War Crimes for the Home

by Liz Jensen

  —So how do you wee up there?

  —Well, we got the pee-tube, hon, he goes, stroking the tit that’s nearest him.

  —A pee-tube?

  —Yeah, you fix it on to your dick. It’s a real fuckin’ hoo-ha. You gotta undo the harness, then the parachute, then the flies of your flying suit, then your underwear, get your dick out, and fish around under the seat for the pee-tube and use it while you’re still in formation, still navigating, and keeping an eye out for pirates. Oh, and still flying the plane. There’s quite an art to it, hon.

  And he laughs, and takes a nipple in his mouth and starts sucking. Then laughing. He rolls over and snorts.

  —There’s this guy in the squadron, he’s a bit of an inventor, he fixes up a system so he’s wearing the pee-tube before he starts out. But he forgets about the altitude: it’s 30 below freezing up there. So his dick starts to freeze. It’s gone totally numb. So he drops altitude and gets home, spends five days in the hospital. You never saw a thing swole up so bad. Man, we laughed. But he was lucky not to lose his dick.

  And then he gets back to feasting on my tits.

  You couldn’t help being in love with a man could tell you stuff like that. Jokes, too. We’d lie in bed and tell jokes, Polack jokes, Okie jokes, dirty jokes. Them Okies, from Oklahoma, they were hicks, he said, lived up in villages in the mountains and rolled their own, meaning did incest. So there’s this boy falls in love with a girl and marries her, comes out of the bedroom on his wedding night at the family home, in shock, says, Oy, Dad! She says she’s a virgin!

  Hell, get rid of her! goes the dad. She ain’t good enough for her own folks she ain’t good enough for us!

  I always remember a joke.

  Hank’s pushing me right out on to the pier. There’s this smell in the air when you turn the corner on to All Saints Road, reminds me of where our mum worked before the war, the bakery.

  —She just got whiter and whiter with it. Stayed in bed all day. Cancer.

  —Who’s that? Doris?

  —No, my mum. But Doris was riddled with it too, weren’t you Doris. It was a blessed release, me and Marje always said, cos war wasn’t her cup of tea. Would’ve disrupted her routine. We were eating our lunch when we got the news about our dad. Omelettes were Marje’s speciality.

  —Your sister Marje? The one who died? He’s bought the Mirror, and he’s reading it.

  —The hens, they’d laid one each. And we had a slice of loaf each too, no butter but a good little smear of Bovril. Me and Marje, we always called it by its short name, Bov. Bread and Bov and an omelette we was eating.

  —Uh-huh, he goes, still reading.

  —But we’ve barely started putting it down us when the door goes. Bit of silence between us, we’ve both got this sixth sense, then Marje says, Leave it Gloria, eat your omelette. Get it down you, you’re skin and bone. But for once I’ve got no appetite.

  —Uh-huh? goes Hank. He has heard this story.

  —But I get up. And sure enough there’s the man with his bicycle and his cap off holding the telegram, saying perhaps you and your sister had better sit down.

  Hank turns the page, flattens out the paper.

  —It’s in that box.

  —Huh? goes Hank, waking up a bit.

  —Madam, we regret to inform you that Private Winstanley passed away in Changi prison camp after a short illness. He served his country with great courage, blah-di-blah. Me and Marje, we just threw our arms round each other and cried. He wasn’t much of a dad but he was the only one we had.

  —There’s the letter from Marje, too, he goes slowly. —Can you remember what that one said, Mum?

  He’s looking at me funny.

  —Nope. Which one was that?

  —You know the one.

  —There’s probably some other photos of my wedding, too. My wedding dress was made of an old parachute, you know. Marje sewed it.

  —I’m glad you mentioned that, he goes. —As a matter of fact there’s quite a few pictures.

  I said the wrong thing, didn’t I.

  —I’d like to talk about them.

  —None of your bloody beeswax. It comes out louder than I thought.

  —Why’s it none of my beeswax? He’s put the paper down now, and he’s grabbed my hand, and he’s squeezing. It hurts. —Come on, Mum! Try and remember things straight for once!

  —It’s gone. My memory’s buggered to bits.

  —Very convenient, says Doris. Look at you. Lying through your teeth!

  —Well, un-bugger it! snaps Hank. He’s shoved the paper down the back of the wheelchair now and he’s looking at me now, all angry, still hurting my hand. —I’ve a right to know. I don’t want to put pressure on you but –

  —Talking of pressure, you are hurting my hand, plus I could do with a wee.

  Can’t he see I’m about to bloody blinking well cry? Don’t that count for nothing?

  —Listen. Mum. I don’t want to upset you, I really don’t.

  —Well, don’t then! Leave it be! I was a good mum to you!

  —Tell him what’s what! says Doris in my ear. —Stop coming out with porky pies. Just tell him the truth!

  —You were a great mum, he says. —You were the best. And I know it wasn’t easy bringing me up on your own. Look, I’m grateful for all that, Mum. All those sacrifices and everything, and you were never bitter or nothing. I mean it. But I still have a right to know where I came from. And I think there’s someone else who has a right to know, too.

  —Who’s that, then?

  He hands me a tissue and I blow.

  —You’ll find out soon enough, he says. —She’s coming to pay you a visit.

  And his voice, it’s gone all sly. What’s all that about? Who is this she? Shocks me because Hank, he ain’t like that normally, and I can see there’s more where that came from, but he stifles it, the way he always did because I’m all he’s got, aren’t I? Just the two of us, I always used to say. Just you and me, kiddo. A boy and his mum, making their way through life and having a good old laugh. He’d never push me and the wheelchair over the edge of the pier, however easy it was to do, cos we’ve got this bond, we have. He was a good baby, and a good boy, and now he’s a good man, which is the one good thing I did. So he just sighs and mutters something and then takes me to use the lav in a caff because I can’t hold on too long.

  And in the night I remember about that marzipan, the taste of engine oil and the bean feeling of it, and the time I saw the Great Zedorro with Ron, and the time I saw him again which was after, and the price I paid for it, which was a good price or so it seemed at the time, because some things are best forgotten.

  You’re a swell kid.

  When I wake up there’s a dim memory of it all, like the shadow-shape of a thing that happened that was got rid of once and for all down the back of a sofa with a dog lying asleep on it, all peaceful and snuffling in its dreams. You’re a swell kid, hon. You’re a swell kid.

  NO IRISH NO DOGS NO JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES

  And now that you’re gone, dear, this letter I pen,

  My heart travels with you till we meet again.

  Keep smiling, my darling, and sometime we’ll spend

  A lifetime as sweet as that lovely weekend.

  For a man who can’t hold a tune he likes to sing, my blue-eyed airman, but do I care? No, cos I’m head over heels in love, I am. He’s been singing away, bits of this and bits of that, and I must’ve dozed off to the buzz of his voice, and when I wake up his chest’s moving differently, and the noise isn’t singing, it’s crying.

  —What’s the matter?

  I’m wiping at his tears and hugging him and kissing him all at once, because seeing a big brave man cry is a horrible sight. No one wants to see that, it does you in.

  —I’m scared the whole fuckin’ time, man.

  —Silly sausage. Course you are. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’d be mad not to be scared.

  —Few times, I’m up there, I find myself whisper
ing, God, you gotta. You gotta get me back. God, listen, you gotta.

  —Do you believe in Him?

  —Nope.

  —It’d help.

  —Well, it don’t stop me praying. Some of the guys, they’ll promise God they’ll swear off liquor and women, if he’ll pull them through.

  I reach down to the floor for my knickers, and wipe his tears with a corner of them.

  —Don’t you swear off me.

  —Don’t worry, hon. I figure if God’s really God, he’d understand how men feel about women. He smiles. —And liquor. And a whole lotta stuff.

  And so I sing to him. I ain’t got much of a voice neither, but it cheers him up.

  Underneath the spreading chestnut tree,

  I loved her and she loved me.

  Now you ought to see our family

  ’Neath the spreading chestnut tree . . .

  I must’ve slept, because when I open my eyes I get the shock of my life: it’s Hank standing there with Marje.

  —Marje! Bloody hell, I go. You might’ve warned me, turning up like that.

  —Not Marje, Mum, he says. —This lady’s name is Jill. She’s been wanting to meet you.

  Lady? Jill? I don’t know no ladies and I don’t know no Jills. But I know a Marje when I see one. I blink. I need my specs. When I’ve got them on I have another look and I am right flummoxed, and not sure for a minute where I am or when I am. She’s got Marje’s mouth that’s Mum’s mouth too. She’s nervous but trying to hide it, twisting at her scarf. The scarf is bluey-green with peacock feathers, the type that costs.

  —How much was it then?

  —Sorry? she goes.

  —That scarf, how much it set you back?

  She looks at Hank.

  —Er, it’s Liberty, she goes. —About thirty pounds?

  —You mean you can’t remember?

  —No. Well, not exactly.

  —Mum, goes Hank. —I said this is Jill.

  She’s not exactly at ease, this Jill who isn’t Marje, but has her mouth, and Mum’s, and can’t remember how much she paid for a scarf. In fact I get the feeling she’s right nervous. Her eyes, they’re flitty. She’s in her fifties, maybe sixty. What’s she –

  Oho, I get it! Oh, oh, oh!

  And there is a big wash of relief that’s almost as good as letting go of a big wee, cos I’ve realised who she is. I am a dumb one, I am! Of course of course of course, she is Hank’s girlfriend! Ho ho, I didn’t know you were allowed to keep women on oil rigs! Not that I don’t approve. I always thought Hank could do better than Karen, and I’m not the only one, that shop of hers is a front for something, you can bet, and she’s a crap mum too. You can’t spend the amount of time she does having leg waxes and be a good one, can you.

  —That’s my boy, Hank, I go, patting his knee. —Good for you! That’s more like it! Give that Wife of yours a taste of her own medicine!

  —Gloria, goes the woman called Jill. —I’ve been wanting to meet you for –

  She stops and does this big gulp.

  —All my life I’ve felt something was missing, a part of me wasn’t there. And – well. I’m so glad we – well, as I said, I’ve been wanting to meet you for years.

  Years, eh? She’s a passionate one. And Hank’s a dark horse and all.

  When I was in hospital, there was this demolition site you could see from the window. One day an orange crane came, and began swinging this wrecking ball. Smashing down the walls of what used to be Woolworth’s, and some flats. It was good to watch that wrecking ball. Wrecking and wrecking.

  But some things isn’t wrecked the same way as houses, some things takes a slower time and does it more invisible, like an apple rotting. And some things is wrecked with too much squeezing, like a hand grabbing your bare heart. And fish is killed in the sea sometimes with underwater explosions which shocks them to death.

  So there are lots of ways you can wreck stuff, see.

  Not so many ways to mend them though. Not when they’re that wrecked.

  —Mrs Taylor, goes the lady called Jill, and her hand’s shaking with nerves, she’s reaching it out to me shaking shaking, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it so I sort of clutch it and then let it drop. —Can I call you Gloria?

  She’s not a bad looker, but way too old for him of course, and posh, because there’s a camel coat like the visitors Noreen gets, the Lady Muck type, but I can tell she’s nervous.

  —And my name’s Jill Farraday, she says.

  —Farraday? I go, because unlike Zedorro the name doesn’t ring any sort of bell. —Do I know you?

  —You knew me once, she says. —A long time ago.

  —How come you’ve got the jitters? I go. —You seen a ghost?

  But I like the feeling of power, that was what was missing with Hank’s Wife, she didn’t have the respect.

  —Never mind that you’re a bit old for him, I go, he’s better off with a mature woman. But I hope you’re not a clever one, cos clever don’t suit him, just look at the shape of his head, it’s a good shape but he’s no brain-box, none of us are.

  —Karen’s waiting in the other day room, goes Hank.

  Now I’m confused.

  —So she knows? She knows about this one?

  —Yes, goes Hank. —They’ve met.

  —It’s not what you think, says the Lady Muck woman who’s called Jill, looking at me funny. —I’m not his girlfriend. You must realise that. I wrote you a letter once. And I sent a photo with it. Can you – remember that?

  —When?

  —Oh, years ago, she says.

  —Well then.

  Silence.

  —I thought you might –

  —Might what?

  —Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

  —Yes it does, says Hank. He’s looking as grim as a bloody undertaker, he is.

  And she’s looking ill, it seems to me. Pale as a blob of putty.

  —There’s a bowl you can use for sick, I tell her. —Even a commode if you want one.

  —Yes, she says, looking round. —They’ve thought of everything then, it’s a nice place.

  —Nice? It’s full of foreigners. The staff, they’re all black or brown except for a couple. The new one, she’s yellowish, but she can’t even speak English.

  There’s a bit of silence while she looks even sicker and Hank goes red and looks down.

  —It’s . . . good to meet you at last, says the woman.

  —Yes, I go, because I don’t know what else to say.

  —Well, who the hell are you then?

  They give each other a look.

  —Well, she goes slowly. —You used to know me. When I was very young.

  —How young?

  —Just a baby.

  —So who’s your mum? Did I know your mum? Are you Iris’s sister’s daughter? Are you Mrs O’Malley’s little girl?

  She just looks at me.

  —I was hoping you might remember me, she says, and her face goes all tilted.

  —Well, I’d like to, dear, I tell her. Though it is not strictly the truth, I couldn’t give a flying watchermacallit.

  Hank’s about to say something, he’s bursting to say it, but she stops him.

  —Please, she goes, and puts up her hand. —We agreed.

  Her voice has gone croaky. There’s this look passes between them like they’ve had a lovers’ tiff.

  —This isn’t going to be easy for either of us, Gloria. But – well. It needs to be done, and it’s taken me a lifetime to get this far and –

  —A lifetime? How old are you then?

  —And there are things I need to know, that will help me feel complete. Do you understand what I’m saying, Gloria? There are things I need to know, and that means there are things you need to try and remember.

  —Tall order for someone what’s got Mad Cow, I go.

  —Well. I’m prepared to be very patient, she says. —But for now I think . . . I think I’ll leave you, and come back another time.
And she’s snapping her handbag shut like a mouth. —I need to collect my thoughts, I think. This has been quite – well. Quite an ordeal, really.

  —Mum, can’t you – begins Hank, but she stops him again.

  —Please don’t, she says. —She’ll remember when she’s ready.

  —If, he says, looking daggers at me. —If she’s ready. Personally, I have a feeling she might never be. All due respect, Jill, you don’t know her like I do.

  Why is he treating me so rude and cruel? He is a good boy!

  —We discussed this, Hank. I’m fine. Really. Look, I’m going to write my name down for you, Gloria, she says, scrabbling about with a bit of paper. —It might . . . jog your memory. And her face twists into a shape. JILL FARRADAY, she writes. —And my birthday too, why not? And she scribbles some numbers. —I was born at the end of the war, she says, looking at me sideways. —The same day it ended.

  Well, bully for you, I’m thinking, but I try and make my mouth do a smiling thing.

  —The kind of date you’d remember, isn’t it? she goes. —If you lived through the war?

  —Might be, might not. Bit of a blank to me, I go.

  —Oh. Well, perhaps it will . . . come back to you, she says, looking pissed off. —Anyway – goodbye . . . Gloria.

  And she holds out her hand, wanting another shake. I give it a pat and I say —Goodbye, dear, like a nice old lady, and then she suddenly rams her face down at me and kisses my cheek and then with a flurry she and her expensive scarf go stumbling away.

  —What’s that all about then, I go. —She’s only just arrived and she’s buggered off.

  —You really don’t know, do you, Mum? he goes. —Remember that box of stuff? Full of your old paperwork? Remember the photo I showed you? You really haven’t guessed? Mum? Mum?

  —Well, who do you think I am, a bloody mind-reader?

  Hank gets up to leave.

  —Well, who is she then?

  He sighs.

  —I’d tell you, Mum, I really would. But she wants you to remember for yourself, he says, walking out.

  —Well, don’t we all! What a bloody nerve! D’you think I enjoy having a memory like a sieve? I call after him – but not as loud as I’d like to, cos the little drowned girl behind the curtain, she’s all full of hate again, I can feel it, hate that’s full of mud and dripping with pond-weed. So as soon as I see Hank’s car drive off I go over to where Ed’s asleep in his wheelchair and put my hand on his stinkhorn thingummybob and start stroking away.