London Pride

by Beryl Kingston

  And when the illness reached the itchy and irritable stage Mrs Geary hobbled upstairs with the wireless to keep them entertained. From then on the three of them spent most afternoons listening in to Workers Playtime and Vera Lynn and Sandy Macpherson at the Cinema Organ. And at the end of the month their little box brought them a piece of extraordinary news.

  Peggy was on night duty and had just come home from a long shopping expedition. She’d queued at the butchers, the bakers and the grocers and now her back ached and all she wanted was a nice long sit-down.

  Mrs Geary was watching out for her in her double mirror.

  ‘Guess what!’ she said leaning out of the window and calling down. ‘Hitler’s gone the other way. It’s just been on the wireless.’

  ‘Gone the other way from what?’ Peggy said, putting down her basket.

  ‘Why the other way from us,’ Mrs Geary said leaning on the window-sill. ‘He’s invaded Russia.’

  ‘Never!’ Mr Allnutt said, stepping out of his front door to join in the conversation. ‘What’s he gone and done a thing like that for?’

  ‘He’s got a lot a’ Germans to feed,’ Mr Cooper said from his perch outside number four. ‘He’s after the Ukraine.’ That’s what he’s after. All that corn they grow in the Ukraine.’

  ‘I don’t reckon he’s all there,’ Mrs Geary said. ‘I wouldn’t want ter take on the Russians. Not if it was me.’

  But Peggy was seeing the implication of the news. ‘Then that’s why he’s stopped bombing us,’ she said. ‘He was getting ready to go an’ bomb them, poor devils.’ Perhaps the blitz really was over, thank God. If he’d turned on the Russians he wouldn’t go on bombing London. She felt quite limp with the relief of it. It was marvellous news! It almost made her believe that Jim would find them somewhere to live.

  ‘You heard the wireless, Mrs Roderick?’ Mrs Geary called. ‘Hitler’s gone the other way.’

  It was a swift and brutal campaign, a summer blitzkrieg first powering through the Baltic states and Poland and then swarming into Russia itself. There were rumours of entire Russian armies being cut off and captured, reports of ‘stiff fighting’, maps showing the long arrows of the German advance. It was like the conquest of Holland and Belgium and France all over again only on a grander scale.

  In England the Government were soon organizing Tanks for Russia’ schemes and munition workers were being urged to put in Sunday overtime ‘for our Russian allies’. And Fighter Command went over to the offensive, with the result that Jim and Froggy were told that their Squadron were being posted to Merston in Sussex at the end of July. They were to take delivery of brand new Spitfires, and fly sorties over the Channel and the French coast.

  Jim was relieved to be nearer London and Froggy said he thought it was wizard.

  ‘Merston,’ he said to Jim. ‘Good show! I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Jim said. ‘What’s so special about Merston?’

  ‘You wait,’ Froggy grinned, his wide mouth stretching right across his face. ‘You just wait.’

  And as he’d obviously made up his mind not to say anything more the subject was dropped.

  They arrived in Merston on a bright summer day at the end of July and as far as Jim could see there was nothing remarkable about the place at all. It was simply a bare airfield with the usual hangars and huts set in the middle of the usual flat fields where the corn was already ripening in dust dry earth and the sky was a hard dazzling blue and filled the usual ninety per cent of the landscape. There was an ancient pub at the end of one runway which the pilots commandeered and rechristened ‘The Old Wicker Chair’ because they spent their time sitting on just such chairs out in the pub garden. But apart from that it was just the same as all the other airfields they’d used, a functional space in the countryside bristling with fighters.

  ‘Ready?’ Froggy said, appearing in the door of the hut as soon as he came off shift. He was wearing a silk scarf and looked very full of himself.

  ‘What for?’ Jim said, rather wearily. He’d been working hard and could have done with a bit of a kip.

  ‘Come on,’ Froggy said. He was dancing on his toes in his eagerness to be off.

  So Jim went with him. Out of the camp, into the narrow lane between brambles and nettles, past the farmhouse, past the pub, over a scuffed intersection of lanes and pathways, past a village school where the children were playing some sort of skipping game, ‘Charlie Chaplin went to France and taught the ladies how to dance’, and on along an overgrown pathway between overhanging trees and bushes grown so thick it was almost impossible to squeeze between them.

  ‘It’ud better be worth it,’ Jim complained as a branch whipped back from Froggy’s eager passage and hit him across the side of the face.

  ‘There!’ Froggy said. ‘What d’you think of that?’

  They were standing in front of a small flint cottage, which had obviously not been lived in for a very long time. The paintwork had originally been green but now it was so faded it was almost white and in the more exposed places it was beginning to flake away from the wood, the windows were grey with grime, the letter-box red with rust, and the cottage garden was growing a luxuriant crop of hip-high weeds.

  Jim grimaced. ‘Not a lot,’ he admitted.

  ‘You wait…’ Froggy said. He’d got a key in his hand, and was struggling to turn it in the lock. ‘Till you see inside.’

  ‘How did you get the key?’ Jim asked.

  But Froggy didn’t enlighten him. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  It was mustily damp inside the cottage and there was white mildew on the backs of the four Windsor chairs set neatly round a table in the little living room, and patches of ironmould on the cushions that were piled neatly on a faded put-u-up. There were curtains at the windows, but they were full of dust and hung dispiritedly, and the window sills were decorated by several dead blue-bottles lying on their backs with their legs tangled above them.

  ‘Belongs to my aunt,’ Froggy said, adding unnecessarily, ‘hasn’t lived in for years. Not since the war started. Come upstairs.’

  They explored all three rooms of the little house, living room, kitchen and the bedroom upstairs, and shouldered the back door open to stand in the sunshine in a little back garden beside an outdoor lavvy with a long wooden seat.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Froggy asked again.

  ‘Ought to be lived in,’ Jim said, trying to keep his voice steady although his mind was spinning with hope, vibrating like an aircraft ready for take-off. Was it for rent? Could he afford it? Dare he even ask?

  ‘I think it’s wizard,’ Froggy said. ‘Just the place for a love nest. Course we’d have to clean it up, spot of paint, elbow grease, that sort of thing, but can’t you just see it? Right out the way, all on your own, just the two of you. Whizzo!’

  Jim’s hopes leapt into the air. It was just the place. He could see it all. He and Peggy sitting beside that fireplace, planning all the things they’d do when the war was over and they could build a new world. And their new world could start right here. He could soon get it cleaned up, paint it, put up new wallpaper, lime wash the lavvy. It would be like a new place. A new place for a new life. ‘But it’s your aunt’s,’ he said. ‘Would she let it?’

  ‘She would if I asked her,’ Froggy said with great satisfaction. ‘She sent me the key straight away. What d’you think?’

  ‘Ask her,’ Jim said. ‘You’re right. It’s a wizard idea.’

  ‘I’ll write tonight,’ Froggy said, shutting the back door.

  And so will I, Jim thought. So will I. I’ll tell Peggy I’ve got some good news but I won’t say what it is, not with a thirty-six coming up. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he told her. What a bit of luck! His heart was racing just to think of it. ‘Thanks for letting me see it, Froggy,’ he said. ‘You’re a brick.’

  ‘So what d’you think?’ Megan asked seriously. ‘Shall we take this cottage?’

  The kitchen at number s
ix was luscious with the scent of roses. There were two full jars of them standing at each end of the dresser, scarlet and rose pink and butter yellow, breathing out sweetness into the late afternoon. They’d been delivered by a breathless Ernest just after the postman had given Peggy a letter from Jim promising their arrival and telling her that he’d be home that afternoon and that he had some smashing news for her. She’d been quite touched to be given such a treat.

  ‘It sounds terrific,’ she said, putting flour in her mixing bowl. Jim should be home any minute now, but she’d just got time to make a few jam tarts for tea. ‘Home of your own, right near the airfield. I’d jump at it if I was you. What’s the rent like?’

  ‘Well that’s the best bit,’ Megan said, ‘she says we can have it for free. Think a’ that! Froggy’s a pet of hers apparently.’

  Her brown eyes were round with the wonder of all this sudden good fortune. ‘He wants us to get married straight away. It’s making my head spin, Peg.’

  Peggy was rubbing the fat into the flour. ‘How smashing!’ she said. ‘Fancy old Froggy proposing. When’s the great day?’

  ‘Well…’ Megan dithered.

  ‘Well what?’ Peggy said.

  ‘Nothing really,’ Megan said. ‘Except…’

  ‘Do you love him?’ Peggy asked, looking her friend straight in the eyes and being Peggy coming straight to the point. ‘You’re not in love. I know that. But do you love him?’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Megan admitted. ‘I ain’t sure. Leastways, not all the time. Sometimes I think I do. He’s ever so kind, and he makes me laugh, and he’s – sort of well protective really. But then sometimes I wonder if it ain’t because he loves me so much that I get – sort of carried along – if you know what I mean. It’ud be smashing to have a place of me own, I don’t deny, specially with Mum and Dad going off any day now. Well you see how it is, dontcher?’

  Peggy added water to her pastry, stirring it with her fingers. ‘Is it because he’s ugly?’ she said.

  Megan glared to the defence of her lover at once. ‘He ain’t ugly,’ she said. ‘He’s no oil painting. I’ll give you that. But he ain’t ugly. He’s got a lovely smile.’

  ‘You’ll marry him,’ Peggy said, grinning at her. ‘I don’t know why you’re worrying about it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so, you soppy thing. I think it’s smashing.’

  Trust Peggy to know the truth of it, Megan thought. She’s always so sure of everything, dear old Peg. ‘You’ll be my bridesmaid,’ she said, ‘or matron-of-honour, or whatever it is?’ It was more a statement than a question, they were both so sure of the answer.

  ‘Course. When?’

  ‘Six weeks, he says. He’s in ever such a rush.’

  This must’ve been what Jim was going to tell me about, Peggy thought. It’s really rather romantic, a whirlwind wedding and a cottage in the country.

  ‘What a bit of luck to find somewhere to live,’ she said. ‘Me an’ Jim have been hunting for ages.’ Six whole months and no nearer to finding anywhere now than they’d been at the beginning. But there was no jealousy in her. Some people got homes, some didn’t. That was the way things were. There was a war on.

  The tarts were cooked, the table set, and the kids home from school fed and out again before Jim finally arrived.

  ‘Guess what!’ he said as he threw his kitbag down beside the hat stand. He was bristling with excitement, his eyes shining, dark hair bushy. So handsome.

  ‘I’ve heard,’ Peggy said, kissing him. ‘Megan just told me. A cottage in the country. Ain’t they the lucky ones?’

  They? he thought. And his excitement began to ebb away. They?

  ‘Are you going to be best man?’ Peggy went on, leading him into the back room. ‘I’ll bet you are. I’m to be matron-of-honour. Did Froggy tell you?’

  ‘Are they getting married?’ he said, following her. He was leaden-footed with this sudden awful disappointment. Froggy and Megan. Of course. Why hadn’t he realized it? How could he have been so stupid? But why hadn’t Froggy told him? Oh Christ, Frog, you could’ve said. I’ve spent four days living in hopes and all for nothing.

  ‘Well of course they’re getting married. Ain’t it grand?’

  No, no, no, he thought, as they walked into the room. It ain’t. It’s bloody awful, and the worst of it was that he couldn’t tell her.

  Megan was looking up at him, her face bright with happiness.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, making a palpable effort to smile.

  ‘You must come an’ stay with us,’ Megan said. ‘Froggy says he’s going to get it all painted up lovely. I’m going down next weekend to see. Froggy says …’

  Her voice bubbled on, but although Jim heard the words they meant nothing to him. I’ve lost out again, he thought, and he knew he was angry and jealous, burning with the injustice of it all, in exactly the same way as he’d burned when he turned down the scholarship, lost his job, couldn’t persuade his mother to leave the old man. It was bloody unfair. Why should Froggy have somewhere to live just because his aunt had money? It shouldn’t be simply a matter of money. Everyone should have the right to a decent home. Everyone. There’ll have to be some changes when this war’s over, he thought. We can’t go on living like this.

  ‘We can all get leave together,’ Megan was planning, ‘an’ then you can come and stay with us. We’ve got a put-u-up. Won’t it be fun!’

  CHAPTER 34

  The first leave that the Fergusons and the Boxalls spent together in Vine Cottage was fraught with unspoken emotion.

  Froggy was in exceptionally high spirits. It hadn’t taken him long to discover that marriage suited him down to the ground. Life at Vine Cottage was absolutely wizard, good food, lots of sex, cuddles every morning. Whizzo! And to cap everything he and Jim had been promoted to corporals.

  ‘We’ll give a special dinner to celebrate,’ he said to Megan.

  So they did and although he didn’t notice it, Megan found it rather difficult. She and Froggy didn’t seem to speak the same language when it came to meals. For a start he had dinner at half past seven in the evening, which she found most peculiar, and he was ever so particular about the way it was served. She’d taken pains to arrange the table beautifully to please him, with a vase of September roses in the centre and table napkins beside each plate and knives and forks and spoons set out properly just like the toffs. The trouble was the food was really ordinary, being vegetable hot-pot followed by apple fritters, so she was brittle with anxiety about it.

  Froggy had pushed the table up against the window for that first dinner so that they could look out at the garden while they ate.

  ‘I’m going to grow carrots and onions and potatoes,’ she said, entertaining her guests just a little too brightly, ‘and tomatoes and celery if I can manage it.’

  How she’s changed, Peggy thought, admiring her plump cheeks and the sheen of her dark hair and wondering why she was so anxious, especially when she was running the house so well. I never thought I’d live to see a domesticated Megan, all this cooking and so houseproud and talking about gardening. Perhaps it’s because she’s in love. Because she was in love, fairly glowing with it every time she looked at old Froggy. Which was quite amazing after all the things she’d said. And Froggy had changed too. He was still the same cheerful Froggy she’d known for so long, but he’d put on quite a bit of weight. It was a great improvement. A rounder face made him look – well – less froggy.

  Megan ate her apple fritters and continued to worry. Yesterday she’d sneaked a medical book out of the library in Chichester. She’d read it because she was afraid that she and Froggy might be overdoing things. The book wasn’t exactly explicit, but as far as she could make out they seemed to be all right, seeing they were newly-weds, but it worried her just the same. Being married was jolly difficult. ‘Froggy wants me to plant runner beans,’ she said, glancing at her husband who was signalling his real desires to her with one of his ‘
all-oyer’ looks. ‘I expect I shall give him what he wants, shan’t I, Froggy? Sooner or later.’

  ‘You usually do,’ her husband said happily. ‘What do you think of the cottage?’ he asked his guests.

  ‘Very nice,’ Jim said shortly and then seeing his friend’s face fall, ‘You’ve transformed it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Froggy agreed, ‘we have.’ It was scrubbed clean and newly painted and there wasn’t a sign of cobweb or mildew or ironmould anywhere. It smelled of soft soap and starch and wax polish, there were clean curtains at the windows and clean covers on the cushions. ‘Whizzo, eh?’

  Jim looked away. He’d been feeling shamefully jealous all through the meal, and it upset him to be jealous of his old friend and Megan. It was despicable, petty and shabby and despicable. He ought to be able to rise above it. And yet everywhere he looked he was reminded of the plans he’d made for this cottage, the hopes he’d entertained, the dreams he’d dreamed. If only he’d been the one with the rich aunt instead of Froggy.

  Poor Jim, Peggy thought, watching him, I wonder why he’s so unhappy. That little leaping movement in his jaw always gave him away. What was upsetting him? She’d have to see if she could tease him out of it, whatever it was. Not now, of course, later when they were alone.

  She lifted her head to say something to Megan. And heard the first returning Spitfire.

  Jim and Froggy were out of the room in an instant, heading for the newly-dug vegetable patch where they could get a clear view of the evening sky.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Peggy asked, surprised by their speed.

  ‘To watch the squadron back in,’ Megan explained, finishing her last fritter. ‘They can’t settle to anything ‘til the squadron’s in. We lost a Spitfire yesterday and it was one of theirs. It was awful. It upsets them ever so much when that happens.’