Now the War Is Over

by Annie Murray

  ‘That’ll soon die down,’ Gladys said.

  ‘I know, but I just feel as if I want to run away and hide somewhere, I really do. If we give something to one person we’ll have to give to everyone and where will it end? But all these people who say they’re at their wits’ end and that . . .’ She shook her head, blowing smoke from her lips. ‘Having all this money makes me feel all sort of peculiar. And Mo keeps saying, we’ve got to be sensible, Dolly, or it’ll all be gone and then where will we be? What would you do, Glad?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Gladys said. There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been well enough off to find out.’

  ‘Mo’s had to go to the bank and open an account,’ Dolly went on. She sounded awed. They had never thought of such a thing before. ‘The bank manager was ever so pleased to see him.’

  ‘I bet he was,’ Gladys laughed, but again there was a dryness in her tone.

  ‘Said if he wanted him to recommend an estate agent, he could help,’ Mo said.

  Gladys said nothing. Melly felt a tense silence come over the room.

  ‘D’you think you’ll go?’ It was Rachel who asked.

  ‘Well,’ Dolly said. ‘It’d be daft not to, wouldn’t it? All that money – we could get out of here at last. No more bugs and rain coming through the roof! And it might help Reggie. And Jonny can stay on at school . . .’

  ‘We could go as well, Auntie,’ Rachel said. Melly saw her look back and forth between Gladys and Dolly. ‘It won’t be the same here without Mo and Dolly – you keep saying that.’

  ‘We could help you!’ Dolly said. ‘We’ve got enough to—’

  ‘No need for that,’ Gladys said, sitting up proudly. Melly saw her mother frown. Gladys was such a stubborn old soul. ‘We make enough to rent for ourselves, ta.’

  Dolly looked rather hurt, Melly thought.

  Once Dolly had gone, Rachel turned eagerly to Gladys. ‘Can we, Auntie? I know you never would’ve moved if they were staying. But it’s all going to be different now. The yard won’t be the same with them gone, will it?’

  Gladys put her teacup to her lips. She didn’t answer.

  Over the next few weeks, Dolly and Mo were blown about in all directions.

  ‘Every time I see them they’re going somewhere different,’ Gladys complained. Rachel could tell she was hurt to the core. Even though you could hardly blame them – who wouldn’t want a nicer house if you could get one? – none of their plans seemed to take into consideration anyone else around them. How could they?

  They mainly saw Dolly who would come round and give them the latest bulletin about places the estate agent suggested they might live. One day it was, ‘He says there’s this nice house for sale in Four Oaks and we could afford it!’ The next it might be, ‘We could go to Sutton Coldfield. Or right out into one of the villages somewhere. But then there’s a house for sale in Bromsgrove that he says would suit us down to the ground . . .’

  ‘I’m sure the commission’ll suit him down to the ground an’ all,’ Gladys said.

  ‘Oh, Glad,’ Dolly begged. ‘Don’t be like that. We don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well, don’t look at me,’ Gladys retorted. ‘I’m not the one to tell you, am I? Why don’t you just let me know when you’ve decided?’ On that occasion she ended the conversation by picking up a pail and walking out of the house.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Dolly said to Rachel, tears filling her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best, I really don’t.’

  Twenty-Three

  May 1955

  Rachel felt she was living two separate lives that hardly connected. As the spring months passed, she went through the motions of everything at home, the housework, care of Tommy and the others, while most of her mind was completely elsewhere.

  After his confrontation with Gladys, Danny had not said another word about Australia and Rachel had not raised it. He was quiet, his mood flat. She had no idea what he was thinking and she realized they were avoiding each other. This was at least half her fault.

  She saw Michael Livingstone every week. She told the family she was working each Thursday morning as a volunteer in the office at school. Tommy was in class and could not know whether she was in there or not. Instead, she would travel over with him in his taxi, kiss him goodbye just inside Carlson House and watch as one of the assistants wheeled him away to his classroom, before slipping out and round the corner to Michael’s house.

  On Thursday mornings, Ellen was at school as well. The last time Rachel had visited, the two of them had sat talking as usual, in the front room, side by side on the chairs. As time went by, though, Rachel became aware of a change of mood between them. Usually they chatted easily, but now there were silences and the atmosphere became intense. Michael leaned forward and put his cup down. As he sat back, he turned to her, his eyes seeking hers, and reached for her hand which was resting in her lap. His own hand felt large and warm and she did not pull away as she knew she should have done. They sat in a loaded, awkward silence for a couple of moments. She could feel a slight tremor coming from him and she felt shaken herself. She did not meet his eye, not then. She looked down at the clasped hands, her heart going like mad, and she could still feel his hungry gaze on her. Full of panic she had said she had to go home and they stood up, released their hands and tried to talk normally as if nothing had happened.

  This time, as she sat beside Tommy in the car, she tried sternly to bring the two sides of her life together. She was expecting Danny’s child! She had not mentioned this to Michael. Nothing was showing yet. Michael knew now that she was married, but it was as if their time together was separate from all other life and reality. It was a kind of dream that did not feel as if it could have any consequences in her real life. In this dream they could kid themselves for a little while. She kept telling herself that nothing was going on, nothing had happened except Michael grasping her hand, once, for those few moments. Was that so bad?

  But she knew really. Now every time she saw him, the air would be charged between them. Even before he took her hand, she had sometimes seen it in his eyes, the way suddenly, while they were talking like friends, about their children or their daily lives, he would go quiet and give her a brief, intense look of longing. It would make her blush and look away. But sometimes she looked back into his eyes and felt a prickling in her skin. It could not go on. She knew where it was leading, this feeling. It was wrong. She was nearly four months gone with the baby and soon it would begin to show. That was her life. That was what was real . . .

  But in the meantime there was this interval of excitement, of this secret bliss, of being listened to, looked at like that, wanted . . . As the car carried them along, she was on the point of lapsing into another daydream.

  ‘Mom,’ Tommy said. Then louder, ‘MOM!’

  ‘Shh, Tommy – what?’ She knew she sounded irritable. Her nerves were at screaming pitch. She ticked herself off. Her boy was beside her, Tommy who needed her – and all she could think of was her . . . Her what? What should she call Michael? Words failed her.

  ‘Miss – said I’m – very – good at – typing.’

  She took a deep breath, praying for patience as Tommy reached for the words.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s ever so good, Tommy. You know, Miss said to me the other day that you’re one of the boys she thinks might be able to get a job somewhere one day. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  Tommy’s eyes watched her face. ‘A – job?’

  ‘Yes – in a firm or something. You’re good with figures, and if you can type . . .’

  ‘Did she – say – that?’ He looked worried and pleased at once. Such a thought had never crossed his mind before, she realized, feeling tender towards him. He had written himself off.

  She squeezed his hand. ‘She did, love.’

  And all the time she was talking to him her heart was beating hard and she was thinking, soon, in half an hour, I’ll be with
him . . . But she had to tell Michael today, had to. It had to stop – her being there, the way they looked at each other and where it might lead. She had to prick the bubble of this dream. She was sorry, but . . . Or if not today, very soon, perhaps one more week or two . . . She felt as if her life was whirling away from her, out of control.

  Last night, in the privacy of the attic, Danny had finally said to her, ‘I feel as if you’re just not here most of the time, Rach.’ He looked really hurt. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ she said. She could hear the hardness in her voice. When had she ever spoken to Danny like this before? Just once – when he came home, after disappearing after the war, when she was the one who was hurt and bereft. She thought he had settled since then, that everything about their life was solid. But now it felt as if he wanted to leave her all over again and the thought of it sat between them like a mountain.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Australia. I don’t want you to go.’ Tears came into her voice. ‘You’re wrong to try and make me, Danny. It’s cruel of you to try and force me.’

  A long silence followed.

  ‘I don’t want to force you,’ he said. ‘I just want you to come with me.’

  She turned over and refused to say any more.

  Walking to Michael’s house, she watched her feet, in her well-polished navy shoes with neat heels, taking one step after another, as if they were someone else’s. She always felt as if she was in another world over here.

  The whole city was still in recovery after the bombardment of the war and years of neglect. Harborne was grimy and shabby like everywhere else. But even so, it was a much neater, nicer place than where they lived. There were more trees and houses and far fewer factories. She ached to be somewhere like this, instead of the cramped, industrial streets of Aston, their scrubby bomb pecks and squalid yards of houses. In her mind there played a fantasy: what if she was to stay here, with Michael? Just disappear and never go back?

  Her mind filled with memories of him holding her hand, of his eyes on hers and the shock of desire his looking at her sent through her body. As she walked towards his door, her limbs felt weak. She knew she could barely trust herself, as if she had no will to stop events and was being swept along.

  The door was dusty black with its dull brass knocker. There was no woman in the house to polish such things and Michael did not make time for it or even notice.

  I am outside, she thought. In a minute I’ll be inside and what will happen will happen . . .

  She raised her hand and knocked. The door opened seconds later. She knew he would be waiting.

  ‘Rachel,’ he said, trying to sound ordinary and calm. But in his voice she could hear a catch of something that was anything but calm. ‘Come in.’

  In the hall they were too close for a moment so she stepped away. Things had come to a pitch between them over these weeks of talking, of sitting together in a small room, of eyes meeting. Neither of them could seem to help themselves. And now, more than ever, there was an atmosphere of things unspoken, of feelings tangible in the air.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ Michael said, in his polite way. ‘Cup of coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’ll have tea – thanks.’

  Michael took her coat and they went into the back room. Following him, she was aware of every line of him, the slender body moving within his clothing, the way his hair sat above his collar at the back.

  ‘Ellen all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, she’s doing well. Getting over that cold. She’s a very patient girl, really. Always has been.’

  Patient like her father, Rachel thought, standing in the kitchen. She had a feeling still that she was in the dream again, watching Michael fill the kettle. A tap indoors, water there whenever you wanted it! She burned with longing for a new life, for everything to be different. He put the kettle on the stove and turned, before lighting the gas.

  Their eyes met. Rachel felt a plunge of acknowledgement inside her. The way he was drinking her in: surely there was no mistaking it, the look in his eyes? He opened his mouth, as if about to say something, and then closed it again. A moment later, he managed to speak.

  ‘I –’ he looked down in confusion – ‘I try not to think about how things really are . . . D’you know –’ he looked up at her again, a desperate expression on his face – ‘what I mean?’

  Slowly, she nodded, not looking away. She knew it was wrong, she was wrong. She ought to walk out of this kitchen, away from this man with his sad, longing eyes, and never come back here again. But she could feel the force of the need in him that matched the need within her.

  The second he stepped towards her, she knew there was no stopping it. They had both waited. They were both already so primed that as soon as they stepped into each other’s arms they were lost. She felt his arms around her, smelt him, a mixture of soap and tobacco, felt the force of him against her and they kissed with hungry urgency.

  Her mind was caught up in him, the taste of him, the feel of his back under the white shirt, of the heat and press of their bodies and the way desire built on itself, each needing more because of the need in the other. But at the same time, there was the strangeness of it mixed with desire, the realistic little thought creeping into her mind – I have never kissed any other man except Danny – until now. And now, what does this make me?

  Michael drew back and his tawny eyes looked into hers. ‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘Come upstairs with me, will you? I know I shouldn’t even ask. But I just ache for you – all the time. I can’t seem to think about anything else.’

  She took his hand, walking slightly behind him as they climbed the narrow stairs. The dream continued. Who was this woman, following a man upstairs who was not her husband, not Danny? With every step she thought, I shouldn’t be here, I should stop, say no, turn round . . . But she was caught up in Michael, filled with desire to see him naked, for him to see her, for them to discover each other . . . The sense of daze continued as they reached the top of the stairs and she was looking through the door of a bedroom: a chair under the window with a black jersey folded and hung over the back, a cupboard, at a wide, marital bed with a pale green coverlet . . .

  ‘No!’ She stalled at the door. ‘Oh, God, Michael, no! I can’t. I’m sorry . . .’ She gabbled at him. ‘I can’t go on like this! Look – I’ve got to go home.’ She pulled away and turned to go down the stairs again. ‘Just – I don’t know – forget all about me. I don’t want to lead you on. I just can’t . . .’ She was close to tears.

  ‘Rachel – wait.’ He took hold of her forearm while she was on the top step, before she could retreat down the stairs. ‘Look – it’s all right. I’m sorry.’ He sounded miserable, but not angry.

  He looked down into her eyes. Already she knew her gaze was clouded with shame and she could see the same in his face as well. She had pricked the bubble of the dream. He kissed her cheek gently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Oh, God . . .’ He sounded utterly wretched. ‘What a way to behave.’

  ‘No,’ she said gently. ‘It’s not your fault – it’s just both of us. It’s how things are.’

  Now that they had pulled back from the moments of acute desire, he felt strange to her again, as if she had been through something and had now passed out the other side. Michael’s body was alien to her. They did not belong. He was a nice man but he was not her man, however much she liked him. Danny was her man, had always been.

  He had let go of her. They were not touching now. She stepped up to stand beside him, on the tiny landing at the top of the stairs. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I must go. We mustn’t—’

  ‘No!’ he agreed. ‘We absolutely mustn’t. God, you’re a married woman . . .’ This was the first time they had ever acknowledged this openly.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He looked down, embarrassed. ‘I just miss it – I miss being married.’

  ‘It wasn’t just your fault,’ Rachel said. ‘It was mine as well. And we mustn
’t do it again. I can’t keep coming round here – not when Ellen’s not here, or it’ll just keep happening, won’t it? And I should be at home really, looking after Ricky. But Michael –’ she leaned to him and kissed his cheek – ‘you’re a nice man. Please let’s be friends.’

  ‘The problem is –’ he looked down at the floor in a troubled way – ‘I’m not sure if I can now. It’s ridiculous, I know. But every time I see you I’ll just want . . . This – and more. Maybe it’s because I’m a man. We’re just a bit, I don’t know, primitive like that.’ He looked back at her again and his dark eyes were sad. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you, it really isn’t. It might just be better . . . Well, not for a good while, anyway.’

  Rachel nodded. However much she understood, this felt hurtful, as if she was being rejected. Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them impatiently away. The dissolving of the dream had left an emptiness behind.

  ‘All right,’ she said. Her tone was flat, she couldn’t help it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘You’re right.’ She began to go down the stairs and he followed. ‘I know you are.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘I know we’ve been wrong, but I’ll miss talking to you, Michael.’

  She felt him touch her shoulder briefly, in acknowledgment.

  They did not kiss goodbye. Walking back along the street to the bus stop, Rachel looked down at her feet again. Everything felt different now, the street quiet and in some way sad. Things were back to normal, with no dream, and she had to face it exactly as it was. Danny was her husband and she his wife. She had to go home to him and bring him home to her.

  ‘Danny.’

  She lay in bed and he stood and looked down at her. Even in the poor light of the candle she thought he seemed wary of her, as if wondering whether she was going to have a go at him.

  ‘Let’s . . . You know.’