War Widow

by June Francis

  He took hold of her wrists, gripping them tightly, wanting her out of the bed and on her feet. Once upright he felt sure that she would be okay.

  George pulled hard yet as gently as he could. Flora came up to a sitting position abruptly, a surprised expression on her face. ‘That’s it, Mam.’ He forced a smile. ‘Now you’ve got to get out of bed.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so tired, son.’ The lines of her narrow-cheeked face drooped wearily, and her body sagged backwards.

  ‘You’ve got to.’ He felt quite desperate as he gripped her wrists the firmer. ‘We need you, Mam.’ He pulled, and suddenly they toppled over and his head hit the floor.

  Rubbing the back of his head, he lay where he landed. ‘That hurt!’

  ‘Oh, George,’ she said in a trembling voice, her hazel eyes catching the last of the daylight as she struggled to rise. ‘You should have left me. Now you’ve hurt yourself.’

  ‘I’ll live.’ He stared at her, and a sob rose in his throat. ‘But you – you look awful, Mam! Your hair’s all tatty and long, like a witch’s in the stories you used to tell me.’

  ‘Stories?’ Flora’s eyes rested on his anxious, young face, meeting the brown gaze so like Tom’s, and she remembered the days of the blitz when she had taken the four-year-old George and baby Rosie down into the cellar when the bombs were falling. She had never felt safe in the air raid shelters since the Martin sisters and their mam had been killed in a direct hit. Now, staring at her son, she struggled with her emotions, thinking of the times she had found comfort in her children’s company when danger had been close and Tom away at some training camp. She had sung lullabies and songs when fear had to be kept at bay.

  ‘Remember the story about the dogs, the soldier and the tinder box?’ demanded George eagerly. ‘That was a favourite of mine.’

  Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. ‘That had a happy ending,’ she whispered.

  He smiled, wrapping his arms round his hunched knees, watching her shadowy face and noting the glistening tears. She had hardly cried since his dad had died, nor had he. Suddenly he wanted to weep, but boys were not supposed to cry. ‘I like happy endings.’ His voice was husky.

  ‘Happy ever after,’ she said unsteadily, reaching out for her son. Her arms went round him and she touched the bump on his head with shaking fingers and then kissed it. At last she managed to swallow. ‘Life’s endings aren’t always happy, son, but maybe that’s because we don’t go on believing and hoping long enough.’ Her voice gained strength. ‘I’ll get up. You must be hungry.’

  ‘Yeh!’ George felt a surge of joy, knowing that in the last few minutes she had become his old mam again. He felt like he had won a battle. ‘Let’s go downstairs. There’s not much to eat, Mam. You haven’t been shopping today, and I couldn’t find the ration books yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve probably put them somewhere safe. In the meantime you’ll have to have some butter on that bump.’ She dragged his head down and kissed it again.

  This time he struggled. ‘I’d rather have it on bread if there is any.’ He took hold of her hands and pulled her up.

  Flora’s legs felt wobbly and her feet as if glued to the floor, but she stumbled on to the dark landing and somehow they got down the stairs.

  As they entered the kitchen Rosie was poking the paw of the struggling cat through the bars of the unlit fire, but as soon as she saw them she dropped the animal and it fled into the back kitchen. ‘Mam!’ She held up her arms, and her tiny white teeth gleamed in the dark. ‘Cat scratched me.’

  ‘You smell!’ Flora fought down the wave of nausea, and summoning all her strength lifted her child. ‘Poor little girl,’ she whispered.

  Rosie snuggled against her shoulder. ‘Door locked, Mam. Take me the lav?’

  Flora nodded wearily, before addressing her son. ‘Get a chair and light the gas mantle, George.’ He hurried to do as he was told while with cautious steps she carried her daughter down the back yard.

  The cold air refreshed Flora and when they came back in the house she washed her daughter, standing her in the stone sink. Rosie was shivering by the time they went into the kitchen, lit by the glow of the gaslight.

  George had raked out the ashes from the grate and was laying paper and wood. Flora found the shovel, and feeling her way carefully down the cellar steps in the dark she fetched coal. It was not long before the fire was burning and the kettle was on.

  The children followed her out into the back kitchen to the food cupboard. ‘Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard,’ murmured Flora. ‘Now what would Mrs Beeton do with what we’ve got?’ She reached for the half packet of dried egg powder, the half bottle of milk, the hunk of bread, and the small block of salt.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Beeton?’ George took the milk from beneath her arm, not wanting it to slip.

  ‘She was a Victorian lady who wrote a book and used to give recipes for fancy meals. I found a copy, old and tatty, in the printing works where I once worked.’

  Not interested in old Victorian ladies, George said nothing more, only leading the way into the kitchen. He took the frying pan from the oven at the side of the black leaded fireplace.

  ‘We’ll have omelettes.’ Flora took off the steaming kettle and made tea. ‘You can make toast, son.’

  After their meal George went over to the wireless, and began to twiddle with the knobs to produce a cacophony that made Flora want to scream. Then on the air came Vera Lynn.

  She could no longer sit still. She wanted to cry, but what good did crying do you? Better to try for a smile. Smile, darn you, smile! It would take a lot of time and effort to heat water to fill the tin bath just a few inches, but she’d do it. ‘Keep smiling through,’ she sang unevenly, and fanned the embers of hope in her heart.

  Chapter Two

  Shortly after a letter came with a warranty note telling Flora that she was entitled to a certain amount of money in accordance with the will soldier Tom Cooke had made. Her newfound hope almost died then, but she told herself that those in charge were only behaving properly. Besides they needed some new clothes for the winter and she had the coupons. So they went to T.J. Hughes and had a good old spend. She bought a two-tone coat in mustard and brown, some liberty bodices and warm knickers for Rosie, and flannel shorts and socks for George.

  Having spent most of the money she knew that she would have to set about finding a part-time job. She went to her father’s, hoping that he might have changed his mind about taking care of Rosie.

  ‘You look different,’ he grunted, as she entered the front room of the two-up, two-down terraced house not far from Liverpool football ground. He waved his old clay pipe in the air. ‘Come to your senses, have you, girl?’

  She tossed back her long, well-brushed hair, and smiled determinedly. ‘You could say that. I’ve brought you some bread. I wasn’t sure if you’d been able to get out with that bad leg of yours.’ She placed her shopping bag on the drop leaf, dark oak table, noticing it had a veneer of dust over it.

  ‘I managed,’ he grunted, peering closely at her. ‘That’s a new coat! Where d‘you get the money?’

  She told him, proud that her voice did not tremble at all. Shrugging herself out of it, she placed the new coat carefully over the back of the rocking chair near the black leaded grate which took up most of one wall of the small dark room. Thankfully she sat down in the chair. Her feet were aching from standing in queues.

  Rosie climbed on her knee, making herself comfortable by squirming for several seconds, before addressing her grandfather. ‘Cup of tea, Grandpa? Cold outside.’ She shivered expressively.

  Jack Preston’s grey brows drew together. ‘That’s fine manners, you’ve got,’ he growled. ‘Little girls should be seen and not heard. What’s your mother teaching you – that’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘Her letters, Father,’ put in Flora, her tone light and amused although slightly on the defensive. ‘Knowing them will help her to get on quicker when she
goes to school. I did the same for George, remember?’

  ‘George is a boy,’ said Jack, scowling. ‘All this learning isn’t any use to a girl. What good did it do you having your mother’s sister teach you? You had your head in a book half the time when teaching you to scrub a floor properly and cook a decent meal would have been more to the point.’

  ‘I’ve scrubbed many a floor and cooked lots of meals since those days, Father,’ retorted Flora with a touch of spirit. ‘But if you think that’s all I want for my daughter, then you’re mistaken. The war’s changed things and a woman’s place in the future won’t be just in the home. Look at Aunt Beattie, God rest her soul! It’s a good job that she had some education or where would she have been when she had to earn a living for life? Being in service isn’t a picnic.’

  ‘And being a spinster school marm was, I suppose?’ grunted Jack.

  ‘Better than lots of jobs.’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘And it’s a good thing she didn’t marry, otherwise she mightn’t have been able to look after me and our Hilda.’

  Her father’s face darkened. ‘Don’t mention your sister’s name in this house. Shamed me, she did.’

  ‘It was the war, Father.’ Flora heaved herself out of the chair, still holding Rosie. ‘She wasn’t the only one to get caught because she loved a man.’

  ‘Love,’ muttered Jack. ‘Carnal lust, that’s what it was, girl. A daughter of mine! Your mother must have turned in her grave. I put some of the blame on that cattiwake next door. Your sister had the nerve to tell me years back that she’d spent the night in bed with three boys!’ He bit hard on his pipe, staring into the fire.

  Flora could not help laughing. ‘There was nothing in it! We were only kids, and Mam died suddenly, and Aunt Beattie was trying to get in touch with you and make arrangements for the funeral. It was good of Mrs Kelly to take us in. I remember there were seven in the bed – all lined up like sardines in a tin.’ No way would she tell him that one Kelly tearaway had stuck his foot up her nightie!

  He grunted. ‘All wrong – wouldn’t have been allowed in the same house in my day. Never mind Orange and Green in the same bed.’

  ‘Being Catholic isn’t catching like whooping cough. It didn’t rub off on us in the dark!’ She put Rosie back on the rocking chair and going over to the fire, placed the kettle on the glowing coals. She fell silent, remembering that it was outside the Kellys’ house that she had sat on the kerb, watching Tom and her sister talking to each other, before the rest of the older kids started a game of rounders. Tom had sent a ball way up the street and had broken a window. They had all run like mad to escape the scolding of old Mr Jones. They had fled to the park but soon Tom had them all laughing about being so scared of an old man whose bark was worse than his bite. A long low breath escaped her and there was an ache in her chest as she thought of that mad Alec Tom.

  ‘Well, girl, are you making tea or dreaming?’ rasped her father, bringing Flora out of her reverie.

  She turned to face him. ‘I was wondering, Father, if you’ve given any more thought to looking after Rosie for me? I’ll have to get some kind of work. Money’s tight and –’

  ‘Why don’t you try Mrs Kelly?’ Her father’s faded blue eyes gleamed with the faintest hint of malice. ‘I mean, she might have gone a bit crackers in her old age, but she can’t have forgotten how to handle kids. She had enough of them!’

  Flora shook her head at him. ‘Now be serious, Father. She has enough on her plate, taking charge of her grandchildren while her two daughters are working.’

  ‘Aye, well I’m not so young, and Rosie is a handful of trouble. I reckon you’ll just have to try and manage till she goes to school. Can’t be long now.’

  ‘September.’ Flora supplied the answer in muted tones, as her hands busied themselves making tea. But she had made up her mind that she would not ask her father again. Somehow she would have to manage.

  She had almost resigned herself to waiting until September before looking for a job, when Mrs Murphy, pushing a pram with two girls inside and two more hanging on to the sides, paused to pass the time of day as Flora scrubbed the step.

  ‘I heard you were looking for a little part time job, girl.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She looked up quickly, water dripping down her arm from the scrubbling brush. ‘Have you heard of one going?’

  ‘It’s not much now. But Paddy was hearing from his brother, whose wife’s a cleaner, that Smith’s are wanting women. Just a couple of hours a day.’ She paused for effect, and to drag one of the girls off the wet step. ‘It’s four till six in the mornin’, sorting out the newspapers to go to the different newsagents round the town.’ Flora pulled a face, and the other woman added quickly: ‘I know it’d mean leavin’ the kids alone in the house. But surely they’d be asleep, girl?’

  Flora nodded. ‘It’s better than nothing,’ she murmured, dropping the brush in the water and getting up from her knees. ‘I’ll have a go.’

  Mrs Murphy beamed. ‘Why not?’ she said, and walked on in the wake of the two girls who had run on ahead.

  Flora applied for and got the job. It gave her something else to occupy her mind.

  Finances became slightly easier, and when in late spring the papers carried the news that Hitler had killed himself, Flora realised that the war would soon be over. It seemed wrong to her that Hitler should have escaped comparatively easily after causing so much suffering and death. She spent several minutes conjuring up ways in which she would have liked him to die. Even guillotining, which horrified her, and slow boiling in oil did not seem harsh enough, and she found herself hoping that there really was a fire and brimstone kind of hell. As well as a heaven fit for heroes. But no, she was not going to think about heroes and heaven – that would be like believing that Tom was no longer alive and she had to still cling on to the hope that he was, somewhere. Just where or how she did not think about. Her hope had no rational basis.

  A few days after Flora had read the article about Hitler, she was in the city centre buying bacon from Cooper’s stores – her father would have it from no other – when she decided to walk to the Pier Head and get the tram home. The river had always drawn her. Perhaps there was some truth in her father’s claim that all true Liverpudlians had salt water in their veins. As she walked along the damp streets with Rosie, she wondered if she would ever become accustomed to the devastation that the bombs had caused – the familiar landmarks obliterated or damaged. Lewis’s great store with its roof menagerie had been gutted. The Bluecoat School, Liverpool’s oldest building, had been. severely damaged. The city museum was roofless, its pillared portico exposing the walls inside – priceless collections had been destroyed. There were great expanses of derelict land about the Victoria Monument, and that more than anything grieved her. It was like No Man’s land. She swallowed painfully and hurried Rosie on towards the Mersey.

  She came to the Pier Head, and the salty tang of the sea was drawn deep into her lungs. She avoided the passengers disembarking from the ferry, and wondered how many times she had crossed the river with Tom – to Moreton, where they had spent a night under canvas or to New Brighton with its fair and beach. George had made his first sandcastle there, while Tom had done a pencil drawing of him.

  Hurting and angry, she stared at the grey water slapping against the landing stage. Then a seagull keened overhead and swept gracefully up into the air, drawing her gaze to the building towering over three hundred feet into the sky. It was crowned by a huge bird. The building had been hit during the war. Suddenly she was remembering Tom’s last words – ‘Say hello to the Liver Bird for me.’ Tears welled in her eyes and the huge bird blurred. Her hand touched her trembling mouth and she threw a kiss in the direction of the Liver Bird. Only half Scouse he had said he was – the other half was Welsh. The lilt in his voice had been something that had made him different from the other boys. He could sing too, just like his mother who had spoken the Welsh but was now dead. She smiled tremulously at the sudden me
mory. Then Rosie tugged her hand, and they started in the direction of the tram stop. It had begun to drizzle.

  They had almost reached the stop when the ships’ hooters began to bellow out an overwhelming cacophony of sound. Flora’s pulses stirred and her breath quickened. Rosie’s fingers tightened about hers, and her hazel eyes, so like her mother’s, widened. They both stood rooted to the spot. Church bells began to clang somewhere in the distance.

  A couple in the queue in front of them turned round, their faces alight with excitement. ‘It sounds like it’s come at last,’ said the woman in a high, emotional voice. ‘My son’ll be coming home! He’s been a prisoner in one of those camps.’

  A driver came running towards them. ‘The war in Europe’s over,’ he yelled. ‘It’s over! It’s over!’

  The next moment Flora’s arm was seized, and both she and Rosie were pulled into a whirling group of cheering women, men and children. A Union Jack was produced from somewhere and waved madly. ‘Rule Britannia!’ was taken up by several people and sung discordantly but joyously.

  ‘The boys will be coming home,’ shouted a woman. ‘When Johnny comes marching home again – hurrah! Hurrah!’

  Flora managed to disentangle herself and Rosie, and began to run with the tears rolling down her cheeks. Soon her path was blocked by people pouring out of buildings here, there and all over the place. It took a long time to reach her own street. She had had to hoist Rosie in her arms, and her back was breaking. But there was to be no peace at home.

  Houses must have been emptied of people because the street was alive with chattering women and men. Children skipped and hopped, singing songs or whistling when they could not remember the words. Escape from the festivities would be impossible. The children were too excited by it all. A party was being planned.