Paint on the Smiles

by Grace Thompson

  ‘Where’s Miss Van?’ she asked an assistant.

  ‘She went out, Mrs Marshall, with that soldier.’

  Cecily thanked her and returned to the office.

  Van was led by Edwin, who held her hand and pulled her along like a reluctant child, through the main road and down the hill parallel to the one on which Owen’s shop stood, and along the road past the docks to his parents’ house. It had withstood the bombing with only the loss of a few slates. She noticed how bright the gardens were with the huge border of summer flowers behind the inevitable plot of vegetables, which Beryl hated so much. She saw that the door had been newly painted and was stupidly aware of the way the paint had run across the glass in a slipshod way. Passing it several times a day she hadn’t noticed how badly it had been painted, yet it was glaringly obvious today, when everything seemed so clear. The distraction calmed her and when Edwin closed the door behind them she took off her coat and hung it in the hall cupboard, instead of putting it on a chair and leaving it for the maid to attend to.

  Edwin led her into the lounge and then left her, calling to see that the house was as empty as it seemed. When he returned, she was sitting beside the empty grate in which Beryl usually arranged a display of flowers. He came to her and lifted her up to stand in front of him, then enfolded her in his arms and lowered his head for their kiss. It was slow and loving, warm and so natural that she felt no alarm when he began to undress her.

  She was vaguely surprised to see how brown he was, but too enchanted with the thrill of the moment to consider the deserts of North Africa. He loved her, tenderly, all the hurt and fury gone from his deep brown eyes, his gentle fingers and firm body a delight that filled a long awaited need in her that she only just realized was there.

  They spent the rest of the day just talking, sitting close to each other on the velvet settee, relaxed and completely content.

  Van was conscious of her dishevelled appearance and it was Edwin who combed her hair when they heard his parents at the door. She was flushed and they both looked utterly happy. Possibly Bertie, and certainly Beryl, guessed at least a part of how the young couple had spent their day. They hugged their son and Bertie said, ‘Edwin, we’re so relieved you’re safe. We were afraid you might be out there.’ He pointed vaguely in the direction of France. ‘Such a relief to know you aren’t.’

  They asked a lot of questions, the first being when do you go back, and that was the only one he was able to answer. Edwin couldn’t explain that he was on his way to Scotland for a top-secret meeting, but said, ‘I have two days only.’

  Van stood to leave. ‘I’ll get back to the shop.’

  ‘I’ll go with you, to see Auntie Cecily and Auntie Ada. We’ll be out today, Mum, but tomorrow you and Dad and I will have the morning together.’

  ‘Van as well?’ Beryl smiled at the girl who was as close as a daughter, but her eyes darted to see that the engagement ring belonging to Paul was still on her finger, replaced only moments earlier. ‘You’ll have the morning off, won’t you, dear, to see Edwin before he goes back?’

  ‘I’m sure Mam won’t mind if I mitch for the morning.’ She looked at Edwin for agreement.

  ‘Of course Van as well. That needn’t be said. Part of our family she is and always will be.’ He was looking at Van, making sure she understood the message underlying the words.

  Beryl had sensed the undercurrent as soon as she stepped into the room. Something was going on and with Van engaged to that sergeant, she was curious and excited to know what it was.

  ‘Dinner at seven, Van, dear,’ she reminded her. ‘Don’t let Edwin forget.’

  The shop was locked and silent, of course. Van had forgotten it was half-day closing. Hand in hand they walked. First through the town, pausing for a while to watch the attempts of bomb disposal experts checking the site of an unexploded bomb that had been reported that day, long after the latest raid. Then on, through the lanes towards the old village.

  They wandered far from the houses, following the stream out into the fields where children played. They passed the deep craters of a landmine which had missed the docks by more than two miles, perhaps jettisoned by a pilot anxious to get home after narrow escapes from the battery of guns protecting the coast. Rabbits hopped in the fresh raw earth and there were already burrows appearing near the top of the crater where turf overhung like a protective porch for their front door.

  Birds sang in the summer air, carefree and unaffected by the nights of destruction. Dippers walked through the shallow but turbulent stream and a heron flew with its lazy flapping flight across their path. It seemed so far away from the war that it was impossible to imagine the harsh sound of the siren disturbing the peace and tranquillity, or the fierce life and death battles taking place in France.

  They spoke very little, just walked through the tall grasses, stopping occasionally to admire some of the wild flowers which added a thousand hues to the meadow. Corn was ripening in the fields beyond, adding its own rich colour, the gold patched here and there with the gaudy red of poppies.

  They approached the houses of the village and were brought abruptly out of their dream and back to reminders of the war they both wanted to forget. The cottage gardens were full of cabbages and carrots and beans, where there had once been an abundance of flowers, victims of the Dig For Victory campaign. The buildings were in desperate need of repair, many with boarded-up windows and all with the criss-cross tape or net stuck to the glass to prevent broken panes from flying about and causing more damage.

  ‘All the effort is going into the war,’ Van said, pointing to a house from which the thatch was tumbling in green, rotting disarray. ‘The women are all at work and their spare time is spent growing food and helping with voluntary services. It’ll be years before this is all returned to how it was. When the men come home there will be so few of them.’

  ‘If these people hadn’t helped, people like your mother and thousands like her, we wouldn’t be so close to victory. It had to be an all-out effort and that’s what we had.’

  They sat on a stile and watched as dusk gradually filled in the distant hills. The sea faded into a continuation of the night sky. Trees shushed softly in the offshore breeze that the cooling earth produced and was a lullaby with the birds making soft soothing twittering in the hedges. Van realized that even though their thoughts were melancholy, she had never been so happy.

  It was getting dark, although the night was still warm, as they made their way back over the fields and reached the edge of the town. In a dell, where the air was cool, they stopped and made love slowly, taking more time than before to please each other and coming together in perfect culmination of their love.

  It seemed so right, the love that had never before been a part of their relationship. No guilt or uneasiness came to spoil it for Van. Passion grew again and it was some time before they moved. They strolled back home, hand in hand, speaking to everyone they met, wishing strangers a peaceful night and having strangers bestow good wishes upon them too.

  ‘I have to go and see Mam, explain about tomorrow,’ Van said, when they reached the shop porch.

  ‘I won’t come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll go home but don’t be long, will you?’

  ‘I’ll be there before you know it,’ Van said as she surrendered to a final kiss. She watched him walk away, tall, confident and very, very dear. Then she took out her key and pushed the door, the cheerful bell warning Cecily and the others of her arrival.

  ‘Hello, lovey.’ Cecily smiled. ‘Where have you been, out with Edwin, is it?’

  ‘Yes. He only has two days’ leave. I won’t be in the shop tomorrow morning. I’ll make a few notes for the reps that are due.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll cope, don’t worry. It’s a busy day, mind, most people want their rations on Thursday or Friday, but we’ll manage. Young Jennifer is a good girl and she works hard. Go you, and enjoy yourself.’

  Van was aware of the excitement in her mother’s eyes. She knew her mot
her hoped it was Edwin she would marry and not Paul Gregory.

  ‘Here you are, Van.’ Ada handed her a cup of tea, quickly made with the ever-simmering kettle. ‘Something to eat, love?’

  ‘No, I’ll go straight back.’ She went to kiss them all, including Phil, who watched her with a disapproving look on his thin face. She went through the shop, rattled the door to make the old bell jingle but didn’t go out. She slipped back to listen to the conversation.

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise for you!’ she heard her mother say with obvious pleasure. ‘It seems I mustn’t give up hope of her coming to her senses just yet. If she and Edwin go out for the day and Van comes back looking like that, Paul might not be my son-in-law after all!’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ Ada said. ‘Edwin’s far more suitable. No chance he’s a fortune hunter either, mind.’

  ‘She’s promised to Paul!’ Phil objected loudly. ‘She’s accepted him and she’s wearing his ring! You don’t want her to have the reputation of a tart, do you? Carrying on with a man and engaged to another, and him a serving soldier. Disgusting, that’s what it is, disgusting!’

  ‘If it means that Van doesn’t marry that Paul Gregory, then it can only be for the best,’ Cecily retorted. ‘I’d be so happy if she became Mrs Edwin Richards. He’s the right one for her. Sure of it I am.’

  Van tiptoed across the wooden floor and slid carefully round the door, muffling the bell with her hand to prevent it giving away her late departure. She was laughing as she ran down the street. Tormenting her mother was so easy and the best was still to come.

  At the Richards’ house they ate a light supper, then she went to bed, insisting that Edwin would want to talk to his parents as his visit was so brief. In the bathroom she washed her body, examining it, expecting it to be different from the morning. Was she different? She certainly felt different. But her resolve to make her mother pay for her ruined childhood, that hadn’t changed. Edwin’s unexpected revelation of his love hadn’t altered her that much.

  She slipped into bed with the delicious feeling that he might defy chance and come to her room while his parents slept, but he did not. She woke longing to feel again his loving hands and warm lips, and enjoy his strong brown body against her own.

  They ate breakfast together, the four of them, and she was quiet as his parents brought him up to date on local news. They were still talking as she went up to dress. She chose a summer dress of striped blue cotton, its simple lines showing to advantage her slender figure. The colour seemed to match the sky and the blue of her eyes, which sparkled with secret joy. She chose a straw hat with ribbons hanging down to join her long fair hair. Bathed and scented, she went downstairs. Uncle Bertie and Auntie Beryl were going out for an hour and she waited until they were gone, then, while Edwin was dressing, she left the house.

  Turning right, she passed the road where Owen’s shop was opening its door and through the lane to the main road. She walked past bombed-out houses where children played dangerous games among unsafe walls and broken furniture, past shops with boards instead of windows, where homemade notices declared ‘Business As Usual’ in bold letters alongside the Welsh dragon and Union Jack flags waving defiance to the enemy.

  A fire engine was emptying water from a basement where a water main had burst. The old Merryweather engine had been retired in favour of the new Dennis in 1940 but had come back into service as a reserve.

  Cats and dogs prowled everywhere, many homeless and with no one to claim them they wandered in a constant search for food. She saw a rat scuttle across a piece of wasteground and shuddered. The bright sun shone on a perfectly symmetrical spider’s web which joined the two sides of a broken window, as if in an attempt to render temporary repairs. Everything was a fascination; seen for the very first time. It was so long since she had wandered without a thought for anything other than the moment.

  There were sweet coupons in her handbag and she went into a shop to buy some chocolate. The entrance was through a zig-zag passageway, made to prevent light escaping during the hours of darkness. It was a dark cave-like entrance to the cheerful shop within.

  Handing her coupons and pennies to the assistant, she bought a two-ounce bar, her ration for the week, and dropped it into her handbag. The woman recognized her and said, ‘Miss Owen, isn’t it? From Waldo Watkins’ store? Got a day off, have you? There’s lovely.’

  ‘Not really,’ Van confided with a chuckle. ‘I’m mitching!’

  ‘Best for you too.’ The woman laughed. ‘Does us good to cheat now and then. I wish I could cheat and come with you, indeed I do. Here you are,’ she added and picked up a small penny bar. ‘Take this, a treat for me.’

  Van smiled widely and thanked her. ‘I knew this was going to be a lovely day.’

  She went out again through the dark, zig-zag passage, out into the sun and, still smiling, walked on through the back lanes to the old part of the town. Breaking the penny bar into four pieces and sucking them, she relished the rare pleasure of the sweet smoothness. She usually gave her sweet ration to Willie for his children and tried – in vain – to persuade Owen to do the same.

  Following the route she and Edwin had taken the previous day, she stopped where they had stopped, paused to admire the views they had admired and relived the hours they had walked with her pale hand in Edwin’s suntanned one. Sitting on the same stile, she looked out over the distant sea, so different in colour from the previous evening but giving her the same air of wonder and peace.

  She ate her bar of chocolate in the dell where they had made love, lying looking up at the sky, dreaming of how it had been. She didn’t wallow in regrets or wish today had been different. Today was for dreaming and remembering. At three o’clock, the time Edwin was catching his train, she stood, combed her hair, adjusted her hat and walked slowly back to the town.

  She didn’t go straight to Edwin’s home where she had lived since Waldo’s death, but to Owen’s shop. It was only five but the door was closed. She opened it with her key.

  ‘Van, where have you been?’ Cecily demanded. ‘Edwin has spent his precious leave searching the town for you. I had to leave the office and try to help. How could you be so thoughtless?’

  ‘I went for a walk. You don’t begrudge me a day off, do you? It’s a long time since I had some time to myself.’

  ‘But what about Edwin?’ Cecily asked, but Van turned and, ribbons swinging, was walking away, calmly preparing her excuses for Beryl and Bertie.

  Phil spent more and more time just sitting in the room behind the shop. He seemed to have lost interest in going out with the horse and cart to find food to sell. He would read the morning paper from cover to cover, then just sit, staring into the fire, promising to do the few things Ada asked of him, but eventually succeeding in persuading her that either they didn’t want doing or that Willie was a better person to ask.

  On the morning following Van’s day out, he waited until the shop had a few customers, mainly calling for a chat rather than to buy. With a gossipy customer in full swing, and Ada pinned down for a while, he opened the drawer in which paper and envelopes were kept. He addressed the envelope to Paul and began a letter.

  Dear Paul,

  I think you ought to know …

  Phil wasn’t the only one writing to a member of His Majesty’s forces that day. At the bench which Willie used as a temporary office in a corner of the workshop, he was writing to Danny. He had taken the day off from Owen’s where there was little to do, to spend time at the workshop where there was plenty.

  Behind him were the sounds of wood being worked on an electric lathe, and chisels shaping a length of replacement skirting board. He had employed twin sixteen-year-old boys, who in the past year had become competent at furniture making as well as repairs and restoring. Although, with wood on a rigid and limited quota, it was difficult to keep them both occupied until they began to buy wood from bomb-damaged houses and advertised it as such.

  Leonard and Graham Williams paused in
their work and Willie went to see how Leonard was getting on with the child’s desk and stool he was finishing, following his own design. The work was good and he praised them both.

  ‘How do you feel about joining me in a new venture?’ he asked them before finishing the letter to Danny. ‘I’m only getting my thoughts down on paper as yet, but I’d welcome your views.’

  ‘Glad to listen to what you have to say, boss,’ Leonard said and his brother nodded. Of the two, Leonard was usually the first to speak, although Graham didn’t automatically agree with his twin.

  ‘I can’t do the work I enjoyed before the war,’ Willie said, waving the stump of his arm and giving a wry smile. ‘A carpenter needs two good hands and that’s for sure. But I can write, and telephone, and take down orders and do the invoicing and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ideas are your department too,’ Leonard said, and once again Graham nodded agreement.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking that it isn’t all that convenient now, getting supplies. Some places sell sand and cement and the heavy materials and some sell wood. Others sell plumbing needs and I want to have a yard so large we can stock everything a builder needs.’

  ‘What about the workshop?’ Leonard asked anxiously.

  ‘That will continue as before and you two will turn out some really first-class stuff. I want the yard as well.’

  ‘Seems worth considering,’ Leonard said. ‘Plenty of building to be done when this war is finally over.’

  His brother shook his head. ‘Only as long as you can get good honest men to work for you, and the cash to start it.’ His voice trailed off, indicating his doubts.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to employ builders?’ Leonard suggested. ‘Extend the business you’ve been doing and what you’ve a good name for? Damn it all, Graham’s right – you’ve only to look around this area to see all the work that’ll be needed once Hitler’s been sorted.’