by June Gadsby
‘Are you all right, son?’ Maggie Graham gave him a searching look as they stood in the kitchen together, drying dishes. Fiona was lying down on the spare bed with a migraine. ‘You seem a little quiet.’
‘I’m fine, Aunt Maggie,’ Alex assured her. ‘Don’t you go worrying about me.’
‘Do you really think the war will go on for much longer?’
‘Quite honestly, I think it’s only just beginning.’
Maggie shook her head, her eyes clouded with troubling thoughts. She put the last of the dishes away and relieved him of his tea-towel.
‘You shouldn’t be in here with me,’ she said gruffly. ‘Go and spend some time with your wife.’
He gave her a wry smile. The rupture in his marriage, he felt sure, was such a tangible thing it must be obvious to all and sundry that things were not going well. Nobody liked the idea of divorce and the stigma that was attached to it. Alex hoped it would not come to that. Perhaps an enforced separation was all that was needed to get them back on track again.
‘I think, if you don’t mind,’ he said, kissing his aunt on her warm cheek, ‘I’ll go out for a wee walk and breathe some good fresh Felling air. My head’s full of things that need sweeping out.’
‘Alex…?’ she said, but when he raised his eyebrows, she shook her head again. ‘Go on, then. Things do always seem better for a walk. But mind you come back in time for tea. I’ve baked all your favourite things.’
‘Custard tart?’
‘Aye, and lemon-meringue pie,’ she said. ‘And there’s a salmon salad to start with.’
‘I’ll be back, don’t you worry,’ Alex grinned.
He stood on the doorstep for a few moments, breathing in the crisp December air, then decided to head for the park. Usually, it was quiet down there, but this was Christmas Day and there were a number of fathers and grandfathers with young children on new toboggans.
He listened to their elated laughter as they were dragged over the ground or skimmed screaming with excitement down the frozen slopes, narrowly missing the trees and falling off and rolling around as they stopped. Perhaps he would have a child of his own, one day, to buy a toboggan for, though he doubted it somehow. Fiona had made her views on the subject crystal-clear. There was, of course, the possibility that she would see things differently after the war.
An unexpected tightening of his throat surprised him. He quickened his step almost to a march as he headed back up the hill, but went a different way towards Victoria Square. The place was deserted except for one or two old miners sitting around the memorial fountain in the centre, putting the world to rights. They nodded across to him, called out seasonal greetings, which he returned automatically. He was experiencing a tremendous feeling of belonging, yet did he really think he was coming back here? Was there a life here for him after the war? Would there be a life anywhere? Even if he survived it, what would he come back to? A wife who didn’t want him. But then, Fiona wasn’t entirely to blame, was she? To be honest, they had never been an ideal couple. After the first flush of passion had died, they had been left with nothing on which to build a marriage or a future.
As he started to turn back towards his uncle’s house, Alex caught sight of a familiar figure trudging cagily through the snow that had deepened overnight and showed no sign of melting, regardless of the fact that the sun was shining down from a blue sky.
‘Hello, there!’
The girl must have been deep in thought, for she pulled up so sharply that she skidded and would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed hold of a nearby gatepost. Her soft hazel eyes blinked at him, then her expression became like that of a startled deer as she recognized him.
‘Oh …. Dr Craig! H-hello! Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas to you, Mary … and it’s Alex, remember?’
‘Alex … yes … only it feels funny calling my doctor by his Christian name.’
‘If it makes you feel uncomfortable, then don’t,’ he said, walking up to her and taking her arm, for she was still looking unsteady as her feet struggled to gain purchase on the patch of ice beneath her.
‘Oh, it’s all right … I mean….’ Mary clamped her lips together, then gave a shy laugh. ‘It’s just unusual, that’s all.’
‘We’re living in unusual times, Mary,’ he said, helping her to walk a few steps away from the ice and on to less precarious ground. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’ve been invited to my friend’s for tea,’ she told him. ‘Iris and I work together at the War Pensions Office.’
‘You’re not spending the day with your fiancé, then?’
He detected a small hesitation and she averted her eyes, though it might have been because the afternoon sun was blinding her. ‘No. Not today. Walter’s planning to join up and his mother’s upset about it. He thought it would be best staying at home today.’
‘I see.’ Alex cupped her elbow in his hand as they moved forward, away from the square and down The Drive, where his uncle lived. ‘Do you mind if I walk with you, Mary?’
‘Of course not.’ She looked up and frowned. ‘When do you leave?’
‘In a few days.’
‘Oh, I see. How awful.’
‘I wonder … could I ask you a favour?’ They had come to a halt and he turned to face her, telling himself that he was crazy to expect anything of this rather nice young woman who would probably marry the local butcher, have numerous children with him, and be a faithful and loving wife. ‘Would you write to me, Mary?’
‘Write to you? But won’t your wife be—’
‘She hates writing anything, especially letters. Please say you’ll write to me, Mary … unless you would find it too much of a chore.’
He saw her swallow and ponder on what he had requested. It obviously bothered her in some way, and yet her eyes were bright and keen.
‘No, really, I’d love to write to you. My address—’
‘I know your address, Mary.’ He wasn’t going to tell her that he had already noted it and it was at this very moment sitting in his wallet, in his inside breast pocket. ‘I’ll drop you a line once I get settled. Letters have to go through the British Forces Postal Office. They’re censored, apparently, so don’t worry if you can’t read all the words. And I might not always be able to reply straight away.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mary said with a bright smile that gave a lift to his heart. ‘I’ll wait.’
He wished it were his wife telling him that she would wait, not just for his letters, but for him to return. He wished that his wife could be more like Mary and less like the girl he should never have married.
‘I enjoyed dancing with you on Saturday night,’ he said, his voice roughening slightly in his throat.
‘Me too,’ she said and took a step away from him. ‘Well, I’d better get along or they’ll think I’m not coming.’
‘What about the black-out? It’ll get dark pretty soon.’
‘It’s all right. Iris says I can stay the night.’
‘That’s all right then. Take care, Mary.’
‘I always do, Alex.’
The street was deserted, except for the two of them. He knew it was a damned foolish thing to do, but suddenly she was there in his arms and he was kissing her. Oh, it was a tender kiss, at first. Tender and, almost, innocent. Then, when there was a sudden rise of heat between them, he felt her pull away, heard her gasp.
‘Oh, God, Mary, I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me do that, but we may never see each other again. I just felt impelled to ….well, never mind. I apologize. Are we still friends?’
She was staring at him, her eyes as big as dinner plates swimming with light, her mouth slightly open and her breath coming in gusts with every rise and fall of her chest. She swallowed hard before she could get her words out.
‘It … It’s all right … really. I … I’m glad you did it … I …’ Her forehead creased and then she gave a wan smile that twisted his heart. ‘It is Christmas, after all, and you’r
e going off to the war and … I will write to you, I promise.’
And with those words she hurried away, leaving him standing there feeling cold and empty, and utterly ridiculous.
In between the clicking of knitting needles and the hiss of a copper kettle on the old gas-ring in the church hall kitchen, the ladies of the Social Services Club chatted spasmodically. They were there for a variety of reasons, but mostly to help the war effort, turning up come rain or come shine ever since war had been declared.
Mary’s mind, however, was wandering. Alex’s leave had been cancelled. She had seen him only once since he joined up. It was a short, stolen moment and she felt guilty about it, though they had done nothing to be ashamed of; just walked, talked and laughed a lot.
She sighed, thinking how she longed to have him back with her now, have him touch her, kiss her. But he always kept at a respectable distance, even though she sensed that he saw something in their relationship that was more than casual.
Mary had come along today with her mother, who was a founder member of the Social Services Club. The women had given her a grand welcome. All help, they told her, was gratefully received since they weren’t too numerous. Two of their ladies were expecting babies and not up to hours of non-stop knitting on hard kitchen chairs and church benches. Four other young women had joined up. One was with the ATS, two had gone to the Land Army and the fourth was now with the FANYs.
‘I’ve heard of the FANYs,’ Mary said. ‘Anne Beasley’s with them.’
‘It’s voluntary, of course,’ said one woman. ‘But I hear they do a grand job.’
‘They used to wear red jackets when they were first formed,’ said another and everyone laughed. ‘That must have made it easy for the enemy to spot.’
‘That Miss Croft up Cube Pit way used to be one, so I hear.’
‘Good gracious! Maybe that’s why she’s so miserable and crotchety. I always put it down to her being an old maid.’
‘Aye. Men do tend to drive you mad, one way or another. It seems to me that being without one is just as bad as t’other way round, if you know what I mean.’
There was more laughter, then the vicar’s wife presented Mary with a pair of knitting-needles and a ball of grey wool.
‘It’s nice to see that even a young, single woman can find the time to support us, Mary,’ she said and there was a murmur of agreement.
‘There aren’t many young people around any more, these days,’ said one stout lady in a floral frock, a black, squashed, felt hat and a skein of wool in her outstretched hands.
‘No, you’re right there,’ said a thin, sticklike creature with horn-rimmed glasses. She stitched away at some garment or other, her needle flying in and out and missing the earlobe of the woman next to her by a fraction of an inch. ‘They think war’s something to enjoy – you know, gives them something exciting to do.’
‘They’ll find out it’s not like that,’ said a morose woman dressed in black who had lost her husband in the First World War. ‘You stay at home with your mam as long as they’ll let you, Mary, love.’
As Jenny West went to scald the tea in the big brown teapot, the needles came to an abrupt halt at the wail of the air-raid siren. As always, Mary’s skin crept with the fear the sound instilled in her, but she no longer felt sheer panic. They all knew that most of the warnings were for the coastal areas. A scattering of German bombs had been dropping on the north of England since May, but, except in freak circumstances, they felt pretty safe where they were.
‘Should we go to the shelter, then?’ A jolly-faced woman with strands of wool spilling out of voluminous pockets in her wraparound pinny, looked at her companions, who didn’t show any signs of moving.
‘Is it worth it?’
‘It’s a damn sight colder down in that shelter than it is up here. We’re more likely to die of pneumonia than a bomb.’
‘I read in the paper this morning that this winter’s been the coldest winter since 1881. Can you believe that?’
‘Aye, I can. The water froze in the tap last month and we had to scrape the ice off the inside of the bedroom windows.’
‘I wish I’d seen the River Thames when it froze over. I bet that was a sight for sore eyes, eh?’
‘Well, if the Tyne ever freezes I’ll be able to skate over to Newcastle instead of catching the tram.’
‘Once we get this month over things should start getting better.’
‘Aye, I hate February. Always have.’
Mary watched and listened to the conversation carried on through the warning cry of the siren. Then it stopped and all, including the women, fell silent. Only the click of the knitting-needles continued, some slowing down to a soft swish, others going fast enough to strike sparks.
Distant aircraft droned, followed by a loud explosion that made the building shiver and the floor beneath them vibrate. The rat-a-tat-tat of ground fire followed immediately. Mary caught sight of her mother, pouring tea and passing it around with hands that weren’t quite steady, but only her eyes betrayed the fact that she was really scared. They were all scared, but none of them wanted to show it.
Woooooo-ooooo! There were sighs all around as the all-clear blew. The knitting and the sewing were put to one side and the women relaxed, drank their tea and ate the rock buns that the vicar’s wife had so generously provided for them.
‘I wonder if they got them?’
‘Who?’
‘Those blinking Jerries, that’s “who”. How dare they think they can get the better of us? They lost the last war and, by God, they’ll not win this one.’
‘You going to go over there and give them what for, are you, Minnie?’
‘I hear one of them crashed the other day. Our lads shot him down just off Whitby.’
‘Aye, I read about that. It was a handsome young lad that did it. Flight Lieutenant Peter Townsend, he was called. Comes from a posh background, but it makes no difference, does it, when you’re faced with kill or be killed. They’re all just canny lads when it boils down to it, and some poor mother’s sons. Bairns, the lot of them.’
The conversation had taken up where it left off, almost as though the air-raid had never happened. Mary looked down at her knitting and groaned when she saw the mess she had made of her stitches. And she was only knitting a scarf, too.
‘Eeh, our Mary!’ her mother came and stood beside her, taking the needles from her and holding her work up for all to see, which produced a ripple of kindly laughter. ‘This lass of mine can sing and dance like an angel, she’s good at English … we won’t mention arithmetic … can speak fluent French and a bit of German … and just look at the way she knits.’
‘Leave the bairn alone, Jenny. With all those talents and a face like one of them Leonardo da Vinci portraits, she can be forgiven for not being a good knitter.’
‘Aye, pet, come on. Never mind the knitting. Give us a song to cheer us up. I remember you at that Christmas benefit. No wonder you got a kiss from Dr Craig.’
‘And don’t forget the dance. Didn’t they make a lovely couple!’
‘Stop encouraging her,’ Jenny West said stiffly, giving them all a chastising look. ‘We don’t want any involvement with married men.’
‘Aye, ye’re right, Jenny. Pity that stuck-up wife of his wasn’t there to give him the last waltz. She doesn’t deserve a nice man like Dr Craig.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing right now. Eeh, I don’t know how they can do it. Be a doctor, I mean. And they say there are a lot of nurses out there in France too. Better them than me, I can tell you.’
‘Did you never fancy being a nurse, Mary?’
Mary shook her head. No, she had never thought about it. All she had ever wanted to do with her life was work in an office, get married and maybe have a couple of children. Get married to Walter. It was strange how the thought of it no longer inspired her. When she had said no to a quick register office wedding, he had wanted her to sleep with him before he went off to Catterick. She hadn’t done
that either. She felt bad about it, too, because it was a purely selfish act to refuse him. Walter had looked so sad, like a little boy whose first toffee apple had been taken away from him before he’d had a lick.
‘I hope you won’t forget me, Mary,’ he had said, his voice thick, as she waved him off at Central Station in Newcastle.
‘How can I do that, silly?’ she said. ‘We’re engaged, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’
He didn’t seem so sure, but she was saved a reply because at that moment the guard called for everybody to be on board. There was an owl-like hoot, steam hissed, and the train put out a trail of acrid blue smoke as it started to pull out of the station. All she had time for was to blow Walter a kiss.
‘’Bye, Walter. Take care. Keep safe.’ She shouted all the usual phrases she could think of as she trotted beside the carriage, waving and blowing more kisses, along with dozens of other young women doing the very same thing.
By the time the tail end of the train disappeared from sight, the platform was practically deserted. But already Walter no longer occupied Mary’s thoughts. He had been replaced by Alex Craig as he had been the last time she saw him, when he had taken such a liberty with her and kissed her in the middle of the street on Christmas Day. She hadn’t slept a wink all that night because of it.
‘Penny for them, love?’
Mary’s head shot up and she blushed, remembering where she was, with a group of industrious housewives working feverishly and apparently enjoying every minute. She wondered what they would think if they knew what was going through her mind at that moment. They would be shocked, no doubt, especially her mother. Some might laugh, call her all kinds of fool. And they’d be right, of course.
