by Liz Jensen
Hi there, Honey!
Well, I only have a little time before I take off again, I can’t tell you where. My buddy Rowan died in hospital last week, he was wounded real bad. I wrote a letter to his folks which is about the hardest letter I ever wrote. He was some guy. Anyway that’s real sad stuff and I don’t want to get you feeling blue, when you’re already having such a hard time with Mrs O’Malley. Boy, does she sound like a witch. I sure miss you, but I see a lot of Marje when I get into London so it’s like having a reminder, and she misses you too, she is still real shook up about Bobby, I guess you know that from her letters. Poor kid, I feel real bad for her. And I feel real bad for me, too, being away from you for so long. But hey, guess what, I have real hot dreams about you, sweetheart, I can’t wait to –
And there’s four lines crossed out by the censor. And then you can – two lines crossed out. They’re not supposed to do that, the ruddy spoil-sports. They’re not even s’posed to censor letters sent in England, just the ones go abroad. They must be bored out of their stupid tiny minds.
And then lots of kisses at the end, and his name. That was the last letter I got before D-Day. But you know what I’d have liked even more than reading what the censor crossed out? (Because I could guess what was crossed out all right, rude things about different ways he’d like to do it to me.) I’d have liked one of them pressed flowers. Even if it was just a daisy or a dandelion, I’d have liked one. Instead of just some tobacco or snot.
Dear Ron,
I am missing you very much, my darling. And now I have a bit of a surprise for you. We are having a baby. Isn’t that great news? The first thing I knew of it was when I was boiling up some cakes of soap and all of a sudden I needed to puke. Now I only feel sick some of the time but that is nothing compared to what you are going through, of course. You are so brave and I am very proud of you, we all are. You will defeat Hitler, I know it! I lie awake at night and think what kind of wedding dress I will have when we get married. Should we do it in Bristol or Chicago? Or maybe London? My tits are swelling by the way, you would like them even more now they are a size bigger and although they hurt a bit
Dear darling Ron,
Every day we are apart is
My dearest beloved Ron,
Remember that night down in London, when we spent the night at Marje’s? Well, something happened that night. In fact I am pretty sure it happened just when you asked me to marry you, and come to Chicago with you. We are going to have a
Dear Marje,
There is so much to tell you. First, some very bad news. Remember poor Iris? Well, she took her own life yesterday, by electrocuting herself in the bath using the hand and arm that was left. I have just heard this from her cousin Rose. I am still shaking from it. But I must try to keep calm, and so must you. In fact I hope you are sitting down, because I have some other news, too. You’ll never guess what. I’ve got a bun in the oven! Ron is over the moon, or at least he will be when he gets my letter which I am posting at the same time as yours. We are going to get married and live in Chicago and
Next time Hank comes, he’s on about it again. He won’t let up, will he.
—Why can’t I remember anything about Chicago? he goes.
—Was I a good mum to you Hank? Yes or no?
—Come on, Mum, you know you were.
—Didn’t I work hard to give you a nice life? I made us a good home, I did. Took on all them cleaning jobs, even worked Sundays sometimes, you remember. Sang you nursery rhymes, taught you to rock and roll to the gramophone. Took you to Blackpool and Margate and whatnot for your holidays. You could have friends round to play whenever you wanted, you had pocket money for sweets and comics. You did all them Airfix models I paid for, and Meccano. You went to Scout camp, we bought all them Elvis records and sang along.
—Mum. You were a great mum. That’s not in dispute. And I’m grateful, I know how much you did for me. I’m just asking you, why can’t I remember anything about Chicago?
—Cos you were too young, I tell him. —Babies’ minds is just a blur.
—But I was born in London, according to my birth certificate.
—Well, we must’ve gone to Chicago after.
—How old was I then? And how old was I when we left? And what was so bad about it? Why didn’t you and Ron stay together?
Oh bloody hell.
—Can’t blinking well remember that far back, can I. Like I always said, things went wrong, it wasn’t meant to be.
—I couldn’t find your marriage certificate, Mum. Or your divorce papers.
For crying out loud! Isn’t a wedding photo good enough for you? If you’ve been meddling in that bloody box –
—Or your passport.
—Am I supposed to keep everything? Do you keep everything? Was I or was I not a good mum?
—Doesn’t matter, says Doris.
—What doesn’t?
—That old stuff about papers. What matters is what you did, and you got to tell him, Gloria.
—None of this don’t matter, I tell him. —That’s what Doris says. Doris says you should let sleeping dogs lie.
—Did not! says Doris. —Said you should stick to what’s important. You twist what I say again and I’m gone for good.
—Matters to me, he goes. —It’s my life we’re talking about.
—No. It was mine. Before you came along.
—And what about Jill Farraday?
—Who’s Jill, I don’t know no Jill Farraday.
—He means the Jehovah’s Witness woman, goes Doris. —With the expensive scarf. The one you don’t want to know.
—Your daughter, says Hank. —My sister, or half-sister, or whatever she is. You’ve admitted she’s your daughter, right? So I think the cat’s more or less out of the bag, don’t you?
—Oh for crying out loud. Look, sonny Jim. D’you think I honestly don’t know how many babies I had? D’you think I had a daughter and then just . . . forgot about her? D’you think you weren’t enough for me? D’you think it was easy, bringing you up all on my own? Do you know what I had to do, when you was little, before I got the cleaning job at Larman’s?
His face goes red.
—OK, Mum, OK. I know it was hard.
—I’ll tell you what I did. I had to –
—Mum! He’s stood up to go. —Please! I think we can put that behind us!
—You know what I’ve a good mind to do, I tell him. I’ve a good mind to go to Ed Mayberley’s room right now and see if he’s in the mood for it. That so-called sister of yours, she was supposed to get me some baby oil.
That does the trick, he’s off like greased lightning, outside for a fag.
—It’s all right, I call after him. —I won’t charge him for it!
That fat barrage-balloon Mrs O’Malley’s got hold of an angora rabbit, she combs it every day listening to the Horlicks Tea-Time Hour in my kitchen, or sometimes Lord Haw-Haw. She swaps the fur for veg, wormy old carrots or a half a cabbage from a shady-looking bird on Mitchell Street, who makes the fur into collars and whatnot. She keeps this wretched creature in a little hutch out the back yard with my chickens, and puts it on the kitchen table every day to comb.
She’s combing the rabbit, wearing her pinny and her fat arms bulging like sausages.
I could steal that bunny, I’m thinking, as I watch her. I light a Craven A and blow the smoke towards her. Sell it on the black market, or swap it for some coupons. Or strangle it.
—Having had six children myself, she goes, combing the creature, I can spot a seven-month pregnancy when I see one.
—It’s five, I go, blowing a smoke ring, which is what Ron taught me in bed. —Not seven.
I’ve hidden it till now – but I’m getting wide and big, though next to her I am thin as a rake of course. I’m eating like there’s no tomorrow. Anything and everything I can get my hands on. I even stuffed some earth in my mouth once, I had an urge for it. Ashes too. Remember that tin of peaches in syrup Ron gave me? Well, it’
s long gone of course but it still pops up in my dreams.
—Five eh, she goes, looking me up and down. —You’re in for trouble there.
She combs a bit more, and I don’t say anything, just stand there smoking and watching her. I could murder her. I could stub out this ciggie in her eye. Get the poker and stick it in her fat flesh, just between her tits where her heart is meant to be.
—Just declare it and get the extra rations, says Mrs O’Malley. —You’ll be doing us all a favour.
But I’m still pretending it’s not happening, aren’t I. She won’t let up though, she’s like a dog at a bone.
—I know your game, child, she says, tugging at the comb that’s got stuck on a burr. —Blessed Lady Mother of God. (Catholic gobshite comes out of her mouth like drool.)
—What game?
—Prostitution, she says, spitting out the word, full of hate. —They should tar and feather you, you little strumpet. Not even engaged, are you?
That’s done it. The bunny’s bolted, seeing what’s coming before she does. I’ve thrown myself at her, aiming a punch right in the middle of her fat ugly face, and when it hits there’s a slapping noise and then a crunch and my hand’s covered in blood and it feels good, so good I’m in the middle of aiming another one, when two of her brats rush in screaming, and tear me off her and pin me to the floor, one on each side. She’s screaming and bleeding, and I’m still yelling, still wanting to foul her up more, the bloody parasite bog-trotter, but they’ve pinned me down, the two lads who is skinny but strong.
—You leave off our ma!
—Or we’ll fuckin’ kill you, goes the other.
She’s wiping at her face with her hands, blood still gushing from her nose.
—As soon as Ron comes back, I yell at her, I’ll tell him everything you said! Then you’ll pay for calling me a whore, you evil old bog-trotter!
—We’ll see about that, she chokes, cos the barrage balloon’s got to have the last word, hasn’t she, even with the blood streaming. —We’ll see about him coming back.
I make to lunge at her again, but the brats won’t let me up off the floor and my heart isn’t in it any more to be honest, I’m that done in and beat, and so I flop and just stay there, rabbit-fur flying all around, and the chicken-droppings, and when they’ve gone off to clean up their fat bog-trotter barrage balloon ma, I just sit there on the floor with my legs sprawled wide and my tummy bulging over, and I bawl like a blinking baby.
—What d’you call a reindeer with no eyes?
Doris groans, cos I have told her this one before.
—No-eye Deer, she says. —Now listen, Glor. I have been meaning to have a talk with you.
—Oh lawks, spare us, would you!
—I am trying to help you, I really am. Listen, when you’re dead you see how small you were and how it was all a bit of nonsense really. I mean it, Glor. You got too much pride, you have. You live in the world, and there’s thousands and millions of other people all living their lives, some of them good lives and some of them bad lives, and they all end up same as me at the end of the day. But there’s ways you can make it easier on yourself before you go, everyone can. And now’s the time for you to do that. It’s more difficult for you, Glor, cos not all of the mess was your fault. But you need to say sorry to Jill, you do. That’s what I’m saying. You don’t even know what for, and maybe you never will, but take it from me, you’ll both feel better for it. Apologise to her for what you did.
This dead woman is off her blinking trolley.
—How can I say sorry if I ain’t done nothing?
—But you did something, Gloria. You may not remember what, but you still got a conscience, you still know deep inside that you did something evil.
—My arse! I know nothing of the sort!
She sighs.
—Oh well. Hey! She points at the TV; it’s Rubber-Lips. —Look! Marty’s out of rehab.
And so it gets dropped, not a minute too soon for me, because it ain’t half stirred up a bad feeling in me.
Marty’s mum’s back to nursing him at home, just the two of them, it says. And then there’s a clip of Marty. He’s had to sort out a lot of issues, he says, and take some difficult stuff on board, but he’s a better person in himself for what he’s been through, though he wouldn’t recommend it.
—I should coco!
There’s a little silence, and Doris goes all watery-looking, like she’ll disappear. But she doesn’t; she’s just fainter.
—What’s it like being dead then? I ask Doris.
—Not much different, she says, though I notice she’s wearing a nice smart jacket, must’ve cost her.
—I’m in no hurry, I tell her.
—Just as well, says Doris, cos you’ve not finished what you started. And you can’t go till you have.
—Will it hurt?
But she don’t say nothing.
—Will it kill me? The room’s gone quiet, so quiet you can’t even hear your own heartbeat, and you can’t see her no more neither.
And I am all of a sudden hungry for a black hole.
Mrs O’Malley was wrong to accuse me of being on the game, cos that didn’t happen till later. So she was in a time muddle, wasn’t she?
After the bust-up with her, I got a fright, because who did I bump into in the street downtown but the Great Zedorro. I’d just bought some lilac from a gypsy boy, fourpence a bunch and I can’t resist lilac, specially when it’s that strong mauve and smells so sweet. I couldn’t afford it, with the factory closed for a week because of faulty pipes, and no pay, but sometimes a girl needs a treat.
I was going to say hello this time, instead of following him like a German spy. Because it’s a lonely business having your mum and dad dead and a sister gone away and girls in the factory saying, if he’s your fiancé, how come you ain’t got a ring? Jewellery not permitted, I say, remembering Iris’s hand and arm. Our troops are rounding up Jerry, we’ve bombed Dresden and had the glory of D-Day and Hitler’s getting his comeuppance, and a letter from Ron is probably already in the post and we’re all just waiting for this blinking war to be over with.
—Mr Zedorro? I went, tapping him on the shoulder. It was like the lilac, I couldn’t resist.
He almost jumped out of his skin.
—Oh, he goes, not looking too pleased to be recognised. —I’ve . . . left Zedorro behind for now. He checks to see who’s around, but no one is. —Call me Bill.
—Bill, I said. It didn’t sound right, after Zedorro. As in, a bit of a come-down, for the man who persuaded me I was a human rod of iron and put oranges on my tummy and had a whole theatre on their feet and cheering and believing his hocus-pocus was for the glory of Britain. —So what are you now? I go. —I mean, what do you do?
—Oh, I left ENSA, he says, walking on. I walk on with him, he’s not getting away from me that easy now I’ve recognised him. —Got called up to work for the Ministry of Defence, he says. Nice flowers you’ve got there.
—Lilac. Doing what?
He sucks in his breath.
—Careless talk costs lives, he goes, lips all thin. —I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.
—You hypnotise people? Is that what you do still?
He’s walking faster now but I’m not letting him go, so I speed up too even though I am huffing and puffing with the baby-weight because I am blinking enormous, I am.
—Do you remember me?
—Of course, he goes, I never forget a face. (He’s smiling now, proud of this.) —Miss Gloria Double-U. Winstanley, isn’t it? How long has it been?
—More than a year, I tell him. Eighteen months, maybe?
—A lot of water under the bridge since then, he says. —For both of us. And now you’re in trouble.
—No, I go. It’s not trouble, it’s happy. I’ve got a fiancé. Ron.
—The gentleman you came to see the show with? The handsome GI? Well, congratulations, he goes. —When’s the wedding?
—It’s not fixed yet, I t
ell him. In fact I –
There’s this thing in my throat that stops more words escaping. I go hot, and I nearly walk off there and then, I know what he must be thinking. But something keeps me there, because he’s looking at me, his head on one side, like a bird. For some reason I want to cover up my tits, which are suddenly feeling too pregnant-looking, so I shift my bunch of lilac, the stalks wrapped in soggy newspaper with pictures of Hitler on. He’s older than when he was up there on the stage with the Slut Fairy, and his hair’s got grey in it. He’s just ordinary now. He’s just a man, like any man. You could think less of him.
—You haven’t told him yet, have you, he says.
How does he know? How does he know I never posted none of them letters?
—When the war’s over, I start to tell him.
Zedorro nods.
—Course. Wait till after the war. Nice surprise for him. You won’t be alone. (It’s true. There’s plenty being born out of wedlock.) He gives a little chuckle. —I saw a young miss only the other week pushing a pram, with a black one in it. Never seen that before, a white girl and a black baby. Took me a while to work it out!
That eases things up, and we get walking in rhythm, me lighting up a Craven A. I offer him one but he don’t smoke.
—Next time Ron’s back on leave is when I’m doing it, if the war isn’t over first, and they say it won’t be long. Then we can start our lives again in Chicago. But I’m not telling Marje – she’s my sister – till I’ve told Ron.
Seen Ron’s face, is what I’m thinking. Get him to wear a French letter, she said. You don’t want a bun in the oven.
—There’s no need to explain, he goes. —With a war on . . .
We walk on a bit, saying nothing, and when we reach Leavesden Avenue, he says —This is where I turn off. Where are you headed?
—Nowhere much, I tell him. —The factory’s closed this week and my house is full of Catholics.
—Come back for tea then, he says. —Meet my wife. Would you care to?
—What for? I go, not realising quite how rude it sounds. But he don’t take offence.
—Just a suggestion. But – well. I get the feeling you don’t have many people to talk to. With your sister in London and your fiancé away?
