I can to help them here at home.’

  His were sentiments that Ruthie knew many of her parents’ generation supported. They had sons fighting for their country, after all, and daughters praying for their safety. Some of the younger generation, though – especially the girls who were having to live with the reality of rationing, and the absence of the country’s young men – were beginning to chaff resentfully against the restrictions the war had brought. And now with the Americans arriving in increasing numbers, the gulf between the way they were having to live and the way their allies were able to live sometimes seemed to be dividing the women of the country into two opposing camps: one that welcomed the arrival of the Americans, and one that was bitterly opposed to it.

  Ruthie knew which camp she belonged to, and besides, it was more the older generation that disapproved of the Americans, she suspected, fearing the effect they might have on young women having to live without their own men.

  ‘Give us your key this afternoon, when we go off shift, then. I’m volunteering to work overtime on Sunday, so I can put me stuff in your locker then and I’ll give yer your key back on Monday morning.’

  Ruthie nodded. The foreman was looking at them, and she didn’t want him coming over. Only yesterday he had praised her for the speed she was developing at filling the shells. His praise had given her a warm glow of pride. It bucked a person up no end to know they were doing their bit. Every shell she filled was helping their men to do their job, and every one they didn’t fill properly was making it harder for them to do that job. That was what the foreman was constantly telling them, and Ruthie had taken his words to heart. But when she imagined someone using ‘her’ shells, that someone was wearing an American uniform not a British one. Would he be there again this Saturday? And if he was, would he ask her to dance again? She could hardly breathe for the bubbles of excitement fizzing inside her tummy.

  ‘So you won’t be coming to Blackpool this evening, then?’

  ‘No. I won’t be off duty until eight and, to tell the truth, Myra, I really don’t want anything to do with the Americans. Not after what happened last Saturday.’

  ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t make so much of it,’ Myra told Diane carelessly. ‘It was just a bit of fun, that’s all.’

  ‘Just a bit of fun that nearly cost me my job and certainly cost me the respect of the other girls,’ Diane pointed out quietly.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so prissy. So you had a bit too much to drink? So what?’

  Diane shook her head. Myra’s attitude underlined how very differently they felt about things. But they were billeted together, and being in the WAAF taught one to stick by one’s colleagues, even when you didn’t agree with what they were doing.

  ‘You were lucky to get someone to give up their Saturday night off and switch shifts with you,’ Diane commented, as she checked her reflection in the small mirror in their shared bedroom.

  ‘Well, as to that,’ Myra paused, ‘the truth is that I couldn’t get anyone to change with, so I’ve decided to play wag and just not go in.’

  ‘You can’t mean that!’ Diane said incredulously.

  ‘Why not? Other girls are off sick all the time.’ She picked up her hairbrush and started fiddling with her hair, avoiding meeting Diane’s appalled look.

  ‘Off sick, yes, but you aren’t sick. You can’t just pretend that you are so that you can go off to Blackpool, Myra. It’s wrong.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I might have known you’d start moralising.’ Myra banged down her hairbrush. ‘Look, I’m going to Blackpool with Nick, and nothing and no one is going to stop me. I’ve got to go, Diane. If I don’t…well, Nick isn’t the type who is going to hang around waiting for a girl when he can see there are plenty of others willing to take her place.’

  ‘And that doesn’t tell you anything about the kind of man he is?’ Diane challenged her.

  ‘Of course it does. It tells me that he’s the kind of man who knows what he wants and who makes sure he gets it. My kind of man. I’m going to Blackpool and that’s that.’

  Diane wanted to stay and talk her out of what she was doing but she knew if she did she would be late for her own shift.

  ‘Look, why don’t you change your mind and come too?’

  Was that a note of pleading she could hear in Myra’s voice? Why? Because she wasn’t as sure of herself as she liked to make out?

  ‘I’m sorry but no.’

  ‘Well, suit yourself,’ Myra told her dismissively. ‘It’s your loss. I’ve heard that the Tower Ballroom is really something special.’

  ‘How are you going to get there and back in an evening?’ Diane couldn’t stop herself from asking uneasily. ‘You can’t rely on the trains.’

  ‘Who said anything about going on a train?’ Myra smirked triumphantly. ‘No, Nick said he would fix everything and that includes the transport.’

  Diane frowned, her unease growing. Myra was placing a lot more faith in her GI date than she would have in her shoes. Meeting up with someone at the Grafton was one thing, going AWOL from her shift and agreeing to visit somewhere as far away as Blackpool with him was a different thing altogether, but according to Myra a crowd of girls and GIs were going. And, of course, the Americans, unlike their British counterparts, were not limited as to the amount of money they had to spend or, it seemed, the amount of off-duty time they had to spend it in.

  ‘Here I am, duck,’ Mrs Brown proclaimed as she knocked briefly on the back door and then came bustling into the kitchen. ‘Whatever’s to do?’ she asked when she saw Ruthie’s worried expression. ‘I thought you was looking forward to going out tonight.’

  ‘I am…I was…’ Ruthie admitted, ‘but I’m worried about my mother.’

  ‘Well, you must stop worry
ing. I’ll look out for her right and tight, you needn’t fret about that. Where is she? Listening to the wireless, I’ll bet. She loves them wireless programmes.’

  Ruthie shook her head. ‘She’s in the parlour, but…she isn’t her normal self at all. She’s hardly spoken all day, and when I talk to her she looks at me as though she doesn’t know me.’

  ‘She’ll be having one of those little turns of hers, Ruthie love, that’s all,’ Mrs Brown said comfortingly. ‘Thinking about your dad and the happy times they had together, I’ll be bound. She’ll be back to her normal self by the time you come back tonight, I reckon. Anyone would think that you don’t want to see that handsome GI of yours,’ she chuckled.

  Ruthie blushed hotly. ‘He isn’t my GI, Mrs Brown. He only asked me for one dance, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that’s enough where young love is concerned. More than enough sometimes. You stop worrying about your mam and think about yourself instead.’

  Ruthie gave her a wan smile. She didn’t think she could bear not to go to the Grafton tonight, but her conscience was pricking at her, telling her that it was her duty to stay here with her mother when she was in this worryingly withdrawn mood.

  ‘Go on.’ Mrs Brown shooed her towards the door, flapping her apron at her and laughing. ‘Off you go and enjoy yourself. Your mam will be fine.’

  ‘I’ll just pop my head round the door and say goodbye,’ Ruthie said, hurrying into the narrow hallway, her heels tapping on the lino.

  When Ruthie opened the door she saw that her mother was sitting in the fireside chair that had always been Ruthie’s father’s chair. She looked up but her gaze was unfocused and unseeing and it caught at Ruthie’s heart. Perhaps she should stay…

  She was just about to take a step into the room when Mrs Brown bustled up, calling out, ‘Here I am again, Mrs Philpott, come to sit with you and have a nice chat whilst your Ruthie goes out with her friends. See, I told you she wouldn’t mind,’ Mrs Brown told Ruthie firmly when her mother made no response. ‘Off you go otherwise them friends of yours will think you aren’t coming.’

  Myra looked anxiously at the station clock. Five o’clock, Nick had said, and now it was nearly ten past. Had something happened to make him have to change their plans? If so, couldn’t he have got a message to her? He knew where she was working and American servicemen were in and out of the Dungeon all day long.

  She would wait until a quarter-past and not a minute longer. She had her pride, after all. But what if he arrived after that and she wasn’t here? He’d think she wasn’t interested. And she…She tensed as she heard the screech of tyres and a Jeep came barrelling down the road, scattering pedestrians.

  Nick! She was making her way towards him even before it had stopped, ignoring the irritated looks of the people she was pushing past.

  ‘What happened?’ she demanded when she reached him. ‘You’re so late.’

  ‘Sorry, babe…A bit of last-minute dickering with one of the guys.’ He winked at her. ‘Had to collect my winnings to spend on my best girl.’

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ Myra asked him. ‘You said there’d be a crowd of us going.’

  He winked again. ‘I decided that it would be more fun if we were on our own. Come on, jump in.’

  Myra didn’t hesitate. It was flattering to know that he wanted her to himself.

  ‘You must have felt a bit let down when the others decided not to come along?’ she commented archly as she settled herself beside him in the Jeep.

  ‘Sure I felt let down, about as let down as if I’d won the platoon crap game,’ he answered derisively, grinning at her. ‘Hold on to your hat, babe. Blackpool, here we come.’ And then he leaned across and kissed her exultantly.

  ‘Coo, just have a look at all this lot in here,’ Lucy demanded admiringly, staring round at the Stars and Stripes-bedecked dance hall.

  ‘It’s on account of it being the fourth of July and American Independence Day,’ Jess told her knowledgeably.

  ‘I know that, ta very much,’ Lucy came back smartly. ‘Done it up really, really nice, they have,’ she added approvingly.

  The dance hall owners had made a big effort to make their American allies feel welcome and that Liverpool was ready to help them celebrate their important national day.

  It made Jess happy inside just looking at the flags and feeling the good mood of the crowd. Not that everyone shared her happiness, she decided, glancing across at Ruthie.

  ‘Come on, Ruthie,’ she chivvied her. ‘Cheer up. You look as miserable as if you’d lost half a crown and found a sixpence. What’s up?’ she demanded as they handed over their money and were swept up the Grafton’s staircase in the swell of eager would-be dancers, all laughing and exclaiming excitedly about the Stars and Stripes banners and decorations.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ruthie denied, summoning up a bright smile.

  ‘Don’t give me that. It’s as plain as can be that something’s worrying you. Come on, you can tell me,’ Jess coaxed.

  ‘It’s my mother. She…she’s…’ Her voice died away as she struggled between her longing to confide in Jess and her natural desire to protect her mother’s privacy.

  ‘She’s bound to feel a bit low at times,’ Jess comforted her. ‘My Auntie Fran’s just the same. Her Alfred was on a tram that got hit by a bomb during the May blitz. Only this week she was saying as how he would have been sixty-five this month.’

  Ruthie hesitated. It wasn’t like her to talk about her mother to others, but she felt that she just had to unburden herself, and who better to talk to about her feelings than Jess? There was something about Jess and the kindness and warmth she had shown her that told Ruthie that her new friend would understand and not sit in judgement on her poor mother.

  ‘It’s a bit different with Mum,’ she told her sadly. ‘She and Dad were so close that it’s as though sometimes she can only get by by pretending that he’s still here. It’s not that she isn’t right in her head or anything,’ she told Jess, anxious not to give her the wrong impression of her mother’s condition. ‘The doctor has told us that she is, but that sometimes she just needs to pretend that Dad’s still here. Not that she knows what she’s doing or why. She can be as right as rain one minute and then the next something sets her off…’ Ruthie broke off, shaking her head in bewilderment at the change that had overcome her much-loved mother. ‘She doesn’t mean any harm, but she doesn’t realise. If I’m not careful she slips out and starts to go looking for Dad. Luckily we’ve got lovely neighbours and they keep an eye on her for me. I was that worried when we heard that this call-up for women to do war work was going to come in. That’s why I decided to get a job in munitions ahead of it, so that I could stay at home and look after her. I do so worry when I have to leave her. And…and I feel guilty as well.’

  ‘Aw, Ruthie…’

  The touch of Jess’s hand on her arm and the sympathy in her voice made Ruthie’s eyes fill with tears.

  ‘You mustn’t feel like that. I’m sure it’s the last thing your mam would want. And my guess is too that your mam would want you to go out and ’ave a bit of fun.’

  When Ruthie continued to look uncertain, Jess reminded her firmly, ‘Anyway, I thought you said that a neighbour had offered to sit in with your mam?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she has.’

  ‘There you are, then. There’s nothing for you to worry about, is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Ruthie agreed doubtfully.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Polly urged them. ‘I’m gagging for a drink, me throat is that dry.’

  ‘That’s because you never stop talking,’ Mel teased her.

  Laughing and ribbing one another, they made their way to one of the tables, quickly settling themselves down around it and then divvying up one and sixpence each for their drinks ‘kitty’.

  ‘No, Ruthie, you only need to put half of that in.’ Jess stopped Ruthie before she dropped her one and six into the empty tobacco tin Lucy had produced. ‘You only drink le
monade, after all.’

  ‘Perhaps we should teach her to drink summat a bit stronger,’ Mel suggested. ‘That way she’ll practise and so not get herself into the state that Diane got into last week.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’d rather have lemonade,’ Ruthie assured her hastily.

  She could well imagine how horrified her father would have been to have her coming home smelling of drink. He had been so old-fashioned that he hadn’t even approved of women smoking. Now, with her tummy cramping with nervous flutters of anxiety both in case Glen appeared and asked her to dance and in case he didn’t, Ruthie admitted that she would have welcomed the soothing action of lighting up a cigarette. She had watched enviously the previous week as the other girls lit theirs. They had looked so sophisticated, drawing on the cigarettes and then exhaling.

  She watched as Mel removed one from her packet now and put it to her lips, quickly winking at them all before leaning across to the table behind them, which was rapidly filling up with a group of young men in Royal Navy uniforms, to say in an exaggerated drawl, ‘Sorry to bother you, but could one of you give me a light?’

  The speed with which the whole of the table immediately leaped to offer assistance was almost comical.

  Mel certainly thought so, because she was grinning when she turned back to the girls, exhaling in triumph as she told them, ‘Like taking sweeties from a kid. They’ll all be over here when the band starts up again, asking us to dance, you watch.’

  ‘You’d better watch it, Mel,’ Leah warned her. ‘If your Pete gets wind of you behaving like that you’ll be in big trouble.’

  ‘Huh, Pete Skinner doesn’t have any rights over me, and nor will he do until he puts a ring on me finger,’ Mel announced sharply. ‘It’s all right him saying that him and me are going steady and then disappearing off with the Eighth Army to bloody Egypt.’

  ‘Look, here comes the band.’ Jess, along with everyone else packed into the dance hall, started to clap enthusiastically.

  The girls’ drinks of port and lemon had arrived, and the volume of the conversation rose from all the tables, not just their own, mingling with male and female laughter.