by Annie Murray
‘Yeah, I know.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve been down here a few bad nights, I can tell you. All ablaze – God, the heat. And the smoke! You could hardly see your hand in front of your face.’
There had been so much damage to the city. Survivors like the Times Furnishings building loomed at the far end of the High Street, but close to it, the corner of New Street and High Street had been torn away and all along New Street were jagged wounds of bomb damage.
She felt a shudder pass through his body and it made her feel tender towards him.
‘It must have been so frightening,’ she said. ‘It was bad enough in the shelter, without being out in it.’ They had spent so many cold, sleepless nights in the shelter in the back lane at Inkerman Street.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was. But having to sit tight, hearing it all going on – well, that’d tear my nerves to shreds even worse. If you’re up and doing you don’t think too much. But then . . .’
He stopped, abruptly. Grace gave his waist a small squeeze. ‘What?’
‘Oh—’ He forced a lighter tone. ‘Just – a mate of mine, one of them nights . . . It was so hot you could feel it beating on yer . . . A beam came down on him. I saw him go down – in the flames. Couldn’t do a thing. Still feel I should’ve done, though.’
She gasped, hearing him struggling with his voice, trying not to break down.
‘Oh, Johnny – how terrible.’
‘Yeah.’ He gave a shrug. ‘That’s fighting fires. Anyhow, we was forty-eight hours on, bloody long shifts. But in between, sometimes they took us out to the country – to farms. We used to help out, like.’
‘Did you, now?’ she said, teasingly. She wanted to lighten things. They were leaving the city behind, winding their way into Ladywood. ‘I s’pose you met some of those Land Girls?’
Johnny laughed. ‘Oh yeah – we saw a few of them all right.’
‘I could’ve done that, I s’pose,’ she said. ‘I just stayed in a factory – I daint want to go far from home. I don’t know the first thing about the country and farming.’
‘Nor did some of them,’ Johnny said, chuckling. ‘They had to learn fast, I can tell yer. Some of them were right townies. They was better off for grub out there, though – eggs and chickens and that. There was one lass, come out from Smethwick, used to send her mother a rabbit home in the post every week.’
‘What – a live one?’
‘No, yer daft bint – a dead’un. For Sunday dinner. Just put a bit of paper round it with the address on, and off it went.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I’m not! You can post anything if you’ve got the address on it! Eh you . . .’ His voice changed, taking on an amorous warmth. He pulled her aside. The buildings were huddled either side of them, even darker shadows in the deepening night. Johnny switched on his torch. They were standing beside the wreckage of a house. ‘Come on,’ he hissed. ‘Looks all right in here.’
‘No!’ Grace tried to pull him back. ‘We can’t go in there. It’s dangerous – summat might come down on us.’ She shivered, superstitious about bombed-out houses. ‘You don’t know what might be in there.’
‘I’ll have a look.’ Johnny stepped inside and she saw the little pencil of light moving. ‘Roof’s already gone,’ he reported in a loud whisper. ‘There’s nowt much left.’
‘You sure there’s no one in there?’
‘No – come on.’
She stepped into the shell of a building, into its old stinks of wet, burnt stuff and damp masonry. Everything felt unreal, like watching herself from the outside: a woman stepping into the darkness, into the arms of a man who was not her husband; a woman who was full of desire, who could not stop herself. Because she knew that once she was in there, his arms would be waiting.
‘That’s it,’ he said, drawing her to him.
At last, all she had been waiting for, the comfort and excitement of his arms around her. She was not thinking, not intending, just needing. They pressed each other close in the darkness, his hands moving on her body, hers drawing him against her until they could not stop, could not draw back.
All they had was their two coats, which they laid on the floor, hurrying, taking off only what was necessary, both in a fever of need so that suddenly Johnny was on top of her, a vigorous man full of energy and desire. Her back was pressed against the brick floor through only a layer of cloth, but whatever the discomfort, she was too carried away to care.
They clung to one another and Grace found herself sobbing as Johnny kissed her again and said, ‘Oh God, Gracie, you’re lovely, you’re my girl.’ Full of the bliss of release, of being held, she kept repeating his name, warmed by his body, her hands stroking his strong back. It was only as they cooled and came back to themselves that she started to feel the pain of the hard floor against her spine.
He walked her home afterwards, the two of them wrapped together, stopping every few yards to kiss. She stopped him some distance from Inkerman Street to say goodbye. She wasn’t taking any chances of anyone seeing her, even at this time of night. She had told him she lived with her mother, who was a tartar.
It happened just once more, a fortnight later, in the same place. She had not seen him at all during those days and by the time they met she was longing for him, to be held and loved again. When he offered to walk her home again, they both knew what was going to happen. Neither of them said anything. Grace felt that if she spoke, it would bring reality crashing in on them. Her silence meant she was not lying, to him, to herself. It was like a beautiful dream that they shared, just the two of them, away from the war, from everything.
‘When will I see you again?’ she asked as he left her at the corner again. She felt warm and happy after their lovemaking.
‘I’m off next Thursday, I think,’ he said. ‘Grace—’ She could sense, in the darkness, that he was looking at her very seriously. ‘I don’t want to let you go. I mean, don’t think this is just . . . I’m not playing about. I want to be your man. Why don’t we go and see your mom – get wed, like?’
Grace plummeted to earth with a crash. Panic seized her. How the hell could she have let this happen, let this man think that she was free and available?
‘Oh – Johnny,’ she said, desperately searching for words to let him down lightly. ‘Not now – it’s late. Mom’ll be asleep. She won’t thank us for waking her up! Look . . . Let’s just keep things as they are, for now, eh? What with the war on and everything. I don’t know as I’m ready to get settled yet . . .’
‘But I thought . . .’ She could feel the disappointment coming from him. He sounded surly with hurt. ‘I love you, Grace. I do. I ain’t mucking about.’
‘Oh, Johnny – I love you too,’ she said, throwing her arms round him, wanting to say something to make him feel better. ‘I do! Only let’s not rush anything, eh? It’s just, the war – anything can happen. Like you said about your mate who was killed in the fire. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.’
‘All right,’ he said, seeming to accept this. ‘But you’re my girl, right?’
‘Course I am.’ She kissed him. ‘Goodnight, love – I’d better go.’
‘I love you,’ she heard him say as they moved away from each other.
When they parted that night, it was the last time she ever saw him.
The next Thursday evening, she went to where they said they would meet, by the Cathedral. Grace waited and waited. She had been wondering what she should say, torn apart by knowing she should tell him the truth. She could not keep stringing Johnny along. He was a decent man with real feelings for her. She knew she had done a terrible thing – both to him and to Ted. That night she stood by the wall of St Philip’s, cold with dread. The thought of losing him was unbearable. But she had done him wrong – she knew she had to tell him.
He never came. She waited and waited in the dark before dragging her way home, hurt and confused. She told herself that they must have had a change of work rota. But
how could he get in touch with her now? She had never let him know her address. Days passed. Two weeks. She waited, sick with loss and worry.
Only well into May 1944 did one of her workmates who knew some of the firemen tell her that a group of them had been posted away, down south. Later, after June, and the invasions on D-Day, it all fell into place. They had been needed for something down there. He had not left her after all, without a single word.
But she had no idea where he was. And soon after that, she started to feel strange. She was never actually sick when she was carrying Barbara, but she did feel odd. Her appetite changed and she had a nasty taste in her mouth. One day she passed out at work. It had barely crossed her mind that she would catch for a baby. It had never happened with Ted. Babies were not for her, she had thought. It took her a while to realize what was happening.
As the summer passed, and as her body began to swell and she felt movements inside her, it gradually dawned on her. She was not barren after all! She was going to have a baby. And what’s more, a baby that was nothing to do with her husband – something that was going to be perfectly obvious to everyone.
14
When she got back to the house from Joan’s that morning, Grace pushed open the back door to find Ted asleep in the chair in the kitchen. He did not stir even when she opened and closed the door.
Grace crept to the table, put her bag down and went over to look at him. Ted was very still, his mouth slightly open, and for a second her heart sped in panic. She heard him let out a small breath and her pulse slowed again.
As she stood looking at him, she was filled with shame and desperation. Ted’s jaw looked longer now he was so thin. He had caught a touch of sun out in the garden with Larry, but he still looked sallow and unhealthy. The old Ted would never have fallen asleep at this time in the morning. He sagged in the chair like an old man.
What has happened to you? she thought, gazing down at him. She had to remind herself, He’s my husband.
She crept over and put the kettle on the gas. Bending over the waste bucket, she knocked the old grouts out of the teapot – SWAN BRAND, she read, stamped on the bottom . . . And a memory of Johnny came to her, so powerful that it set her heart thudding again . . . Walking along in the dark with him, their arms around each other, his kiss on her cheek. Johnny, who now seemed to be working just around the corner.
Oh God, she thought, turning to look at Ted again, this strange, broken man in the room with her. I’ve got to stop this. I’ve got to try and understand him, be kind to him.
In the daytime Ted never did anything much until Larry visited after work. He seemed completely exhausted. He would go outside and stand for long periods, a cigarette burning in his hand. Then he would come back in and just sit. He never even read the paper.
‘He’s bad, in’t ’e?’ Larry had said to her a couple of times, his boyish, freckly face looking troubled. ‘I thought ’e might perk up a bit quicker than this.’
‘I know,’ Grace agreed. Hearing this only made her feel more desperate. ‘But you coming round’s a big help, Larry.’
‘Is it?’ he said, mouth turning down despondently. ‘It’s hard to tell, to be honest with yer. ’E barely says a word.’
She reassured him that it was a help. She knew Ted was silent and impossible to read. It was only at night that he wasn’t quiet, when the restless lashing out and talking began. She would wake, her heart banging, as Ted muttered or bawled things, enraged-sounding scraps of words that he never seemed to remember the next morning. At night, in the dark bedroom, she was frightened of him.
It certainly was a help to have Larry take Ted off her hands for a part of the day. Because that was how it felt – as if he was a heavy weight, loaded on top of her, leaving her deprived of her beloved little girl and with no room to breathe.
Larry arrived later on, carrying in each hand a plank with nails sticking out at each end. Grace stood at the back door in the warm afternoon, arms folded, leaning into the door frame. Once the two men were absorbed, measuring up, banging and sawing, she went upstairs.
When Ted came home, he had thrown his bag into the cupboard in their room. Later he had produced a couple of things out of it that needed washing, but otherwise, there it had sat. Now she thought, I’ll just have a little look inside, in case – she pretended to herself – there’s anything else needs washing.
She had no real idea what soldiers carried about with them. And somewhere in her mind, as she went to the cupboard, feeling horribly nervous, she knew she was looking for clues. To what? Clues that would tell her who was this man, her husband? Letters, from someone other than herself? A photograph, perhaps, given to him by some sweetheart over there he was still pining for, some Polish woman? She realized she could hardly imagine what a Polish woman would look like – blonde, dark? Nothing about Ted’s life over the past five years was known to her.
The cupboard opened with a squeak and the mucky canvas bag lay flat at the bottom. She could see immediately that there was nothing much inside, if anything at all. Somehow disappointed, she picked it up. It smelled strongly, but of nothing in particular, just a stink of stored-up grime. But there was something in there: a weight heavier than the bag.
Unfastening the straps, she reached inside and pulled out a little sewing kit, wrapped in grubby white cloth. Hussif – she remembered what the soldiers called it. And there was something else – a roll of paper wrapped in a scrap of black rag. Her breath caught. Letters? It did not look like her letters, her cheerful attempts to keep up the thread between them. Where had they gone, she wondered?
Jumping at a sound from somewhere, she ran into the back room and checked where Ted and Larry were, but they were both still busy outside.
Back in their bedroom, she fumbled to untie the knot in the rag, cursing her trembling fingers. Her blood was running fast. There was dread at what she might find – and a kind of excitement. Ted had secrets too. Was this thing that he had hidden in here something to make him equal with her? Could she feel the weight of guilt lift from her or at least be balanced with some guilt on his side?
The papers were thin, lined stuff, torn from a cheap pad. It all kept trying to roll back up again as she opened it out. On each sheet was a drawing of a bird. She did not know about birds, but she could see that they were good drawings, beautiful drawings, done with a pencil. Whose were they? She frowned, looking at them. And why was Ted carrying them about with him? She was not sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. It just made him seem even further away from her.
She quickly rolled them back up and retied the strip of rag, desperately not wanting to be caught snooping in his things. Once she had returned the bag to the cupboard, she checked through the back window again. All safe. They were still out there.
Soberly, with a sense of desperate bewilderment, she went back down to make the men a cuppa.
When she and Ted got into bed that night, she was determined that they would not just lie in the dark in silence again. The longer Ted was at home, the harder it became to know where to start with asking him about anything. She knew so little that she hardly knew what to ask. She pulled the bedclothes over the two of them, feeling shivery and nervous.
‘Ted?’ She made herself speak. Her voice came out high and forced.
‘Yeah?’ He was already lying down, on his back. He spoke cautiously, as if expecting trouble or difficulty. It was not a welcoming response. Trying not to cry or make him feel any worse, she lay down beside him.
‘Love . . .’ Timidly, she laid a hand on his ribs and felt him flinch. How thin he was. It shocked her every time she touched him. ‘You feel so far away,’ she pleaded. ‘Can’t you talk to me a bit? Tell me what happened, or . . .’ She trailed off, already discouraged. Why have you got drawings of birds in your bag? She really didn’t know if this meant anything or not, other than that he had not shown them to her.
He lay still for a moment and she wondered what he was thinking and whether he would sta
rt talking. She felt his arm twitch beside her.
‘I just wanted to ask . . .’ she tried. Taking courage, she tried a different approach. ‘I – I wasn’t being nosy . . . I thought you might have some washing . . .’ As she began, she saw how impossible this was to say. I looked through your bag. I unwrapped your papers and looked at them, your drawings . . .
And he wasn’t listening anyway, was turning away from her, onto his side. ‘Don’t keep on, woman,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’
Her hand slid from him as he turned away and she was left lying beside his scrawny back, the back she used to know like a map of home. The back of someone who used to tell her she was beautiful, the most gorgeous girl in all the world. Someone who had loved her. Where had he gone now?
Ted fell asleep quickly. He seemed steeped in exhaustion.
Grace lay feeling her blood pounding around her body. She knew she was not going to sleep and eventually, as Ted’s breathing turned to a jagged snoring, she slipped out of bed, pulled a jersey on over her nightdress and went downstairs. She tucked herself up in the chair in the kitchen, the rug over her knees.
Her thoughts piled one on another. She longed for Barbara, asleep over in Joan’s house. The thought of her baby brought on an aching milk reflex. Tears filled her eyes and she got up to fetch a rag to dry herself. She could see no way out of this . . . This wounded stranger upstairs, the loss of her child . . .
Except that in a month or so, Ted was due to go back to the army, to be sent into active duty again. Surely he was in no state? And yet – terrible thoughts came to her – they would make him go, and then who knew if he would ever return? She would be alone again. And all this time, so near, doing his bit in the fire service, the father of her child . . .
Grace pulled her knees up close, resting her head on them and rocking gently back and forth, trying to comfort herself. She gave herself over to thinking about Johnny: his cheerful personality, his eagerness for her, his vigorous body as he had given her love, given her the thing she had thought she would never have – a child, her lovely Barbara. Their Barbara.
