London Pride

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘No,’ Mrs Allnutt said obligingly.

  ‘She’s expecting. Ain’t it grand?’

  ‘Smashing. When?’

  ‘June, she says. I had a letter this morning.’

  ‘When’s your Jim coming home?’ Mrs Allnutt said, sliding on. ‘We ain’t seen him fer ages. He’s all right, is he?’

  ‘He’s very busy,’ Peggy explained. ‘They all are. It’s the cold. It makes a lot of extra work with everything freezing up you see. Ice is bad for the engines.’

  ‘It’s bad for the feet an’ all,’ Mrs Allnutt said. ‘I don’t know how we put up with it.’

  ‘It’s being so cheerful as keeps us going,’ Peggy said, quoting a catch phrase from a character called Mona Lot in Tommy Handley’s radio show ITMA, and that made them both laugh and warmed them sufficiently to get them over the next frozen ridge of snow and up into the High Street where the trams kept the roads clear.

  And then just to cap everything the government announced that they were raising the draft age for men to fifty-one and that they had decided to start calling up unmarried women.

  Baby was horrified. ‘They can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I can’t go in the army, I’d have to wear uniform. Imagine it. I’d look a freak.’

  ‘You’ll have to go if you get called up,’ Joan said, with some satisfaction. ‘Do you good. Make a man of you.’

  ‘And you can just shut up,’ Baby said, scowling at her. ‘What am I going to do, our Peg?’

  ‘You could go in the WAAF,’ Peggy said, ‘if you don’t fancy the ATS.’

  ‘Or join the Civil Defence like Peggy,’ Joan said. ‘You’d like that. Out all hours with the raids on.’

  ‘I think you’re both being foul,’ Baby said and flounced out of the house, blonde hair swinging.

  But at last it was March and although several eighteen-year-old women in the neighbourhood had already received their call-up papers, Baby was still at large, the snow had finally gone and Jim was allowed home for ten precious days. Mr Allnutt decided they would have a ding-dong to celebrate and to cheer poor Lily up because she’d been very low since Arthur went into the army. It was the first ding-dong they’d had for a very long time and they were all looking forward to it, even though Mrs Roderick and Nonnie Brown would both be present and they still weren’t on speaking terms.

  ‘Still,’ Mrs Allnutt said to Peggy, ‘we can sit ’em one at each end of the room. There’s always ways an’ means. Is Mrs Geary bringing Polly? If the worst comes to the worst we’ll get him swearing and he can drown ’em out.’

  But it wasn’t Nonnie or Mrs Roderick who caused a stir at the party. It was John Cooper and he did it quite inadvertently by arriving with a copy of the Evening Standard and the news that the RAF had bombed a German city called Lübeck. The centre of the city had been completely flattened.

  Cyril Brown seized the paper and waved it in triumph. ‘And about bloody time too!’ he said. ‘Serve the buggers right. They’ve had it coming to ’em.’

  Joan wasn’t so sure. ‘Was it an army base?’ she said. ‘Something to do with the army or the navy or something?’

  ‘It was a picturesque city,’ John Cooper said, reading from the paper. ‘A medieval town it says, a port. It had a timber built medieval centre.’

  ‘What’s it matter?’ Cyril said. ‘They’ve asked for it and now they’re getting it. I’m sick of hearing how we can take it all the time. It’s about time we started dishing it out for a change.’

  Peggy was appalled. ‘We’re bombing women and children,’ she said. ‘That’s what we’re doing. It’s dreadful.’ And she looked across the room to where Joan and Lily were dancing with Norman and Yvey and little Percy.

  ‘And what d’you think they been doing all this time?’ Cyril shouted at her.

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right,’ Peggy told her doggedly. ‘We ought to be behaving better than them. Not worse.’

  And suddenly she was overcome with weariness, tired of the war and the cold and the long hours queueing, of being married and having to live apart, of the shabby, shoddy endlessness of it all, and she knew she was perilously close to tears and ducked her head to gain control of herself. And Jim, alerted at once, took her by the elbow and began to steer her out of the room and away from trouble.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘You need a break from that lot. Bit a’ peace and quiet.’

  It was very quiet out in the street with just enough moonlight to show them the way and the air smelling of soot and coalfires.

  She followed him into number two and up the dark stairs to the room that was now ‘theirs’. They pulled the black-out curtains and lit their little bedside light, listening to the piano twanging below them. Then they comforted one another by making love, very gently and tenderly.

  ‘This war’s making us all cruel,’ she said as he lit their two cigarettes.

  ‘Not you,’ he said tenderly, lying back among the pillows to admire her. ‘You’ve got more love in you than anyone I’ve ever met.’

  ‘It is though, it’s making us cruel. Mrs Roderick and Mrs Brown fighting in the street, and people gloating. Just think what Cyril was saying. Serve ’em right. Women and children.’

  ‘For some people, yes, I suppose it is. We’ve had too much bad news. That’s what it is. We need a victory.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘We do. But not by bombing women and children.’

  ‘Something to lift our spirits,’ he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. A victory, or if not an out-and-out victory a success, a little hope, some joy.

  But where could such things be found in a world at war?

  CHAPTER 35

  Baby was standing on the pavement outside the entrance to the market when the first Americans came jazzing into town. It was an electrifying experience. She was so used to the discipline of the British troops stationed around Greenwich that she hardly noticed them. Well there wasn’t very much to notice, was there? They all marched together with such dull precision that the tramp of their boots sounded like a single pair of feet, all caps set at the same angle, all arms swinging to the same rhythm, nothing remarkable about that. These soldiers were another breed altogether.

  For a start they were preceded by the jazziest military band she’d ever heard. It set her feet tapping at once. And then, when the troops appeared round the corner they were all black, every single one of them, and they weren’t marching at all. They were leaping about and jumping in the air, and marching backwards and sideways and all sorts, chewing and grinning. Soon people on the pavements began to cheer them and to clap in time to the rhythm, and they waved and grinned, showing very white teeth. It was like a carnival.

  ‘They’re smashing,’ she said to Joan and Peggy and Mrs Geary when they were eating their Woolton pie that evening. ‘Where d’you think they’re stationed?’

  ‘I wonder you didn’t follow ’em and find out,’ Mrs Geary said rather acidly.

  ‘I’ll bet they’re smashing dancers,’ Baby said, unabashed by her sarcasm. ‘I shall go to the Palais on Saturday and see.’

  And she did, returning home very late indeed with her hair tousled and her shoes covered in dust to report that she’d danced every single dance and she’d never had such a smashing time in her life.

  ‘They’re ever so comical,’ she said. ‘There was only white ones there tonight. They’re called GIs and they call you Honey and Sugar and funny things like that, and they’ve got the most peculiar names, Hank and Marvin and Sergeant Buzzywitzy or something, imagine, and they give you gum and sweets. I think they’re smashing.’

  ‘She wants ter watch out,’ Mrs Geary warned, ‘or one of ’em’ll give her a bit more than gum. Specially the way she goes on with that hair.’ She’d never approved of peroxide blondes. Fast, the lot of ’em.

  But Baby was hell-bent on a life of pleasure. And despite her dumb blonde appearance she was shrewd enough to work out how to get it without having to pay the traditional price. And she knew
exactly what the traditional price was. There were no secrets now about poor Joan’s disgrace, only the memory of how awful it had been, and the residual fear that men were bestial and brutal and had to be kept in check for your own protection and never allowed to touch you anywhere they shouldn’t. So what you did was flirt and tease and make eyes, which got you gum and candies and doughnuts and plenty of dancing partners, but always arrange beforehand to go home in a crowd.

  Sometimes despite her careful plans the crowd broke up into snogging couples as soon as they left the dance hall and then things could get a bit difficult, but she usually found that she could deal with most over-amorous Yanks providing she stopped their hands wandering the minute they started. In fact it was often better to make a speech as soon as they showed signs of wanting to do anything more than just kiss her. It was really quite a good speech. She said she wasn’t a good-time girl, and she was only trying to make them feel at home in a foreign country, and she did hope they hadn’t got the wrong idea about her, and if they still pressed on regardless she cried a few pathetic tears and told them she was an orphan. And that usually worked a treat.

  She was shrewd enough to have taken action to avoid the call-up too. By dint of listening and questioning she found out that some people were in what was called reserved occupations, and that some firms could keep a few of their most valuable staff out of the forces for six months at a time by making a special plea for them. So she put herself out to become one of Dodds’ most valuable employees, taking over the book-keeping from Mr Trotkins when he went away to the army and doing it in addition to her job on the telephones. She’d had to tell quite a few lies to get the extra job, well not lies exactly, sort of half-truths, about how good she’d always been at arithmetic, and how easy she’d always found it. Actually adding up columns of figures was jolly hard work and took her much longer than she pretended, but it was worth it. Anything was better than going in the army. Of course what with dancing all hours and working all hours she didn’t have the energy for any housework or shopping or anything like that. But luckily Peggy understood and did all that sort of thing for her. Good old Peg. She didn’t seem to mind how much extra work she did. And all that nonsense about finding a flat and living with Jim near the base seemed to have died the death. Thank heavens. Things were much better as they were, with Jim coming home on leave now and then and Peggy free to look after the house.

  In the summer, when London was swarming with Yanks, she teased her sisters to go up West with her and the kids and see the new arrivals for themselves.

  ‘Look at all them lovely uniforms,’ she said to Yvonne. ‘It’s lovely cloth. Ever so soft. Better’n that horrible rough stuff our fellers wear.’

  Joan grimaced but said nothing.

  ‘Ain’t they fat!’ Yvonne said as two plump GIs strolled past, their sleeves straining with well-fed flesh.

  ‘You should see what they eat,’ Baby said. ‘I never seen so much food. They make smashing doughnuts. They’re ever so expensive but it don’t worry them. They earn so much you’d never believe it.’

  ‘How much?’ Norman wanted to know. Now that he was eight he was very aware of money.

  ‘Ever such a lot,’ Baby told him happily. ‘Three times as much as our fellers.’

  ‘Overpaid, oversexed and over here,’ Peggy whispered to Joan, quoting the current jibe against all these wealthy invaders.

  ‘They don’t bother to pay our troops good money,’ Joan said sourly. ‘They’re only cannon fodder, poor beggars.’

  ‘What’s cannon fodder, Mum?’ Norman asked.

  ‘Men like yer Dad,’ Joan told him. ‘Proper soldiers. The ones that do the fighting and get killed and captured and put in prisoner a’ war camps instead a’ poncing about London all the time, showing off.’

  ‘Well that’s nice!’ Baby said, bristling. ‘What a thing to tell the kid. They’re our allies. Don’t you take no notice, Norm. Yanks are nice. Least they bring a bit a’ colour to the old place.’

  Peggy was looking at the Londoners going about their business stolidly and unobtrusively among the new arrivals and she couldn’t help noticing that the Americans’ smart uniforms and innocent baby faces were making their hosts look shabby and war-worn. She was so used to old clothes and skinny children and faces grey with fatigue that until that moment she’d hardly noticed them, but now she was aware that Londoners had been worn down and washed out by this war that they’d been fighting for so long on their own, and she felt a fierce passionate pride for their endurance and courage.

  But Joan was frowning. ‘Time we was getting back,’ Peggy said, to forestall a row. ‘What say we have faggots for supper?’

  So domestic peace was restored. At least for the time being.

  Baby’s behaviour rankled Joan a great deal that summer. ‘She’s so bloody bone idle,’ she said to Peggy the next Sunday morning as they were preparing the vegetables for Sunday dinner. ‘Half past eleven and she’s still abed, selfish little pig. She’ll need to get up and lend a hand next week if you’re off to Merston.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better not go,’ Peggy said, looking worried.

  ‘You go, mate,’ her sister advised, tossing a peeled potato into the saucepan so violently that the water splashed all over the draining board. ‘You’ve earned a rest. I’ll see to her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Peggy said, but then they both laughed, because Baby was asking for it really.

  And she was looking forward to her visit ever so much. Ten days in Vine Cottage again with Jim and Megan and Froggy. The two men had both got leave and they’d planned all sorts of outings.

  Froggy had even wangled a car. Trust Froggy. He and Jim and a very rotund Megan were all sitting in it waiting for her when her train arrived at Chichester station.

  ‘Trip round the town,’ Froggy said, as she climbed into what remained of the back seat. ‘Market Cross, cathedral, cinema, all round the city walls.’

  ‘Chauffeur-driven too,’ Jim said, beaming at her.

  They had tea at an old-fashioned tea house, which Peggy said she really needed, and they went to the pictures, which Megan said was jolly uncomfortable because she didn’t fit into the seats, and after that they went to a pub, which was full of airmen and where they all sang ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and ‘There’ll always be an England’ and several rather more scurrilous ditties, and at closing time they went rattling off through the black country lanes and arrived back at Vine Cottage, giggling and merry. It was like a holiday.

  ‘And so it should be,’ Jim said. ‘We’ve earned it.’

  The next day was sunny and peaceful and they spent it sitting in the garden. They had their dinner out there, and the two men did the washing up afterwards, and at tea-time Megan lowered herself to her knees in her vegetable patch and uprooted four handfuls of radishes for them to eat with brown bread and butter, no less.

  ‘We are spoilt,’ Peggy said, smiling at her. It was lovely to see her so much easier in this marriage.

  ‘D’you like ’em?’ Megan asked, pleased with her produce.

  ‘Smashing.’

  ‘She’ll get indigestion sure as fate,’ Froggy said. ‘Always does these days when she eats radishes.’

  And sure enough just before Jim and Peggy went out for the evening, Megan began to make grimaces and complain about feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘I warned you,’ Froggy said, pretending irritation and exuding concern. ‘Where’s your Rennies?’ And he shot off into the kitchen to see if he could find them.

  ‘It’s giving me proper belly-ache,’ Megan said. ‘I shall have to lie down if it gets any worse.’

  ‘Well lie down then,’ Peggy said.

  ‘I don’t like to,’ Megan said, making another grimace.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, not with you two staying. You can’t go lying down when you got company.’

  ‘We’re not company, you soppy thing,’ Peggy said, hugging her. ‘We’re Jim and Peggy, remember? You lie down all yo
u like. Anyway we’re going out.’

  She and Jim went back to the pub for another raucous evening, and this time they travelled by bicycle, with Peggy balanced on the crossbar.

  When they came out into the street at closing-time it was pitch dark. So they pushed the bike and walked back side by side, and what with the darkness and frequent stops for kisses it took them a very long time to make their short journey.

  ‘Shush,’ Peggy whispered when they reached the hedge. ‘Don’t make a noise, I’ll bet they’re in bed.’

  But when they reached the front door there was a strange bicycle propped against the wall. So it looked as though somebody else had come to visit them.

  Froggy was sitting on the put-u-up smoking and looking very ill-at-ease, and there was no sign of the visitor or Megan. But before Peggy could open her mouth to ask what was happening, the answer mewed above their heads, in the small unmistakable cry of the new born. Froggy threw his cigarette onto the lino and ran.

  ‘Oh!’ Peggy said with delight. ‘D’you think they’ll let me see it?’

  ‘What now?’ Jim said. ‘When it’s just been born?’

  ‘Course. Why not? I’d love to see it. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not now,’ he said, aghast at the idea. ‘Not now. Not when it’s just… No I wouldn’t.’

  How funny men are about birth, Peggy thought. They face death all the time nowadays and yet here he is shying away from a new baby. And then it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen a new-born baby since Norman was born, and she found her heart throbbing with excitement at the prospect.

  But she had to wait for nearly an hour before the midwife left and Froggy came crashing into the room to tell her she could come up if she wanted to. He was pink-eyed with emotion and babbling incoherently. ‘A daughter,’ he said as they climbed the stairs. ‘She’s so little. A beautiful little … Oh a marvellous … A gorgeous wizard little …’

  The baby lay in the crook of Megan’s arm, swathed in a knitted shawl, damp and pink and peaceful and exactly like her mother, with the same dark curly hair, the same wide-spaced eyes, even the same shaped mouth. Only her funny snub nose was different. A most delectable baby and just the sight of her made Peggy warm with pleasure.