A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  With a final gasp, head hanging over the sink, she leaned there for a while, before unbending to scowl at herself in the mirror, her pink face distorting ever more at the expression of distaste she saw there for that vile old sot. He had tested her compassion to the limit and in that wretched moment of failure she made her decision. Taking a deep breath she pulled her clothes straight, dragged a brush over her pained scalp, and, giving her face one last wipe, she limped to the bureau to seek out the address that Aunt Wyn had once shown her in case of emergency. Well, this was an emergency.

  Abandoning Uncle Teddy to his abusive tirade she put on her hat and coat and went there now in person, informing his astonished relatives that she would no longer be taken for a mug and they could do their duty by him. Giving them no time for the shock to sink in, she said finally: ‘I’ll be catching a train around eight tomorrow morning. Don’t leave it too long after that before you call on your uncle, he’ll be needing his medication.’

  Then, turning her back on their flabbergasted faces, she returned to the bungalow to cook dinner.

  Her cautious approach towards Uncle Teddy when taking in his meal was unnecessary for he appeared to have forgotten all about the episode. However, Beata had not and she was therefore glad when his relatives turned up the next morning shortly before she was ready to leave.

  Handing him into their care, she then picked up her suitcase and went to catch the train to York, her uncle providing the fare, though he was unaware of it.

  There was no theft involved. She had earned it.

  33

  So, in her thirtieth year Beata finally came home to York. It should have been a vast relief to be rid of the burden and the loneliness, and so it was in many ways. But, with no money and no job, other worries would soon arise and she determined to find a temporary position in service whilst deciding what more important course to take.

  This her first act upon getting off the train, she found it not as easy as anticipated. Her enquiry at the labour exchange revealed that the large mansions where she had once danced at the Christmas ball had now become the headquarters of Bomber Command or military hospitals. She had hoped to be equipped with the promise of a job before asking her sister for a temporary bed, but, too tired to continue tramping around town with her suitcase, she reluctantly went there empty-handed to throw herself on Gussie’s mercy.

  There was always some slight difference in the old city after each spell away, but now the changes were many. Mingled with the market vendors’ shouts of, ‘Wrap it up, George!’ were to be heard the foreign voices of refugees. Already congested with two-way traffic – bicycles, cars, horses and carts – the narrow medieval thoroughfares were also clogged with soldiers marching to parade. As she travelled through it on the bus it seemed as if even the very foundations of the city itself were being ripped up, great piles of twisted metal forcing a diversion of her vehicle to avoid the workmen who salvaged tramlines for armaments.

  Even the most humble abode contributing towards the fight, she turned into Gussie’s street to find the railings sawn from garden walls, gone to metamorphose as weapons against the enemy. But not even Hitler could get in the way of spring-cleaning and this was what she found her sister doing upon arrival, her hair protected from the cobwebs by a pair of old knickers. Explaining the reason for being here and apologizing for her impecunious state, Beata promised to assist around the house until able to find a job.

  Gussie as usual was unconditionally welcoming and said about the lack of employment, ‘Never mind, something’ll turn up.’ And the only inconvenience Beata’s arrival seemed to bring was how to fit her into ablutions. Bath night had already to be staggered, there being so many residents, and one extra tended to throw the schedule into disarray. ‘But we’ll cope,’ smiled Gus.

  Whilst the world outside had been thrust into turmoil, the one in here had changed very little. Looking at Mick in his usual place by the range whilst his wife cleaned around him, Beata wondered if he had ever moved in her absence.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ she asked out of politeness.

  Pipe in mouth, he held out the book for her to examine. Barely able to understand the title, let alone the content, she nodded and handed it back. He was certainly a man of surprises. Intelligent and obviously well read, he could have made so much more of his life. How sad to waste those talents through idleness.

  She herself was certainly not to be idle those next few days. Whilst old Mick alternately read or dozed in his fireside chair, she and her sister threw themselves into the household cleaning, cooked and mended and shopped. This apart, with Easter upon them there was also the task of providing some treat for the children in these austere times. Despite petrol rationing everyone else in the city seemed determined not to miss the holiday fun, and normally so would Beata, but she had not the wherewithal until Maddie came to the rescue, contributing the fare so the youngsters were able to join the trek to the seaside, though, of course, leaving Beata to supervise.

  It was certainly a chaotic existence in the Melody household, relatives coming and going through all hours of the day and night, some even having to clamber over her bed in order to get to theirs, but after her lonely life with Uncle Teddy, Beata was not complaining.

  She had yet to decide what her own contribution to the war would be. With so much to do and so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, there had been little time to give it much thought. She tried to think about it as she closed her eyes tonight, but, as ever, oblivion descended immediately.

  However, this was to be broken in the wee hours by a rap at the front door. Sleeping in a bedroom that fronted the street, she and the other occupants stirred, but, ignoring it, all turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

  The knock came again. Beata heard someone on the stairs and knowing it had to be Gussie she reluctantly dragged herself up too and felt her way down the dark staircase to see if there was any trouble. After all, it could be about Joe.

  Her sister was just closing the front door again when Beata appeared. Wrapped in her dressing gown and a tousled auburn plait dangling over her shoulder, Gussie explained in low murmur as she bent to put on her shoes, ‘It’s all right. Mrs Cayley’s gone to meet her Maker. Her Tony’s just come to ask if I’ll lay her out. Go back to bed.’

  Glad that it had nothing to do with Joe, Beata made sure that her sister did not need any help before staggering back upstairs. Then, how strange, as she closed her eyes her mind suddenly cleared and she knew exactly what her contribution to the war effort would be.

  * * *

  The next morning after everyone had gone to work and school, she helped with the washing and to get the dinner ready before announcing her decision to Gussie. ‘I’m off out this aft to join the WAAF.’

  ‘Good show. Take your gas mask down to the inspection centre at the same time. If you leave it any longer you’ll end up being charged for any repairs that need doing – Oh blast, it’s pouring down! Help me get the washing in, Beat.’ Gussie dashed outside, her sister limping after her, and the laundry was quickly transferred to clothes horses and a pulley over the fire.

  Just after this Mick came in from the betting shop, shaking the rain from his trilby and looking with dismay on the washing draped in front of the hearth. ‘If there’s such a thing as reincarnation I’m coming back as a bloody clothes horse. That’s the only thing that can get near the fire on a Monday.’

  Helping him out of his wet things, his obliging wife made a passage to his chair and he went to sit in it, letting the women get on with dinner.

  After this was eaten, with the rain set in for the day, Beata decided not to go out and join the Women’s Auxilliary Air Force that afternoon. ‘No good getting drenched. I’ll help you with the ironing instead.’

  Gussie agreed and, testing the linen on the clothes horses said, ‘I don’t think this nightie’s going to be dry for tonight. Have you one you can lend me, Beat?’

  ‘Aye,
but you haven’t only got the one, have you?’

  ‘Oh no, but I used my other one for Mrs Cayley. Well, I had to make her look nice, poor old soul.’

  Beata was clicking her tongue over such philanthropy, when someone knocked at the door, and the visitor came straight in. It was Mrs Nelson, who owned one of the shops in the street. ‘Telephone for you, Mrs Melody.’

  Such means of communication only used in an emergency, Beata and Gussie immediately looked at each other in alarm that it might be bad news about Joe.

  But, ‘It’s your sister in Lancashire,’ added Mrs Nelson.

  Grabbing her mac, Gussie hurried to respond.

  When she returned she looked quite pleased. ‘They’re coming on the afternoon train.’

  Delighted that she would get to meet her nephew at last, Beata asked, ‘How long for?’

  ‘Indefinitely – little Jimmy’s crying got on Uncle Chris’s nerves so she didn’t want to outstay her welcome.’ She looked at Mick, who rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘Good job you decided not to go out, Beat. You can help me shuffle the beds round.’

  * * *

  Mims was unusually subdued when she arrived, due to feeling unwanted at her previous home, and to some degree through reluctance to insinuate herself into this already overcrowded household, but mainly because she was missing husband, Jim, dreadfully. She was, though, very glad once again to be amongst her sisters. The way Gussie devoted herself to her family reminded Mims so much of her mother. Even more so in the fact that Gussie had used precious rations to bake a ginger cake for her arrival, the taste and smell of it immediately transporting Mims back in time, to herself as a little girl sitting on Mother’s knee being hugged and comforted. This, and the sudden news that Jim would be coming on leave in the next few days, soon had her perked up and reverted to her old self.

  It was lovely to have her about the house, thought Beata, reminded so much of their mother in the way Mims sang.

  Upon her little nephew’s arrival, Beata had put aside her intention of joining the WAAF in order to spend more time with him, and she watched fondly now as, waiting for her husband to arrive, Mims changed Jimmy into his best dress and cardigan.

  ‘Wrap him up, George!’ Mims bundled him into her arms and transported him about the room, singing and marching like a soldier. ‘Umpalara, Umpalara, lost the leg of her drawers! If you find it, if you find it tack it on to yours!’ The baby boy chuckled deep in his chest, making the onlookers laugh too. Eyes gleaming from new motherhood, Mims sang and marched until she was out of breath, but when she tried to sit down the baby began to wail and she quickly jumped up again, saying in imitation of an army sergeant, ‘Wait for it, wait for it!’ Then she set off marching again, ‘Umpalara, Umpalara…’

  Finally, pretending to stagger from exhaustion, she passed the baby to another. ‘Here, Beat, deal with this article while I have a rest!’ And after handing him over she fell into a chair and lit a cigarette.

  Beata was happy to claim him.

  But in the next second her sister was up again, laughing and crying and flinging herself into the arms of the handsome man in naval uniform who had just been admitted.

  Pressing kisses to her face, hugging and squeezing her, Jim finally broke off to greet his baby son, bestowing him with the same affection, whilst others in the room tried to make themselves scarce in order to allow them intimacy.

  With this nigh impossible, whilst Jim was on leave Beata volunteered to look after the baby so that Mims could spend precious moments alone with her husband, who could be snatched away at any juncture. And, the gesture not entirely uncalculating, for the next couple of days she got to pretend that the little chap was hers, to revel in the way his tiny head wobbled against her shoulder, the sweetness of his breath, the sheer wonder of him.

  * * *

  All too soon Jim’s leave was over. Though desperate at the parting, Mims did not want his last impression of her to be a miserable one and so continued to act the fool right up to his final night. Whilst Beata gave the baby his bottle, she herself put a colander on her head, took a pastry brush from the drawer, flattened its bristles against her upper lip and came marching out of the scullery performing a goose-step and a Nazi salute. ‘Attention everyone! Zis is Frau Gertrud Klink, Hitler’s perfect voman – Stop laughing!’ she yelled as they fell about. ‘Zis is serious. I vill not haf you laughing at my moustache! You will all be shot!’

  ‘Aw, you’ve made him cry now!’ scolded Beata, half laughing, half accusing, as Jimmy’s mouth came away from the teat and uttered a distressed wail.

  Putting the brush aside, a chuckling Mims immediately plucked him from her sister and comforted him, though still amused as she jiggled him gently, her smiling husband joining in.

  Mick had enjoyed the humorous interval too, directing his pipe stem at Jim. ‘You’ll have to watch that wife of yours. What with all her singing and daft antics they’ll be commandeering her to entertain the troops.’

  Mims endowed her husband with a look of love. If they could only guess how she felt inside. Meant to protect her son, instead she felt so small and insignificant against a tyranny that threatened the entire world; she could have screamed out loud with the tension of it all. Not to mention that there were only hours left to share with her beloved. She leaned against him now, hugging their son and kissing the top of his downy head until he stopped crying.

  ‘I think we’ll give you your bottle, then put you to bobies,’ she told him, then held him up for his father to kiss.

  Afterwards, seeking peace and quiet, Jim drifted out into the yard and lit a cigarette.

  Allowing him a few moments for reflection, Beata could not help herself and went out to stand beside him, both looking up at the stars and listening to the drone of aircraft, and for that moment he belonged to her. He was a lovely man, not just in looks but in nature, and for a second she envied her sister’s luck, but then immediately condemned herself, for such luck had many drawbacks, drawbacks she herself would never have to face: the worry that her man might not come home, and that her son might lose his father.

  * * *

  In the morning he was gone, and in his passing came the news they had all been dreading. There had been a big Nazi raid on a French outpost. This was just the start, for within days there was a radio announcement that Scandinavia had been overrun by Hitler’s hordes.

  ‘Nothing to worry about at all,’ said Mick, tongue in cheek, reading extracts from his newspaper as the women worked around him. ‘The German Government has just decided to take over the protection of Denmark and Norway – that’s kind of them isn’t it?’

  The sisters were unamused, having received word from Joe that he was being sent there. But there was nothing to be done: life must go on as normal.

  ‘Can you fetch a lump of pork back with you?’ Gussie handed some money to Beata as the latter prepared to exit. This commodity had lately been derationed so at least there would be a nice roast to look forward to for tomorrow’s dinner.

  Beata nodded. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be.’ She had finally got round to doing something about the WAAF. ‘If there’s an exam to sit I won’t be very long at all.’ She gave a self-deprecating grin, then left.

  How right she was. Within seconds of the recruiting officer setting eyes on her distended leg, she was back in the street and heading home.

  It was such a blow. All she wanted to do was to help win the war but nobody seemed to want her. Feeling very sorry for herself she made her way through town, remembering to collect the joint of pork as promised. But then as she turned a corner she saw a man collapsed on the pavement and all self-pity dispersed as she rushed to help him.

  The man had a nasty graze on his forehead, she feared he might have been attacked but as she bent over him, the casualty raised his head and hissed, ‘Bugger off, you soft ’a’p’orth! I’m waiting for the ARP.’ And she realized then that the blood was artificial and that it was a staged event.

  Feeli
ng totally foolish she made quick apology and limped away. At every turn a slap in the face.

  Yet however dreadful she felt, she could not be so selfish as to infect her sisters with this mood, and consequently on the way home she rehearsed a more amusing way to relate the incident to Gussie and Mims, and, imagining their laughter, by the time she arrived she was able to laugh about it too.

  But such rejection left a nasty wound that, despite her outward cheerfulness, was to fester in her bosom, and her spirits remained low for the rest of the day.

  Strangely, comfort was to be administered by, of all people, Maddie, come to visit after her shift, who seemed the only one to detect how significantly the rebuttal had hurt Beata and sought to cheer her up.

  Lighting a cigarette, she asked, ‘Do you fancy coming over the garden wall with me?’

  Beata frowned, then realized her sister referred to a comic character. ‘Oh, Norman Evans – I love him!’

  ‘He’s on at the Empire next week,’ said Maddie, blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘I’ve got a couple of days off. We could have an afternoon in town, then go see his show.’

  ‘Who’s paying?’ asked Beata, a gleam in her eye.

  Maddie touched her brow as if deep in thought, ‘Er, now let me see … Well, it won’t be thee, that’s for sure!’ Then to the others, ‘Eh, I don’t know, I’ve just had the Chancellor sticking threepence on a packet of fags and now me sister’s intent on robbing me as well!’