by Annie Groves
Dulcie looked with pleading eyes at her mother, begging her not to make her do this thing. But her mother, rejecting her silent plea, only nodded in the direction of the woman’s open hand and Dulcie unfurled her tightly clenched fingers and placed the money into the grimy palm.
As the woman opened the little cupboard that housed the gas meter Dulcie was horrified to see her reach inside the dust-covered interior to retrieve an array of vicious-looking paraphernalia: a chipped white enamel bowl containing a length of rubber tubing and a grubby-looking jug as well as evil-looking crochet hooks and knitting needles that filled Dulcie with the fear of God-only-knows.
‘Drop yer drawers, dearie, you can leave your stockings on, it’s all the same to me,’ said the woman whose face was almost unrecognisable in the dimness of the room, quite unabashed. ‘Just get yourself on the table, lie down, it’ll be over as soon as you like.’
A kettle boiled on the inflamed coals of a black-lead range, adding to the already insufferable clamminess of the little room that housed only a large wooden table and a sideboard littered with dirty clothing.
‘Please forgive me, Lord … I know not what I do.’
The imploring voice inside Dulcie’s head sounded very much like her own, but it couldn’t be, she realised, because why would she ask forgiveness for something she could stop at any moment?
She looked at her mother pulling at the collar of her woollen coat and the knot of her scarf, and wondered irrationally what had possibly possessed her to dress in such a way for the occasion. Anything to distract herself from the awful, terrible thing she was about to do. The gossamer-fine hairs on her arms stood on end and a cold chill ran through her even in the heat of the room as the sound of laughter, from children who had been brought back from evacuation now that things had calmed down a bit, carried on the stifling air. It was at that moment that Dulcie knew she couldn’t go through with destroying her baby. What had she been thinking? This thing she was about to do was wrong.
It didn’t matter that hundreds, maybe thousands of women went through it every day; she knew nobody was going to take this precious gift from her. Having her baby removed wasn’t like getting rid of an unsightly pimple, she realised – this tiny, helpless creation inside her was a living human being, part of her and part of a man who had been as lonely and as lost as she had been.
Would she ever be able to live with herself again if she went through with getting rid of her little indiscretion for the sake of her mother’s good name? Dulcie asked herself. But she didn’t want or even need her mother’s approval, she was over twenty-one, she didn’t depend on her family for money – they wouldn’t give her any if she did – and, looking now at the determined set of her mother’s thin lips, she knew she couldn’t give two hoots any more about the shame she would bring upon her family. What did they care, after all?
People were dying on a daily basis, the world had turned upside down; men were dropping in their thousands. This child had a right to carry on his father’s bloodline even if he would never have a paternal link!
Dulcie’s stomach heaved its disapproval and before she could disgrace herself there in the front room of a bomb-damaged East End terraced house, she bolted from the room, slamming the front door behind her, and didn’t stop until she reached the bus stop at the top of the road, quickly followed by her mother.
‘You stupid little cow!’ Mrs Simmonds said through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you realise what you’ve done?’
‘Oh, I’m ever so sorry, did I embarrass you, Mum? Did I run out without paying enough?’ Dulcie rummaged in her bag and took out some more notes and pushed the money into her mother’s hand. ‘Here, give ’er this, I wouldn’t want anybody short-changed.’
‘It’s not like that, Dulcie,’ her mother said. ‘Think of what you’re doing, think of the life you’re going to ’ave now, scrimping and scraping. Living ’and to mouth like …’
‘Like who, Mum?’ Dulcie asked, knowing her mother had always tried to put a brave face on things, making out her husband’s wage was enough to support the family, to the point where she would pass her weekly bill money to a neighbour to keep the tally men from knocking on their door of a Friday night. Anything to prevent her father finding out she couldn’t manage on the pittance he tipped up.
‘… Like all the other poor mares what have no choice, Dulcie! You’re a good-lookin’ gel, you ought to know the way things turn out if you don’t play the game, and you’re not stupid.’
‘Well, that’s a first.’ Dulcie’s eyes were wide but her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘My mother giving me praise after all these years.’
‘Look.’ Her mother’s long-suffering sigh proved to Dulcie that she was nothing but an irritation to her family. ‘You gotta do what you gotta do and that’s an end to it.’
‘But it isn’t an end to it, is it, Mum?’ Dulcie needed to make her mother understand, and with hands splayed across her abdomen she urged her mother to see her view for a change. ‘Getting rid of the life in here might only take moments, but it will stay with me for the rest of my life – there won’t be a day goes by that I won’t wonder what it would have been, or who it would have looked like. I could be carrying the next Prime Minister, who knows?’
‘Dulcie, you always was a stupid bitch,’ her mother said in exasperated tones, ‘but that’s what goes with ’avin’ your head stuck in the clouds all your life. You didn’t ’ave a clue what was going on around you, always wanting better, always wanting more, but you can’t ’ave no more.’ Dulcie watched as her mother spread her arms wide, looking around as if showing her the place for the first time. ‘This is it,’ said Mrs Simmonds. ‘It don’t get no better than this.’ She paused as if waiting for her words to sink in and when Dulcie made no move to agree or disagree she continued in a more persuasive tone, ‘I hoped that one day you’d see sense … Look at your sister …’
Dulcie’s heart sank. ‘I wondered how long it would take before we got around to talking about Edith.’ She knew her mother would always favour her sister. ‘’Bye, Mum, take care,’ she said as a bus drew up to the stop and with the single-mindedness that had taken her through her life so far, she vowed that even if she was ridiculed or shamed and called every awful name under the sun, she would live her life her way and she would never speak to her mother again.
With tears coursing freely down her cheeks Dulcie hopped onto the trolley bus. She knew there was only one person she could talk to now.
Only a Mother Knows
THIRTEEN
Tilly could feel her face burning in the unseasonably warm weather at the end of her basic training, and she had to keep very still, eyes front, shoes polished, uniform pressed to within an inch of its weave. She stood on the parade ground and stared at a brick in the cookhouse wall, knowing that if she took her eyes from it she would fall over. Spine straight, shoulders back. Her rifle, which she wasn’t allowed to fire, was getting heavier by the second.
Initially Tilly had endured rather than enjoyed her basic training under the strident timbre of Drill Sergeant Bison, who had promised to be her best friend or her worst enemy and more often than not had proved to be the latter. Up before dawn and down before dusk, Tilly had peeled a mountain of potatoes every day. She had also learned to strip down the engine of a lorry and put it back together again, drive, march, more times than she could recall, in expert unison with the rest of the company around the parade ground, and salute – she had to salute everybody, it seemed. The lack of privacy, which at first had horrified her, became a way of life and she, like Janet who came from a large family, could strip off at the drop of a hat without batting an eyelid.
Drill Sergeant Bison struck terror into Tilly’s heart – the eleventh commandment should have stated that ‘thou shalt not be late on parade’. Unfortunately Tilly nearly always was, and found getting up in the morning not the easiest of achievements. Once when she was late she was made to march around the parade ground at seven a.m. the next morning
until the rest of the company joined her at eight a.m.
Another reason for strife was the matter of her bed. Each morning she had to strip it, fold the sheets and blankets separately before stacking them up on top of the biscuit mattress. One morning Tilly overslept and didn’t have time to do it – it was either that or be late on parade, she thought, so she left the bed. Unfortunately, Tilly only realised there was a CO’s inspection that day when she got back to the hut and was sent for, severely reprimanded and confined to camp for seven days. In the beginning she wanted to go home to her mother, vowing that the army life didn’t give her the freedom she craved and it wasn’t as glamorous as the posters made out.
But now her training was over Tilly was surprised that she felt so forlorn. She had made good friends here and after today, she knew, they would be scattered in various places around the British Isles or even overseas.
She could feel herself beginning to sway slightly. Trying to stay upright during the long speeches, her mind wandered once more over the last few weeks. She had learned to drive and repair engines, she discovered her favourite transport was a motorbike and sidecar, and she dreamed of becoming a dispatch rider delivering important documents all over the country, anything to keep her mind from dwelling on her past relationship with Drew Coleman and his sudden and obviously permanent departure back to America.
Tilly could feel a trickle of moisture running from beneath her cap and down the side of her face but she daren’t move to wipe it away. Her naturally curly hair began to spring out of the Kirby grip and plaster itself to her sticky forehead, and she was sure that if she didn’t move her legs soon they would buckle; one girl near her had already passed out on the parade ground long before she ‘passed out’ of basic training. Surely it couldn’t be much longer?
And then it came, the long awaited order to ‘Dissssmissss!!!!’
Tilly, Janet, Veronica and Pru relaxed with huge sighs along with every other ATS girl before throwing their immaculately brushed caps into the air. Now, their proud passing-out ceremony was over and their hard weeks of training had come to an end.
‘I can’t wait to rest me poor plates,’ Pru said, rubbing her feet after all the hugs and back-slapping. She bent to pick up her discarded cap and flicked the dust from the rim. ‘I’m really looking forward to a good sit-down at the concert.’
They were being entertained in the dining hall, which had been temporarily transformed into a makeshift theatre by ‘D’ company, performing a farewell concert for all the new recruits who were being posted elsewhere. Then afterwards there was a ‘let-your-hair-down’ dance, after a short respite to turn the mess hall into a dance hall.
‘I hope we can stay together,’ Tilly said to Janet, Veronica and Pru, who had become good friends since they all started their basic training together. Tilly had joined the army wet behind the ears and not knowing ‘drill from drinking water’ – or so the sergeant had told her that first day which now seemed so long ago.
‘I heard some of us are being transferred to Plymouth,’ Veronica said, her gentle Scottish lilt barely audible. All the girls looked at each other and grimaced.
‘I wanted to be posted to London,’ said Tilly, much to the amusement of the others.
‘So you could go home for tea,’ Pru laughed. She’d joined only when she was forced to. Janet, being a straight-talking Scouser, challenged Pru, and the atmosphere turned somewhat frosty for a moment until Pru said, ‘Obviously, I was only joking. I would not have missed this for the world.’ Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. ‘I do hope we can stay together wherever they send us.’
‘What, all of us?’ said Janet with uncrushable Liverpool humour. ‘Hitler would be quaking in his jack-boots.’ The others laughed and the teary moment passed as they linked their arms and made their way to the mess hall for the concert, where, much to their delight, Veronica was expected to sing.
‘Are you nervous?’ Tilly asked as they deposited her at the stage door, commonly known as the back door where army provisions were usually delivered.
‘Nervous?’ Veronica asked in her soft Highland burr. ‘Quaking in my boots, more like,’ she said paraphrasing Janet, who gave her a huge sisterly hug.
‘You’ll be fine,’ the others cried in unison. ‘Break a leg, give ’em what for!’ Veronica managed a sickly smile before disappearing inside the hall.
Walking around to the front the rest of them voiced their opinion that Veronica might be too shy to sing her debut tonight. However, later, much to their delight and pride, bringing the farewell concert to a close, Veronica wowed the audience with a heartfelt, poignant rendition of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, the song made famous by the Forces’ sweetheart, Vera Lynn.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the concert hall when she finished to thunderous applause and a standing ovation. And later, Veronica was being positively pursued by some very handsome and brave soldiers who had already seen action and who were brought over from the military hospital. The others noticed with proud delight that their friend, the quiet, gentle, Scottish lassie, was being sought in the popular ‘Paul Jones’ dance by American soldiers too, who had been brought to the camp for the passing-out parade.
‘They always say it is the quiet ones you have to watch,’ Janet laughed and the others all nodded in agreement.
‘But it’s far too warm for me in here,’ Tilly said, tugging at her collar. ‘I think I’ll go outside and get a breath of fresh air.’
‘Good thinking,’ said a typically cockney male voice behind her. ‘You go outside and I’ll order you a drink’. Tilly spun around, indignant that the soldier should presume she would accept hydration from just anybody, and then she saw who it was.
‘Rick!’ Tilly’s mouth refused to close when she saw Dulcie’s brother standing there and was soon caught in his strong embrace, which lifted her off her feet, although when he let go of her Tilly noticed that in his left hand, he was holding a white stick.
‘Rick? You … you’re …?’
‘Blind? Well yes, almost,’ Rick said whilst Tilly caught her breath. ‘Although I do have a little sight, but not enough to keep me in the army now,’ he continued in his familiar matter-of-fact tone, so like his sister’s. Tilly recalled having a soft spot for him when Dulcie first moved into Article Row all those years ago before she met and fell in love with Drew. If she was honest, Tilly realised, she’d had more than a soft spot for Rick at first, she was positively besotted by him. And now he had tragically lost almost all the use of his eyes.
‘How long have you been …? What happened, can you say? How bad is it? Does your family know? Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, it was just the …’
‘Shock? I know,’ said Rick, whose handsome smile still had the power to make her tummy do somersaults even now, she was surprised to discover. ‘But not to worry, the doc says I might be as right as ninepence when the scarring at the back of my eyes heals completely.’
‘Oh, it sounds painful,’ Tilly cried, distressed seeing someone as chirpy and as vital as Rick usually was brought to this.
‘I can’t complain, it brought me home and you wanna see the nurses at the hospital, angels they are, all of ’em.’
‘Trust you to eye up the pretty nurses,’ Tilly laughed, immediately covering her mouth with the palm of her hand to stop any more stupid comments from popping out. It was only when Rick laughed that she felt at ease with the situation. That was one of the things she used to love about Rick, his obvious sense of humour and the ease with which he made people feel comfortable.
‘They released me from the prisoner-of-war camp. I think I was a bit of a burden to the enemy,’ he smiled, ‘although they were quite decent to me, so I can’t complain.’
‘Do your parents know?’ Tilly asked, remembering that they had moved out of the East End a while ago.
‘Mum and Dad have been told, but I wrote asking them not to visit, it’d be too distressing for them. I don’t fancy being stuck out in the countryside
where they’ve moved to either, so I’ll have to sort something out.’
‘What about Dulcie? Does she know?’
‘No, I ain’t told her yet, I thought I’d surprise her with a visit and we could paint the town red, go around the West End, see a show,’ he laughed softly, then was quiet for a while before adding thoughtfully, ‘I’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
‘I’m sure Dulcie would take your injury in her stride the way she does with every other catastrophe that befalls her,’ Tilly said, her brain doing little calculations. ‘You could stay at Mum’s … I don’t know where you’d sleep, though, unless Agnes bunks up with Dulcie and you have the room she and I used to share.’ Her mind was working overtime now, unable to bear the thought of him struggling alone.
‘Or there is the Simmonds’ house a few doors down. Drew’s room is still empty, so Mum said …’ She refused to dwell on Drew right now. ‘It’s close enough for Dulcie to pop in, and you’d be well looked after by my mum, or Agnes or Sally, she’s a nurse, she’ll be on hand if you need anything!’ Tilly’s tongue was going ten to the dozen now – it was all so easy.
‘Whoa!’ Rick said, putting up his hand. ‘This is going too fast for my liking. I only just seen you again since the beginning of the war and already you’ve got me a room and all these eager females to look after me.’ He laughed. ‘Did the army train you to organise people’s lives or does it come natural?’
‘Oh, Rick, I’m sorry,’ Tilly said quickly. ‘I’m always doing that lately; some call it helping and others call it meddling. I didn’t intend to meddle, honestly!’
‘It’s okay,’ Rick said, placing a bronzed hand on Tilly’s arm. She realised that she had overwhelmed him quite a bit and silently promised herself not to interfere; he would have his own plans, surely? But there was something else she could do for him.
‘I was just thinking,’ Tilly said more carefully, not wanting to upset him at all, ‘I’ve got a forty-eight-hour pass soon – I could escort you home.’
