War Widow

by June Francis

  It was the roar of Mr Bryce’s voice and the sound of smashing glass that drew her to the front door. A boot lay in the middle of the street, to be joined the next moment by another. There were raised male voices and a high-pitched screech. Then the noise of an overturned chair. Clothes came flying through the broken window. Soon everybody was out in the street, including George, and the girls in their nighties.

  ‘He’s thrown the Yank’s uniform out,’ said one man with glee, picking up a jacket and flinging it in his garden.

  ‘I like the Yanks,’ commented Kathleen Murphy, sneaking up behind Flora to stand next to George. ‘Me dad said that it’s her that should be thrown out.’

  ‘She’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease,’ sang George, swinging Kathleen round by one arm.

  She giggled and Flora could not help a smile.

  They heard gusty sobs from upstairs and a few minutes later the front door was opened with such violence that several pigeons sitting on the roof took to the air in alarm. A scuffle started in the doorway and some of the neighbours crowded round quickly to conceal the sight of the naked American from their children’s eyes. But George had already seen him. ‘Here comes Bare Bum the Bandit!’ he yelled.

  A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd and Flora made a swipe at his head. He danced away with Kathleen in pursuit.

  Meanwhile one of the men laughingly offered his shears to Mr Bryce. ‘Cut it off, mate.’

  Mr Bryce took them, and the Yank, much smaller than the other man, stared around him in dismay. ‘You guys have to be joking!’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a bloody joke to find you in my bloody bed with my bloody wife,’ said Mr Bryce through gritted teeth, working the shears as he approached.

  The American swore and backed away hurriedly. Several of the neighbours were convulsed with laughter, but Flora realised that Mr Bryce was deadly serious. She darted forward in front of the Yank and smiled at her neighbour’s husband. ‘Is such a little thing worth chopping off? A big gorgeous hunk like you would be better off showing Lena what she’s being missing all these years.’

  He hesitated before saying, ‘Get out of the way, luv. I’ve got no argument with you but I have with that Yank.’

  ‘What about Lena?’ shouted someone. ‘It’s not just this Yank. She’s had hundreds of them.’

  ‘Not hundreds,’ came a quick laughing retort. ‘Maybe fifty.’

  ‘She’s had more Yanks than I’ve had hot dinners,’ said the first voice.

  ‘Don’t be exaggerating,’ said Flora, watching a dull flush run under Mr Bryce’s skin. He threw down the shears and dragged the belt from his trousers. Then he turned and ran up the lobby.

  ‘Oh, hell! Someone stop him,’ cried Flora, glancing up at the front window.

  ‘In a minute, girlie,’ said Little Paddy, appearing out of nowhere to stand beside her. ‘Let her be havin’ a taste of his belt first. She’s had it coming for a long time.’ He scrubbed at his droopy moustache.

  ‘But –’ Flora winced as a scream sounded from the bedroom.

  ‘No buts. You be after finding that Yank his pants and get him out of here.’ He patted her bottom and she stared at him in astonishment before withdrawing from the scene.

  Someone had given the American a pinafore to cover himself, but George came skipping over with his underpants on the end of a stick. They were dragged on hurriedly, while their owner avoided the eyes of the curious. Kathleen brought his vest, and Rosie his trousers. Two other kids appeared with the rest of his clothes and his boots.

  By the time he had gone and Flora had managed to get hold of her children, the crowd had dispersed and Mr Bryce had been persuaded to spend the night at his mother’s. His wife had slammed the door in their faces, and now next door was shrouded in an unfamiliar silence.

  The next morning Flora heard Mrs Bryce going out and looked out of the window to see her lugging two carrier bags up the street. She experienced some relief that her neighbour had gone. Otherwise there might have been more trouble that day.

  She was not sure how she felt about Victory Day and the street party. Thinking of the returning servicemen reminded her of Tom and caused a surge of frustrated anger at the sheer waste of his life. But the children were all excited about it.

  ‘I wish I’d known my dad,’ said Rosie, stroking the cat as they sat on the front step. ‘You never gave me that letter, Mam.’

  ‘Didn’t I, love? I meant to.’ Flora patted her shoulder. ‘Maybe later I’ll find it for you.’

  Rosie nodded in a satisfied manner. ‘I can show our class. I bet none of them have a letter from a dead dad.’

  Flora had not looked at it quite like that, and was about to say so when Vivien spoke. ‘I haven’t even got a mam now.’ She gazed unwaveringly at Flora. ‘George said that she doesn’t want me – that she was going to America without me.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘Is it true, Aunty Flo?’

  ‘Of course not,’ retorted Flora without hesitation. ‘You take no notice of George. Now go and play all of you. The party will be starting soon.’ They took the hint and she wandered through the house and into the backyard.

  She sat on the back step and held her face up to the sun, her thoughts a million miles away, so that she did not hear the knocker go or footsteps up the lobby and through the kitchen. Not until a man’s deep voice said, ‘Hello, Floss!’ did she start and her eyes flew wide open.

  ‘Who is it?’ He had moved so that he was dark against the sun.

  ‘Don’t you know me, Flossie?’ He lowered himself to her level, sitting back on his haunches so that she could see his face more easily.

  ‘Stephen Martin?’ He had changed – grown up – there were scars on the side of his face up near his left eye, and lines of suffering about his mouth and nose. ‘It’s been a long time.’ She held out her hand and he took it.

  They were both silent as they remained handfast. So many years had passed since the last time they had seen each other, and their worlds had been vastly different places then. The sight of him caused memories to tumble helter skelter into her consciousness so that she experienced unexpected grief. She dropped his hands but still continued to stare at him.

  ‘I was so sorry about your family, Steve,’ she blurted out, noticing how his dark brown hair still curled vigorously, and remembering how his brother had teased him, saying that only girls had such curly hair and that he should put a ribbon in it. Once she had found him in the works yard, trying to get it to lie flat with the shoe polish.

  ‘Yes! It was terrible.’ Pain shadowed his face. ‘In this street where there’s no damage I find it hard to believe that it’s happened. But in the city centre – hell!’

  Now the silence had a waiting feel to it. ‘Tom,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Please!’ There was another silence and neither of them could think how to break it. It was Flora who spoke in the end. ‘I heard you were wounded.’

  ‘Aye. Twice.’ He leaned against the wall that needed white washing, and his mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. ‘Careless of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re still alive, that’s the important thing.’ She noted the hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the jaw that looked as though it had not seen a razor that day. His nose was still slightly crooked from when Tom had hit him with a cricket bat playing on the sands at Waterloo! She had almost forgotten about that but now she remembered how pale, bloody and angry Stephen had been. His nose had been broken, and he and Tom had never had much to do with each other after that. It was a pity. She added sympathetically, ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘Awful both times.’ A sharp laugh escaped him. ‘But no worse a hell than that which took Mam and the girls!’ He broke off abruptly and the silence this time seemed to stretch endlessly.

  ‘Stephen!’ Flora’s clear voice was worried. ‘You look miles away. I’m sorry if I’ve brought back bad memories.’

&nbs
p; His throat moved and he swallowed. ‘I was thinking of Tom and Jimmy. I can’t help it! Seeing you –’

  ‘I know,’ she said quickly. ‘Especially today they must be in our thoughts. You know what happened to Tom?’

  Stephen drew a breath. ‘I know you’re a widow.’

  ‘A widow. I suppose so.’ Flora tested the word. ‘Missing presumed dead,’ she murmured, and wondered why he tensed and fumbled for words.

  ‘My uncle seems glad to see me.’

  Flora smiled. ‘I’m sure he is. He has high hopes of you taking Jimmy’s place.’

  ‘He was the favourite.’ Stephen’s blue eyes were dark when he lifted his head. ‘Now he expects all sorts of things from me, and I don’t know if I can, or want to, live up to his expectations.’

  ‘Want to?’ Her voice rebuked him. ‘Surely you owe him a lot.’

  ‘I know I do – moneywise.’ He tore petals from one of the nasturtiums in the windowbox. ‘When Dad died – when I got the scholarship to the Institute – he was always there with an open hand.’

  ‘He was proud of you.’

  ‘Only because I went to college. He preferred Jimmy.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Now our Jimmy had a way with him – just like Tom did.’ He glanced at her and away again. ‘They could wheedle blood out of a stone.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘They had charm.’

  ‘The gift of the gab,’ Stephen said softly, his face pensive. ‘Are you thinking, Floss, that life is unfair?’ He paused, staring down at his hands. ‘There’s Tom and Jimmy with all that going for them – no longer here. And here’s me. The girls and Mam would have mourned for me if I’d been killed and them still living. But I’ve no wife or sweetheart – only good old Uncle Sam, glad that I’ve survived for the firm’s sake.’

  ‘You sound sorry for yourself,’ she said, disturbed by his words. ‘What’s the point?’ She scrambled to her feet, her face quivering. ‘Maybe there’s some reason why it’s you that’s alive – I don’t know’ She turned away. ‘I’m going to make a cuppa. You’ll have one, I suppose?’ Not waiting for his answer she went indoors.

  When Flora returned with her composure a little more intact, Stephen was sitting on the dustbin with his eyes closed. For a second she noted the way the dark lashes fanned into the sunken sockets, then she nudged him with her foot. ‘Wake up, Stephen. I don’t know how you can doze off with all that racket going on outside.’

  ‘It’s easy when you’ve slept in some of the places I have. This is peaceful in comparison.’ His eyelashes fluttered and his gaze flickered over her slight figure before he pushed himself up. ‘It’s fun outside for some. Wouldn’t you like to go and see what’s going on?’ Not only could a barrel organ be heard now, but the faint sounds of an accordion.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied calmly, handing his tea to him. ‘I’m glad the war’s over and that I have a roof over my head –’

  ‘But you don’t feel as grateful as you really should,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t consider the victory involves you.’

  ‘We’ve had parties already,’ she said unevenly. ‘Enough’s enough. Let the victorious march in London by all means. I like a parade – but my British Tommy isn’t going to come marching home.’ She put a hand to her eyes, forcing back the tears.

  ‘Floss!’ His voice was harsh and his fingers wandered to the scar on his face. ‘About Tom –’

  ‘No! I’ve told you. I don’t want to discuss it,’ she murmured in a wobbly voice. ‘The past is the past, and you know – it’s my birthday today!’ She scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I didn’t tell anybody. What’s the point of making a fuss. It can’t be a happy birthday.’ A sob shook her. Stephen’s coming had somehow unlocked the floodgates. She had already cried in the house but still she wanted to weep for Tom, and all those soldiers, sailors and airmen who had suffered or died and wouldn’t be coming home. And she resented Stephen for causing her to break down, even though looking at his scarred face made her want to cry for him too. He had once had such a nice face.

  ‘Hell,’ he said, putting down his cup. ‘What if I wished you a happy birthday – birthdays should be taken note of, Floss. How old are you? Only months younger than me, I remember – that makes you twenty-eight.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ she said baldly, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s not old! You’ve got years and years ahead.’

  ‘That should make me feel better?’ There was a note of anger in her voice. ‘Years and years of being alone. Now you’re making me sorry for myself.’

  ‘I’m a fool.’ He rifled his hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go – that’ll be the best thing. I’m not doing you any good here, am I?’ There was a touch of irritation in his tones. ‘Besides, Uncle Sam will be missing me. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I suppose not. It’s just your choice of words.’ She lifted her cup to her lips but her teeth chattered against the rim.

  Stephen stood watching her, his face unhappy. ‘Why don’t you come out with me?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said coolly in an attempt to gain control of herself again. ‘You go and be a conquering hero. You deserve some fun.’

  His face was suddenly angry. ‘Don’t I just! You’ve no idea what it’s been like! Before I even left Britain, when I was in Scotland, the news came about Mam and the girls. It was lousy. I was the soldier but they were killed, it seemed so crazy! But at least it helped me to know what I was fighting for besides King and country. Then Jimmy was killed, and you know, that was almost the worst moment of my life. We used to argue like hell! The last time I saw him we argued about Mam. But he was my brother, Floss.’ His eyes glistened and his mouth tightened. ‘I just didn’t care after that what happened to me. I did all kinds of crazy things! But then suddenly, at the point where death was pretty close, I cared about being alive again.’ His fists curled. ‘You said about me not feeling sorry for myself – how about you? Come out in the road with me. You might feel a lot better.’

  Her head lifted and her face was taut. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. I’m not good company. Leave me.’

  He scowled. ‘I always thought you had guts, Floss, but it seems I was wrong.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Her bottom lip quivered.

  His anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had flared up. ‘Floss, don’t you think it’s hard for me?’ His voice was quiet now. ‘They’re all so bloody happy! I want you to come so that I don’t have to walk out there all on my own. It scares me to death.’

  Unexpectedly his words struck a chord. Flora remembered how she had felt on VE Day, and she understood. ‘Why shouldn’t they be happy?’ she whispered. ‘We shouldn’t take that away from them.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ He suddenly looked tired. ‘Come on, Floss – for old times’ sake, let’s be friends and see if it’s catching.’ He held out a hand. She hesitated and then took it.

  They walked silently side by side until they came out into the street which was noisy with activity. Then Flora wondered why she had allowed him to persuade her. Envy was an emotion she did not want to experience – it was like a knife twisting in her breast watching the newly demobbed men with their wives and sweethearts. But she pinned a smile on her face and they went over to where the girls were laughing at the organ grinder’s monkey’s tricks. Stephen stuck to her side. She sensed the loneliness in him and sympathy stirred inside her.

  It was getting dusk and Flora considered it time to get the children to bed, but then people started dancing and the girls dragged them both into a circle. Flora was reluctant to ape them, but when others were kicking their legs as high as they could in a ‘Knees up, Mother Brown’ she felt compelled to join in. Then a twisting, wriggling, laughing serpent of a line was formed to do the Conga up and down the street. Stephen’s hands gripped her waist, manipulating her this way and that, until the line collapsed and people staggered away to fall exhausted into the well-worn chairs grouped on the pavement.

&n
bsp; The accordion player drifted into a waltz. Flora would have sought out the children then, but Stephen gripped her hand tightly and said in a muffled voice against her hair: ‘Come on, Floss, for old times’ sake.’ And she could not resist the pleading note in his voice.

  Weariness rippled over her in languorous waves. Her head drooped against his blue shirt-clad shoulder. She forced it up and looked into his face, searching for something to say. Then she realised there was no need for polite conversation because his thoughts were somewhere else, just as hers had been most of the evening. She relaxed and her head drooped again. Up early, she was tired.

  Stephen’s hand moved up her back and pressed her head against his shoulder. His arm tightened about her waist. It felt comforting and they danced on and on.

  The next morning she arrived at Martin’s ten minutes late with no thought of seeing Stephen, only to be brought up short by the sight of him in one of the machine rooms.

  ‘Hello, Floss,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Morning! I overslept for once,’ she said in a rush. ‘I’m not used to late nights.’ She made to pass him but he grabbed her arm, bringing her to a halt. ‘Hey! D’you mind? I’m late!’ She attempted to pull herself free.

  ‘Not that late,’ he said slowly, releasing her. ‘What are your hours here, Floss?’

  She rubbed her arm, considering that he was stronger than he looked. ‘The same as the men’s,’ she murmured. ‘Half eight to half five.’

  ‘That means those girls are home from school a good hour and a half before you.’

  ‘Yes. But a neighbour keeps her eye on them,’ she said defensively. ‘And sometimes they go to my father’s. They aren’t just left to roam.’ A long breath escaped her. ‘Can I go now, Mr Martin?’

  He raised both eyebrows. ‘What’s with the “Mr Martin”? It was Stephen last night.’

  ‘Last night we were old acquaintances meeting again. This morning you’re one of the bosses,’ she said promptly.