Ruby's War

by Johanna Winard

  ‘You can spend it on some girl. I bet there’ll be another dance this Saturday for sure. In fact, I heard some of the guys say so.’

  ‘I reckon we should stay well clear of these white girls. They’re trouble. If that girl hadn’t been so friendly, then Bo wouldn’t have been singin’ and we wouldn’t have lost our passes.’

  ‘You know what,’ Con said, ‘you sound like that MP. “You boys git too excitable around white women.”’

  ‘I’m sayin’ they’re trouble.’

  ‘It’s not them that’s trouble. It’s that cracker MP. He hates us. He’ll do anything he can to—’

  ‘Exactly, so why give him the excuse?’

  ‘All Bo was doing was singing. That guy didn’t know it was because of some white girl.’

  ‘What do you think he’d have done if he had?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not up to him. Like Captain O’Donal says, we’re in someone else’s country, and it’s not like back home. The folks here like us. They want to make us welcome. Trouble is, the MPs and the rest of them.’

  ‘That MP’s a redneck and that’s for sure. You got to be careful with them guys. Bo’s crazy if he thinks they’ll back off.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with the army, too many rednecks and not enough black officers. Bo said that when he was training, he was at Camp Robinson, Little Rock.’

  ‘Now, that is real Deep South, that place.’

  ‘He said that they wouldn’t serve black soldiers with liquor in the stores. He heard that this one time, some white soldier said to the store owner, “Well these guys come from the same place we do, so serve them, or take the stuff you sold us back.” So the storekeeper took the drink back, but then he must’ve rung the cops, because the cops arrived and turned the white soldier’s car over.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Next day, the whole lot of them gets extra marching, or something, and the town’s off limits for the whole camp.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. The army’s not on our side. You shouldn’t listen to Bo. He’s a hothead, an’ he doesn’t know the South like I do. I’d say them guys was lucky …’

  ‘Hold up … Isn’t that the old guy from the pub? Look, on the railway bridge … Slow down.’

  Henry was sitting with his back against the bridge’s sooty bricks, a half-filled sack of stolen coke between his trembling legs.

  ‘I’m just havin’ a rest. The climb from the station’s got to me,’ he said, bending forwards with his hands on his knees, forcing air between his spittle-flecked lips.

  The tall, red-haired girl standing next to him put the brown paper parcel she was carrying on the floor and tried to lift the misshapen sack, but it hardly cleared the ground. Then gradually, like a rusty pocket-knife, the old man began to straighten and his breathing slowed.

  ‘I had Johnny to help me last time, and we borrowed Mrs Feeney’s pram, but she said we left it mucky.’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Con asked, leaping down from the truck and picking up the sack in one hand.

  ‘That’s very good of you lads. Am I glad to see you. It’s not but a hop and a jump.’

  When the soldier looked puzzled, Ruby laughed. ‘He means it’s not far,’ she said, ‘just over the humped-backed bridge and down the first lane you come to. It’s the white cottage on the left.’

  Outside the stone cottage, Con opened the tailgate and helped the old man down.

  ‘I’ll take your sack in for you,’ he said. ‘Just tell me where it goes.’

  ‘This is very kind of you, son,’ Henry replied. ‘This is my granddaughter, Ruby, by the way,’ he said, nodding towards the girl standing on the edge of the truck.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Con said. ‘Can I help you down?’ The girl blushed as she took his hands, and when he lifted her down, her bones felt as fragile as a bird’s.

  ‘This here’s Jenny,’ the old man said, nodding towards a plump woman in an apron who was standing at the cottage door. ‘I’ve got a bit of coal, Jenny, love. These lads have been good enough to give me a lift home with it. Put the kettle on for us, will you. We’re just takin’ it round the back.’

  Jenny wiped her wet hands on her apron and smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, I’m sure,’ she said.

  When Henry took them inside the cottage, Con felt the top of his head brushing the low ceiling. In comparison to his mother’s kitchen, there were few cupboards and there was no refrigerator. The only piece of equipment he could see was a sparkling white cooker, but the pans sitting on top looked so old he was sure his mother would have thrown them out, or given them to the church for the children’s summer camping trips. The living room was just as small and shabby: the mismatched chairs looked worn, and the only other pieces of furniture were a table and an ancient dresser.

  ‘Sit yourselves down, lads,’ the old man said, indicating the seats at the table.

  The old lady brought in a tray with teacups and a plate of small cakes that had been made by sandwiching some kind of yellowish cream between two crackers. The girl followed her, carrying a large brown teapot inside a woolly cover. It looked far too heavy for her narrow wrists, but when Con reached and took the clumsy pot from her, she blushed and hurried back to the kitchen. If she was Sadie’s sister, they were very different: Sadie was small and curvy, but the younger girl was tall, gawky, all arms and legs, and she didn’t have Sadie’s sense of fun either.

  The old man poured out the tea and offered them one of the small cakes.

  ‘Will you tell Sadie we’re real sorry we missed the dance,’ Con said, trying to nibble the cake that fractured into tiny pieces as he bit into it, ‘we couldn’t get passes.’

  ‘Well that’s a shame,’ the old man said, carefully collecting up each crumb of shattered biscuit from his waistcoat. ‘I know she looked for you. Tell you what, why don’t you come to the pub again on Friday? Sadie will be there.’

  When she discovered that Jack had been taken prisoner, Sadie hadn’t cried. In fact she didn’t do very much, except sit by the fire drinking Granddad’s brandy and listening to Jenny’s story about Mrs Lathom and how upset she’d been. After their second drink, Jenny had tried to persuade her to go round and see Mrs Lathom on her own, but Sadie said it was best left until the next day. But the next night she’d sulked and said she wasn’t going, until Jenny agreed to go with her. That was a few days ago, and now Ruby could hear her getting ready to go out with Lou to a dance in the next village where the black soldiers had their camp.

  ‘Be a love and help me with this hook,’ she said, bursting into the little back bedroom. ‘Lou’s going to be here any minute.’

  Her dress was green satin with a pattern of flowers and leaves. When she moved, the bias-cut skirt swayed, and the light caught the different textures woven into the silky fabric. It had a sweetheart neckline, short sleeves trimmed with black velvet bows and the belt buckle was velvet as well.

  ‘Blimey this floor’s cold,’ she said hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Hang on a minute.’

  When she came back, Sadie was carrying a rug with a picture of a cottage on it.

  ‘Here,’ she said, spreading it on the floor. ‘Your feet won’t get as cold when you get out of bed.’

  ‘Are you going to meet the Americans who came here?’

  ‘We’ll most likely bump into them. I said we’d probably see them later.’

  ‘Did you go dancing with him … with Jack?’

  ‘Jack wasn’t my boyfriend. It’s Ma and his mother who thought that would be a good idea. I used to dance with him sometimes at the church dances … not that he was much of a dancer.’

  ‘Mrs Lathom said—’

  ‘She said a lot of things. Before he went, I promised Jack we’d look out for Nellie and that I’d write to him, that’s all. Jack cared a lot more about football and a few pints than he did about any girl.’

  Later, when the door closed and Lou and Sadie’s laughter had faded down the lane, Ruby sat on her b
ed to admire her new rug. It was a half-moon shape, and although the backing was ripped, when it was on the floor it looked okay. The cottage had four windows and roses climbed around the door. There was a thatched roof, and in the foreground, flowers – lupins, she thought – in pink, yellow and blue. The sky was blue as well, with a couple of clouds and two black ‘V’ shapes to stand for birds. Ruby imagined that Maggie Joy lived in the cottage and that her soldier boyfriend would come up the light sandy-brown path and knock at the door. When Maggie Joy opened it, they would stand there kissing under the roses.

  She took off her shoes and padded over the springy surface to the bookcase. The shelves had been painted black but in places it was worn and showed the pale wood underneath. Ruby took the books from the shelves and piled them on the floor. Then she wiped the dust away with her hands and began to sort the books into alphabetical order.

  Her father’s books were mainly adventure stories – attacks on desert forts, journeys through the jungle to find lost treasure, or spy stories from the last war – with soft covers and wavy pages. There were also a couple of books of folk tales that she couldn’t imagine he’d ever read. These books had gilt lettering on the spine and a tree picked out in gilt on the front and back. At the beginning of each new story, there was a picture; some of them were of witches or goblins and others of princesses and castles. The only other book, a copy of Great Expectations, had ‘Happy Christmas from Uncle Joe and Auntie Maud’ written inside in curly black letters.

  When she’d finished sorting the books, Ruby wiped the dust on the inside of her gymslip, and taking one of the books of folk tales, curled up on the bed with her feet under the counterpane.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A week later, Ruby returned with the work-shirt washed and pressed and with a very neatly turned collar, and Mrs Watts allowed her to work on the doctor’s shirts. By early November, she’d also played for Mrs Grey’s guests at two of her fundraising afternoon teas. These occasions – to raise funds to provide a free buffet for servicemen arriving at the town’s railway station – did not attract the elegant ladies and gentlemen Ruby had hoped to see. Instead, the invited guests were mainly the wives of local businessmen, but there were also some town councillors, the vicar and Father O’Flynn.

  Before the afternoon tea was served, the guests perched on an assortment of garden chairs in the entrance hall to hear a talk. The first one – How to Remodel Your Hat – was given by Mrs Prendergast who, according to Alice, stuck her nose in where it wasn’t wanted and liked to organise things, just as long as she wasn’t doing the work. The second – My Time in Egypt and The Holy Land – was a lantern show by Major Southworth who organised the Home Guard.

  Ruby helped Alice prepare the tiny sandwiches and individual fruit tarts, and Dick set out the chairs. Then after the talk – as the guests chatted, and Mrs Grey encouraged them to buy raffle tickets for a jar of bottled fruit – she played the piano. Towards five o’clock, Mrs Grey announced the winner of the raffle and everyone began collecting their coats, leaving donations in a collection box discreetly placed near the front door. When the guests had left, Dick carried the chairs back to the summer house, and Ruby helped to clear away. The extra work created by the fundraising made Alice Watts cross, and the contents of the basket that Mrs Grey had brought through to the kitchen didn’t help.

  ‘Look at this,’ Alice said, tipping the sorry twists of tea and sugar and pieces of margarine no bigger than Ruby’s thumbnail on to the table. ‘Supposed to bring part of their own rations to help with the makings for the fundraising tea. Wouldn’t even care if it was quality tea they left, but it isn’t; it’s just sweepings. Then she’ll be complaining the doctor’s tea is weak, and there’ll be no bottled fruit left when it comes to Christmas, but she’ll expect a good table just the same.’

  By the time Mr Watts came back from clearing the hall, Alice had finished her grumbling. There was a plate of sandwiches on the kitchen table, filled with the same carefully made lentil paste flavoured with herbs or with rabbit meat that had been served to the guests, along with a small fruit tart for each of them and a pot of tea. Mr Watts munched contentedly at his sandwich and winked at Ruby.

  ‘Nothing’s too good for the working classes,’ he said.

  When Ruby arrived home after the fundraising tea the black GIs, Con and Wes, were there along with their friends, Bo and Holt. Since the day Con and Wes had helped them carry the coke home, they’d become regular visitors. Wes and Granddad were mending the pigeon cabin; Con was throwing a ball for Bess on the field next to the river; Bo, the best-looking one, was teaching Sadie and Jenny a new set of dance moves in the kitchen, and on the other side of the lane, Holt was helping Mr Bardley mend his tractor. It was clear that life at the camp was not to their liking, and they took any opportunity they could to get out. Everyone in the village liked the black GIs from the new camp, because they were friendly, and when they were invited for a meal, they brought gifts of tea and sugar and offered to help out by doing odd jobs. The luxuries the four GIs brought to the cottage made Jenny very happy, and in exchange, Jenny got Ruby to do the soldiers’ washing, and they often had meals there as well.

  ‘Mrs Grey wants me to play at their dinner party next week,’ she said. ‘I told her I had to ask you first.’

  ‘She can’t go dressed like that, Ma,’ Sadie said, untangling herself from Bo. ‘She’ll have to have something proper for a thing like that.’

  The radio was playing dance band music and Bo began trying to show Jenny how to dance.

  ‘Don’t look at your feet, Ma,’ he said. ‘Just follow me. Try it again. Ready? One, two, three and then feet together.’

  ‘I’ll never get it,’ Jenny laughed. ‘I’m like a carthorse.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Bo said, effortlessly spinning her around. ‘You’re the next Ginger Rogers. You’ve just got to go with the music.’

  ‘Stop that now,’ Jenny squealed with delight, ‘I’ll never be able to see to make Henry’s tea at this rate.’

  Ruby took the parcel of washing into the scullery.

  ‘Is there another fundraising do next week, Ruby?’ Jenny called, her face pink with the excitement of dancing.

  ‘No. They’re having this dinner party next week instead. On the fifth. I told her I’d let her know, if you said it was all right for me to go.’

  ‘On the fifth?’

  ‘It’s to celebrate Bonfire Night. Mr Watts says they’re having an indoor firework display.’

  ‘Indoor fireworks?’ Sadie said. ‘They should have invited the kiddies for that. Me and Bo are trying to get a party up for them in the hall. Games and such. We could do with them fireworks. You can’t go dressed like that. You’d need something better to wear, and it’s short notice to start making you something.’

  The problem of what to wear for Mrs Grey’s fundraising teas had been quite easily sorted out by letting down the hem of her gymslip and adding another piece of fabric of almost matching black to the hem. The sleeves of her blouse were lengthened by letting in a contrasting band above the cuff, and they’d found some dark-blue check to extend the sleeves and the hem of her mac. The whole project had taken them the best part of a week, and it was difficult to see how a dress could be created in three days.

  ‘I’ve got a black velvet—’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Jenny said. ‘Bo, love, you go and see what Wes and Henry are up to, and tell them tea’s almost ready, and Ruby, get your jacket off and set the table.’

  In addition to the luxury of sugar and tea that the GIs brought in payment for having their washing done, they also kept the family well supplied with meat. Tonight there was a leg of pork served with Henry’s potatoes, roasted and crispy from the fat, but soft and fluffy inside, and the last of the windfall apples had been used for the sauce.

  ‘Holt says he’s staying to help finish the tractor and then he’ll eat with John and Marge,’ Bo said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll eat his.’

  ‘I
’ve no doubt you would,’ Jenny chuckled.

  ‘Wes reckons he can find me some paint for the pigeon cabin, now we’ve mended it,’ Henry said, when they’d settled down to eat the meal.

  ‘Can’t see what the point of that is, Da,’ Sadie said. ‘It’s wasting paint. You’ve no pigeons.’

  Henry looked around the table. ‘Ah, but I will have. I’m going to apply for a licence. The Voluntary Pigeon Service it’s called. You get issued with a permit, and that entitles you to buy seed.’

  When Sadie giggled, Granddad looked cross. ‘It’s not a joke. Wes is going to fetch some paint next week. Very useful creatures, are pigeons. Very intelligent.’

  ‘Tasty too,’ Jenny said. ‘Though, the meat’s a bit dark.’

  ‘Will you shut up, Ma,’ Sadie grinned. ‘You’re putting poor Con off his food. This isn’t pigeon, love. Take no notice. This is the leg of pork Bo got for us.’

  ‘The lad can tell the difference. Can’t you, love?’

  ‘I’ll give you an instance of how valuable a bird a pigeon can be in wartime,’ Henry said, ignoring the growing hilarity around the table. ‘When Liverpool was bombed, the telephone exchange was hit. They couldn’t send for help, see. So they used pigeons. Messages tied to their legs, asking for extra appliances for the docks and more Civil Defence workers. And do you know, those birds arrived two hours before the telephones was repaired. Now they want to use them behind enemy lines. You can’t trace a pigeon like you can a radio operator.’

  ‘No, they’ll eat the bloody things instead,’ Jenny laughed. ‘Someone’s havin’ you on, like they was about these lads barking when they was hungry. Come on, lads, let’s have your plates. There’s a nice fruit pie waiting in the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t you be too sure, Jenny,’ Wes said. ‘Look at Bo, there. If he don’t get Holt’s share as well as his own, I reckon he’ll be howlin’ any minute.’