After the War is Over

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I’ll think of somewhere,’ she promised with a sigh.

  After a few long kisses, more apologies, a groan, followed by ‘I bought you the wrong sort of earrings, didn’t I?’ and more kisses, he seemed to think everything was back to the way it had always been.

  But Maggie knew it wasn’t. Something had happened to her love for Jack; it had altered course slightly, like a train travelling through points. He was no longer perfect in her eyes; he was an ordinary man with faults like other men.

  They didn’t have a perfect marriage any more, more a perfectly ordinary one, and she would have to be satisfied with that.

  Jack returned to America, to New York, from where he sent her flowers every other day. But it made her feel awful for having complained so much. There he was, attending to his dying wife, which must have been a terribly upsetting experience, while having to remember to regularly send flowers to his other ‘wife’ back home. She was glad when it was all over and he returned.

  ‘What was it like?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘Pretty awful,’ he replied, tight-lipped. ‘At the end she was in a great deal of pain.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She stroked his brow. ‘And sorry for Aniela too.’ She wished she was a better person. Being nice was a terrible battle, and it wasn’t often that she won.

  It wasn’t long before everything felt normal again. They drove to a place called King’s Lynn in Norfolk, where Jack had arranged for them to marry in a registry office. It was a place where no one was likely to recognise their names. They returned home straight away. Neither had felt like leaving the girls behind to enjoy a second honeymoon only because Aniela had died. All Maggie wanted was to be the wife of Jack Kaminski, and that would never change. She didn’t speculate what would have happened had Aniela been found alive and well. It was much too frightening to consider.

  Chapter 13

  William Grant’s twenty-first birthday party in May 1968 was a rowdy affair, much rowdier than his parents had envisaged. His actual birthday had been a few days earlier, but the party was held the following Saturday. Fellow students from the University of East Anglia in Norwich, where he was coming to the end of his studies for a degree in maths, were there, as well as friends he’d had at Merchant Taylors’ school in Crosby, and more friends that he’d made on his travels around India the summer before, and in Australia the summer before that.

  Drugs were smoked – ‘Christ almighty, it smells like there’s pot in there,’ Tom said, aghast, to Iris after passing through the breakfast room.

  ‘What’s pot?’ Iris enquired.

  ‘Grass, marijuana, whatever,’ Tom explained, shrugging helplessly. ‘Let’s hope none of the other guests have joined the police force.’

  ‘I quite like the smell,’ Iris said, drifting towards it. ‘Is William in there?’

  ‘No. He’s in the garden. I don’t like making a fuss, creating an atmosphere, perhaps spoiling the party. Anyroad, on reflection, I don’t mind all that much. It’s what young people do these days.’

  Iris said she didn’t mind all that much either. In fact, she would quite like to have a few puffs. They trusted William completely. After all, he couldn’t be expected to monitor every one of his fifty or sixty guests.

  It was a fragrant spring evening, still light at nine o’clock, still warm. Music blasted through the open French windows into the garden: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, the Animals, Freddie and the Dreamers . . .

  ‘I wish there’d been music like this when I was in the army,’ Iris remarked. ‘The dances would have been really great with the band playing “Love Me Do” or something equally catchy.’

  ‘You mean you prefer the Beatles to Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey or good old Bing Crosby! Shame on you, Iris Grant! That’s real music, not this new tuneless stuff.’

  ‘I really like it.’ The Beatles had made the city of Liverpool world-famous.

  Iris and Tom were in the kitchen keeping an eye on the drinks. They didn’t mind mild inebriation, but wanted to avoid anyone getting plastered and wrecking the furniture – or risking a visit from the police. As soon as it was midnight, they would turn down the noise.

  ‘All we have to do,’ Iris said, ‘is close the French windows. This is a detached house and the music won’t bother the neighbours.’

  Tom agreed and asked if she’d like another sherry – they were the only ones drinking it. Most of the boys were consuming beer out of cans, the girls Babycham, Cherry B, or mild shandy. They were asked for the occasional orange juice.

  Their daughters, Louise, Dorothy and Clare, were having a wonderful time, as there were more men at the party than women. Louise, at twenty, had turned out to be a terrific flirt. Iris had invited Maggie’s girls, Holly and Grace, but they had another party that night closer to home.

  ‘I wonder if Nell remembers what day it is?’ she said to Tom. It was marvellous how well they got on together these days. They’d never even discussed getting divorced and saw each other two or three times a week. Tom still lived above the surgery in Rimrose Road.

  ‘Eh?’ Tom looked at her vacantly.

  ‘Nell is William’s mother.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Sometimes – no, most of the time – I forget he isn’t ours. Well, he is ours, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m glad Nell has another two boys; that she isn’t all by herself knowing William is probably having a party and she isn’t there.’ She swiftly changed the subject, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Nell in the first place. It was the sort of remark Tom hated; anything that suggested that Nell might have rights over William, even so much as that she might think about her son, he found extremely irritating. ‘Is that girl with the blonde hair William’s girlfriend or not?’ she asked.

  ‘Not. She came with someone else.’

  ‘I hope whoever-it-is doesn’t mind William dancing with her all the time.’

  ‘He’s the birthday boy, isn’t he? He’s allowed to dance with anyone he fancies.’

  Iris laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Tom. Anyroad, I don’t like her much. She’s wearing too much eyeshadow.’

  In Waterloo, Nell thought about William while she waited for Quinn and Kev to come home from a disco in Southport. Flynn and Finnegan were playing at a holiday camp in Wales and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow. Normally she didn’t think about William much, just remembered how he’d looked and felt in her arms the day he was born. Waterloo was several miles from Bootle and she’d never so much as glimpsed him since that day, had actually gone out of her way to make sure she and Iris never came face to face. Today, though, she wondered what he looked like now that he was twenty-one, and if he was having a party seeing as how it was a Saturday. She also wondered how he would feel if he knew that Iris and Tom weren’t his mam and dad and his real mother lived in the vicinity.

  It was well past midnight by the time the lads arrived home, having got a lift in someone’s van. There was the noise of doors slamming, shouts of ‘See you next Sat’day’ and ‘Ta-ra, mate.’

  Nell winced. Would the time ever come when they stopped making so much noise? Well, she hoped not.

  She opened the door to let them in. They were a hefty pair these days, with even more growing to do, sixteen and seventeen, with long hair just as red as the day they were born. They were often taken for twins. They wore jeans and checked shirts. ‘You look as if you’re off to chop down a few trees,’ she’d told them earlier when they were about to leave.

  ‘Why aren’t you in bed, Ma?’ Quinn said now. He lifted her up a bit and kissed her nose.

  ‘Hi, Ma.’ Kev ruffled her hair. ‘Is there any tea made?’

  ‘No, but I’ll make some.’ She hurried into the kitchen. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ she called.

  ‘It was okay,’ Quinn shouted back. ‘Lousy music, not nearly as good as me dad’s. Just wait until me and our Kev’s group is ready to swing.’ He had learned to play the fiddle and Kev the piano in
the front room. They had played professionally a few times and were preparing to launch themselves on the world of show business in the forthcoming summer holidays.

  A few minutes later, Nell went in with a tray of tea and an unopened packet of ginger biscuits – every biscuit would have gone by the time they went to bed. Kev leapt up and took the tray from her.

  ‘Ta, Ma,’ he said.

  They all sat down, and Nell surveyed her two lovely redheaded lads and forgot all about the other son, who could well be celebrating his birthday not all that far away.

  William’s party broke up at about two in the morning. Most of the guests went home, but a handful stayed, having brought sleeping bags and intending to sleep on the living room floor. The girls had gone to bed. Tom had gone back to Rimrose Road. Iris had been tempted to ask him to stay – but only for the company.

  Tomorrow, Sunday, he was coming early to help clear up after the party and to talk to William about what he wanted to do after he’d taken his finals in a few weeks’ time.

  ‘Of course, I’ll pass,’ William said indignantly the next day.

  ‘You can’t take that for granted, son, until your results come through,’ Tom argued. ‘You haven’t even sat the exams yet.’

  ‘I shall pass, Dad. I assure you. And I shall get a good degree, I know that too. I’ve always done well in exams – you already know that,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I’ve never believed in counting my chickens before they’re hatched.’ Tom sounded like a grouchy old man, Iris thought.

  ‘Neither have I, but I’m taking mathematics. My answers will be either right or wrong and I’m smart enough to know the right ones. I’m not going to be subjected to someone’s judgement on whether I’ve understood the meaning of a poem or a novel or some historical fact.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Tom said testily. ‘Let’s say you pass with flying colours, you have an excellent degree, what do you want to do then?’

  ‘Go into politics.’ William’s face shone with enthusiasm. He was such a handsome young man, Iris thought. Not exotically handsome like Maggie’s husband Jack, just plain ordinary down-to-earth good-looking, with steady brown eyes and a lovely honest face – just like his mother’s. The thought came from nowhere and took her aback.

  ‘Become a Member of Parliament?’ Tom was badly shocked.

  ‘Hell, no!’ William shook his head. ‘No. Join a ministry; Defence, say, or the Treasury. The Board of Trade, perhaps. Work with figures. I really fancy being connected to government.’

  Tom’s mind had changed. ‘I really approve of that,’ he said warmly. ‘You’ll become a civil servant and end up with a knighthood.’

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t want one of those. I’m not sure if I believe in that sort of thing.’

  Iris spoke for the first time. ‘What are your politics, William?’ It wasn’t something they’d discussed before.

  William leant back in the chair and frowned. ‘I’m not really sure. I’m not right-wing, and I don’t think I’m left, either. Somewhere in the fluid centre, probably, wobbling a bit either way – more to the left than to the right.’

  Iris and Tom laughed. ‘That needs some working out, son,’ Tom remarked. ‘It sounds a bit uncomfortable to me, but as long as you don’t fall off, I don’t suppose it matters.’

  William returned to Norwich on Monday. A few weeks later he rang home and informed his mother that all his exams had been taken and he was convinced he’d done well.

  ‘That’s really good, love,’ she said warmly.

  ‘I don’t suppose Dad’ll believe me till I get my results,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Oh, don’t take any notice of your father, William. What do you intend doing when you finish uni?’ she asked. She hoped he would just stay at home for a few weeks and she could make a fuss of him.

  ‘Go to London, I think, find a bedsit, or maybe share a place with some blokes from here. I’d like to have a good look around the House of Commons, actually, attend a few sittings, see what goes on.’

  Iris hid her disappointment. ‘I’m terribly envious,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a very exciting time.’

  They rang off and she returned to the housework. The place was very quiet these days. Louise and Dorothy had gone to work and Clare was in the sixth form at school and would shortly leave. Iris began to wish she’d had more children, another three, maybe. After all, seven wasn’t an excessive number. In the old days, loads of women had double figures. But even with a bigger family, she thought dolefully, they too would inevitably grow up and she’d end up with a quiet house. Anyway, she was fifty-one and it was too late now.

  William came home a few weeks later, after finishing university for good.

  ‘I had a brilliant idea the other day,’ Iris told him. ‘You know young people sometimes work for Members of Parliament for a couple of months, perhaps as long as a year. I’m not sure what they do and I don’t think they get paid much.’

  William looked interested. ‘They mostly do research,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I know an MP you could approach for a job: Kathleen Curran, she’s the member for Bootle Docklands. She and I are sort of friends. Whenever there was a general election, we’d have her poster in the window of our old house, but she doesn’t represent this part of Bootle. I’ll write to her if you like, tell her about your interest in politics, see if she’ll take you on. Would you like that?’

  ‘I’d love it, Mum. Thank you. I didn’t realise my mother had friends in high places!’

  ‘I’ve only got one friend in a high place, William.’

  Iris had always been proud of her connection with the famous, some considered notorious, Kathleen Curran. Although she had never actually joined the Labour Party, Kathleen had often invited her to the occasional event and they always exchanged Christmas cards.

  She wrote to her friend straight away, and Kath wrote back just as promptly and invited William to come for interview.

  When Tom was told, he groaned. ‘I don’t like the idea of William being associated with such an infamous figure. He’ll be tarred as a rabid left-winger from the start.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Tom,’ Iris said impatiently. Sometimes he could be such a pain. ‘When he’s finished with Kathleen, he can go and work for some rabid right-winger and even things out.’

  Had Kathleen Curran been younger and William older, he could well have fallen for her straight away. She was a magnificent woman, fifty-nine years old, with long black hair streaked with white secured in an untidy knot at the back of her neck. She wore a bright scarlet dress and he was rarely to see her in any other colour apart from the occasional black skirt or coat.

  ‘So, you want to go into politics, William?’ was the first thing she said. They were in her tiny office in the House of Commons, where the walls were stacked almost to the ceiling with files and books and old newspapers and magazines. She shared the office with another Member, whose chair was empty.

  ‘I don’t want to become an MP,’ William said hurriedly.

  ‘I understand. Your mam said as much in her letter. Well, you look a nice enough young lad. When can you start?’

  William was astonished. ‘But aren’t you going to interview me? You haven’t asked any questions.’

  ‘The less I know about you the better, lad. People don’t normally tell the truth in interviews. They give answers they think the interviewer wants, which can lead to all sorts of complications and possibly lies.’ She gave him a truly wonderful smile. ‘As I said, I like the look of you; I’ve known your mam for more than twenty years and I like her too. Your dad could do with a firework up his arse from time to time, but he’s a decent enough chap. So, what d’you say, William? Do you want to work for me or not? The pay’s five hundred pounds a year, which’ll just about cover your expenses.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do,’ William stammered. ‘And the pay is fine.’ He was to discover later that she only took half her salary as an MP and gave the rest to charity. />
  ‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I find William a bit of a mouthful and am going to call you Will. Is that all right?’

  ‘It’s what I was called at uni.’ Sometimes he was called Willy, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  ‘You can call me Kath,’ she told him. ‘Now, Will. Shortly, Parliament will break up for the holidays, just like school. I am visiting various African countries to write a report on the poverty there. You can stay and tidy up this office. Get rid of most of the papers, only keep the ones that look important. Can you type?’

  ‘A bit.’ It was an awful little bit.

  ‘Well, you can get some practice in on this ancient machine.’ She laid her hand on a dust-covered typewriter. ‘It has difficulty typing “e”. Perhaps you can see a way of fixing it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ William promised. ‘More than my best.’

  ‘Well I can’t ask for more than a person’s best. Oh, there’s another thing. There’s no need to dress so formally.’ She nodded at his well-cut charcoal-grey suit, sparkling white shirt and mildly patterned tie. ‘Jeans and a T-shirt will do, but be careful with the message – on the T-shirt, that is. Nothing rude about the Pope or the royal family, otherwise it might get in the papers that me researcher is a bolshie bastard and me reputation will go even further down the pan.’ She got to her feet and William did the same, just as a woman knocked on the open door.

  ‘Morning, Auntie Kath,’ the woman sang, followed by a gasp of ‘William Grant, what on earth are you doing here?’