After the War is Over

by Maureen Lee

  ‘Things have changed,’ she would explain. ‘I have so much to do nowadays. My daughter has a baby to look after and she needs help, and my son comes home most weekends. I feel obliged to be there.’ She wanted to be there. When William was home, Iris didn’t want to be anywhere else. And because he was there as well as Louise and George, Tom was coming round more often. The house was full of noise, laughter and the sound of a baby. It was exactly what Iris had hoped for back in those quiet, empty years when she’d longed for a baby of her own.

  ‘But I love you,’ Matthew would say tetchily, as if that was all that mattered.

  Iris would insist on going home when she came out of work, but find herself agreeing to see him one afternoon in the Temple the following week. Today, though, she was determined to finish it. It was Wednesday, and he was driving her back to Balliol Road from the hotel in his Jaguar when she told him the relationship must definitely end.

  He became angry. ‘Are you saying our affair merely helped fill in the time before your daughter came home?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I loved you.’ She realised her mistake straight away.

  ‘Loved!’ he snapped. ‘Loved! Are you saying you no longer do?’

  ‘In a way. All good things come to an end,’ she said weakly.

  He stopped the car, braking sharply. They were barely halfway home. ‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘Get out. I never want to see you again.’

  ‘Matthew . . . let’s not finish like this,’ she protested.

  He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Get out!’

  It wasn’t the end. Next day, he phoned and pleaded for forgiveness. ‘I was upset, I’m sorry. Let’s meet again, please.’

  Iris flatly refused. Last night she’d had to get the bus home from where he’d ordered her out of his car. ‘No, Matthew,’ she said firmly.

  He lost his temper, calling her a bitch, saying she was wicked to have led him on. She was reminded of the time more than twenty years ago when he’d tried to blackmail her. She put down the receiver. He phoned again a few days later. This time he cried and she listened, feeling miserable, because she really had loved him for a while.

  ‘Matthew, darling,’ she whispered. ‘It really is over.’ She held on until he stopped crying and had replaced the receiver without saying another word. Then she hung up and started to cry too.

  A general election in June that year saw a Conservative government returned to power and the genial Edward Heath became prime minister.

  Auntie Kath retired from politics and Bridget O’Neill was elected the Member for Bootle Docklands. Over the course of the last few months, Bridie the mouse had become Bridget the lion.

  Auntie Kath became the public spokesperson for the charity Famine Awareness and also married Mick Baker, a widower and journalist with well-known left-wing views.

  A remarkable and honourable political career had come to an end and a new one had begun.

  One rainy August morning, a casually, though expensively dressed young man knocked on the door of the Grants’ house in Balliol Road. Iris answered.

  ‘Mrs Grant.’ He touched his gabardine cap. ‘Is Louise here?’ he asked courteously.

  Iris resisted the urge to scream. The exceptionally good-looking caller was Gary Dixon, Louise’s husband and father of George. She took a long time trying to think what to say. She was about to deny Louise’s presence in the house, or indeed that particular part of the world, when George shouted, ‘Blah!’ and Louise cried, ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ Iris said warily. They hadn’t exactly become friends with Gary when she and Tom had stayed in Boston.

  Gary managed a smile. ‘I come in peace,’ he told her, raising a hand in what she supposed was a conciliatory gesture.

  She took him into the living room, where twelve-month-old George was seated on the floor opposite his mother, who was clapping her hands and teaching him how to count. She went pale. ‘Gary!’ she gasped.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  Iris waited to see how her daughter would respond to this. When she got to her feet, burst into tears and ran into her husband’s arms, Iris went into the kitchen.

  For the last eight months, ever since she had arrived back from Boston, Louise had been on edge, waiting for Gary to turn up and demand George’s return. Even worse, she had half expected representatives of the law to arrive and take her in chains back to the United States, where George would be handed over to Monica to raise as she pleased. In vain did Tom and Iris assure her that the second of her fears would never happen, though there was always the chance that the first might.

  Iris rang Tom, who was in the middle of morning surgery, and told him what had occurred. It sounded as if war had been declared at the other end of the line. ‘It’s bedlam here,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve no idea what time I’ll be able to get there.’

  There was no shouting coming from the living room, just the faint murmur of voices and George’s occasional chuckle.

  Gary had written numerous letters over the intervening months. It had become quite normal to find an airmail letter on the mat when the post came in the morning. He had also telephoned frequently. He wanted his wife and son back, had vowed he would buy them their own house; that his mother would only be allowed to visit if Louise gave her permission.

  ‘But,’ Louise had said to Iris, ‘I don’t want to live on the same land mass as Monica Dixon. Gary can come and live here if he likes, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

  What are they talking about now? Iris wondered. The voices had become no louder. She didn’t want Louise and George to go back to America. It wasn’t just selfishness, but worry that her daughter would find it impossible to escape the claws of her mother-in-law, no matter what Gary promised.

  Louise appeared looking very grave and asked her mother if she would please make coffee.

  ‘Of course, love.’ Iris got out the best china and searched for a tray cloth. She opened a packet of chocolate biscuits and arranged them on a plate.

  Gary jumped to his feet when she went in and took the tray from her.

  Back in the kitchen, she chewed her nails for the first time in many years, longing to know what was going on.

  An hour passed before Louise appeared again, this time to ask if it was all right for Gary to stay the night.

  ‘Gary is your husband. He can stay for as long as he wants,’ Iris said. She felt unreasonably irritated. ‘There’s no need to ask.’

  It turned out that Gary had been called upon to fight in Vietnam. His parents quite understandably didn’t want him to go – it was possibly the only matter on which Iris and Monica Dixon shared the same view; Iris wouldn’t have wanted William to go off and fight. It was relatively easy in the United States for the sons of the wealthy to avoid military service by joining the National Guard or the Peace Corps.

  But Gary was determined to do his bit. And once he had served his time, he wanted Louise and George to return to Boston. ‘He promised that his mother wouldn’t come near us,’ Louise said. ‘He knows he behaved badly when I went to live there, but he concedes he was completely underneath his mother’s thumb.’ She smiled grimly. ‘But now he’s come to his senses. If I insist, then he’ll even get a job in this country.’

  Why did I want children? Iris wondered when she was in bed that night. They cause nothing but heartbreak. They’re either going away or coming home, or going away again. You worry about them all the time – even on your dying day you’ll worry how they’ll get on without you. And stupid me, I actually wish I’d had a couple more!

  Another Easter; another wedding. It came as a surprise to everyone when an invitation to William Grant’s wedding arrived in the post. He was marrying Sophie Eaves, granddaughter of Sir Roland White, Member of Parliament for the seat of Devon Coastal, for whom he now worked. No one was even aware that they’d been courting.

  The day when it came started off with a soft wet mist, but h
ad improved by midday, when it was time for the wedding. The flowers in the grounds of the ancient village church sparkled in the suddenly brilliant sunshine, giving off a fresh, heavenly scent, or so claimed Maggie Kaminski to her handsome husband as they walked along the grassy path into the church.

  Both mothers of the groom were seated in the front pew, she noted; Nell in blue and Iris wearing cream, William’s real mother and his adoptive one. And they were talking to each other, which really was the gear. As far as she knew, Nell and Iris hadn’t spoken since the day William had been born. It was only right that they start again today of all days.

  William had announced the identity of his real parents to the world in general, and had found himself related in one way or another to virtually half of Bootle. He didn’t care any more, he told Maggie, now officially his half-sister. He wasn’t embarrassed about anything.

  His maternal grandparents, the Desmonds, had been invited to the wedding. Mabel, in yellow net, looked very much like an aged bridesmaid, while Alfred next to her cut an imposing figure in a black velvet suit and scarlet cravat.

  There were about fifty people there; it was a small wedding, so Maggie had been advised. She thought fifty relatively large. She was also warned that Sophie’s mother and father were divorced and were likely to indulge in a fist fight if they were together under the same roof for too long.

  The bride was a dear little thing with a heart-shaped face, white-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. Her dress was made of layers and layers of stiff organdie like the petals of a flower.

  The ceremony was short and sweet, nothing like a Nuptial Mass that you could really get your teeth into. Perhaps that too had been arranged with Sophie’s parents in mind.

  The ceremony over, the newly married couple, the two tiny bridesmaids in frilly pink and the guests poured out of the church and posed for photographs. Quite a crowd had gathered in the churchyard to watch. More people applauded from outside their little stone houses as the wedding party, William and Sophie in the lead, made their way through the village to the pleasant old house where Sir Roland’s family lived. The reception was being held in a converted barn.

  ‘It’s all terribly medieval,’ Maggie whispered to Jack. ‘They’re like serfs kowtowing to their betters. I half expect the women to curtsey. I’m glad Auntie Kath couldn’t come. She might have said something rude.’

  ‘You’ve just said something rude yourself, darling,’ Jack reminded her.

  ‘Yes, but not in a foghorn voice like Auntie Kath.’

  The sit-down meal was delicious: the chickens had only been slaughtered the day before, and the pigs (supplying the ham) had been hand-reared on the farm next door.

  The bride was a vegetarian and had a salad for her meal. Thinking about the hens that had been happily running round twenty-four hours before, Maggie thought that she might well become a vegetarian too. Sophie was also a feminist and a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, and disagreed with her politician grandfather on most things.

  The speeches were terribly funny, in particular the offering from Quinn Finnegan, William’s half-brother, which was full of rude Irish jokes that no one seemed to mind.

  When everything was over, the guests took themselves into the house, the pretty garden, or stayed in the barn, where there was a bar.

  Maggie steered Nell and Iris into a little square of lawn surrounded by a hedge on all four sides, where they seated themselves on a collection of garden furniture in various stages of antiquity. She was determined to keep her friends together for as long as possible so there would be no chance they’d drift apart again. She parked herself on a bench and placed her champagne glass on top of a wrought-iron table that had once been painted white. A bee buzzed noisily nearby and birds fluttered madly in the hedge in which there were glimpses of a nest.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said. ‘The ceremony, the meal, the atmosphere – everything. I really enjoyed it. Sophie seems a lovely girl. I’m sure she and William are going to be very happy.’

  ‘I’m sure too.’ Nell sipped her orange juice. ‘She told me she wants at least five children.’

  Iris nodded approvingly. ‘William will make a good father. He was always very patient with the girls. You know,’ she said contemplatively, ‘I rather wanted him to marry Louise. They always got on really well together. He was fonder of her than the other girls.’

  ‘I would have been very much against that.’ Nell sounded uncommonly forceful. ‘I know they’re not related, but it sounds faintly indecent, and it was important for William to get away from the Grants, the Finnegans, the Desmonds and the Kaminskis and start a new life with new people somewhere other than Liverpool. Now he can be himself. It’s what he deserves.’

  ‘I agree with Nell.’ Maggie picked up a white cat that had wandered into their leafy hideaway and began to stroke it. ‘Don’t you think she’s right, Iris?’

  Iris conceded this with a little nod. ‘I suppose his life would have been rather claustrophobic otherwise.’

  Jack poked his head around the hedge. ‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘I was wondering where you’d gone.’ He went away again.

  Minutes later, Tom came to check where Iris was and Kevin Finnegan to make sure his mother was all right. Afterwards, they disappeared.

  Maggie was conscious of the sun sinking lower in the sky and the hedge beginning to rustle from a slight breeze. A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne and she and Iris took a glass each. Nell said she was perfectly happy with orange juice, though she hoped there would be tea or coffee later. ‘No, not just later; quite soon.’

  ‘How long is it since the three of us were together like this, just talking, like?’ Maggie mused. She was pleased that there seemed to be no animosity between Nell and Iris. They were getting on fine, though they should have been mingling with the other wedding guests, making themselves known.

  ‘About a quarter of a century, I reckon,’ Iris said.

  ‘It can’t possibly be that long, surely!’

  ‘It is, Maggie, I can assure you.’ It was before William had appeared on the scene, Iris recalled, and he would be twenty-four in a few months’ time.

  ‘Oh lord, Iris! That makes me feel really old. Twenty-five years doesn’t sound nearly as long as a quarter of a century.’

  ‘Twenty-five years, then.’

  ‘Anyroad, we must get together again quite soon. I can always come to Liverpool and stay overnight with one of you.’

  ‘Don’t forget, I go to work,’ Nell reminded her friend.

  ‘I had forgotten, Nell. I don’t like coming of a weekend and leaving Jack by himself.’

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ Nell assured her. ‘It won’t be another twenty-five years before we talk again.’ She smiled at Iris, who smiled back, and both women felt as if something very wrong had been mended.

  From the other side of the hedge there was the murmur of voices, and further away two women began to laugh.

  ‘Has that picture with Red’s song in been released yet?’ Iris enquired.

  ‘It came out in America only the other day. It won’t be shown in this country for another few months yet.’

  ‘These things take ages,’ Maggie remarked, as if she was an expert on the making of films and their distribution. ‘I’m going to start praying it will be top of the pops.’

  ‘The Long and Winding Road’ was being played by a group of imitation Beatles in the barn, disturbing the birds, which fluttered in protest. The women sang along to the first two lines: The long and winding road that leads to your door . . . Their voices faded when they couldn’t remember any more of the words.

  It was time for the dancing to start. Maggie didn’t think she could be bothered, and neither did Iris. Nell said she hadn’t danced with a man since Red had died and had no intention of going near the barn just in case someone asked her.

  ‘Anyroad, I like being here with youse two,’ she said comfortably. ‘Eh! Remember that dance in the army, M
aggie? It was held on Ash Wednesday and the band played nothing but hymns. They must have all been Catholics.’

  ‘Did we dance to the hymns or not?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘We thought it’d be sacrilegious, so we sang them instead.’

  Iris hadn’t been at the dance; she’d probably been involved in some activity they’d never known about.

  They continued to sit there until the sky grew dark and the air turned cold; old friends talking about old times, remembering this and remembering that, as old friends do.

  Epilogue

  A few hours after the wedding

  (Liverpool)

  Louise was in bed in Balliol Road when the telephone rang downstairs in the hall. She was eight months pregnant and hadn’t felt up to attending William’s wedding. Her sister, Dorothy, who’d badly wanted to go, had insisted on staying home instead and keeping an eye on her and George.

  Dorothy, already in bed, shouted, ‘I’ll get that, sis. It’s probably Mum or Dad to say they’re on their way home.’

  But Louise was already pushing her feet into slippers. ‘It’s okay, I’ll answer it,’ she shouted back. Her parents would never ring so late, and she had a feeling what the call was about. In the corner of the room, George was fast asleep in his cot, snoring slightly. She felt a rush of love that almost choked her.

  ‘Is that Mrs Louise Dixon?’ a man’s voice with an American accent enquired when she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Speaking.’ She’d had a funny sensation all day that something was wrong.

  ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am, about calling you like this, but we weren’t too sure if you’d be there to accept a telegram. There’s another address in Boston, you see.’

  ‘I’m Gary Dixon’s wife if that’s who you want.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ the voice said again, ‘but I have to inform you that Private Gary Dixon lost his life yesterday at Song Ve Valley. He was a good, brave soldier. My commiserations, ma’am.’