Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  Sidney had enough in his pocket for the train fare home and a beer once he got there but as he walked towards the station, he passed a billboard saying, Ascot Gold Cup today.

  His heart fluttered. Which horse was the favourite? If Owen Tudor was running, he’d back it. The three-year-old had won the New Derby in 1941 and of the eleven times he’d raced, he’d come in first in five of them. Sidney had planned to go straight to the station but now he looked around for a bookie.

  Twenty-Eight

  London, Friday June 18th 1943

  Although exhausted from lack of proper sleep, when the ARP wardens deemed it safe to leave the shelter, Romare and Frankie walked to the top together. The streets were silent in the eerie half-light of morning, but the air smelled of smoke and dust, and cordite filled the air. Someone somewhere had had a pasting.

  ‘I need to get back to St George’s hospital in case I am needed,’ he told her. ‘You go home and get some sleep. Do you know Speakers’ Corner? I’ll do my best to meet you there at three or I’ll get a message to you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said smiling.

  Frankie did as he said and slept until her alarm woke her at lunch time. Being a week day, the crowds at Speakers’ Corner weren’t too large and before long she spotted him coming towards her. He looked so handsome her heart skipped a beat.

  They wandered around listening to the speakers for a while. There was nothing very inspiring, although some of the hecklers made their rhetoric amusing. In the distance, they saw the famous Tony Turner, a man dubbed the Thunderous Voice of Socialism. He was talking about equality for women in society, something which made Frankie prick up her ears. ‘Listen to what I say,’ he boomed, to which a heckler retorted, ‘Whatever you say, keep your mouth shut.’

  She and Romare turned towards Hyde Park and strolled along the pathways. It had changed since the onset of the war because some of the park was given over to allotments in an effort to help feed the nation. It struck Frankie as a miracle that the vegetables were still growing and nobody had stolen them.

  ‘Tell me about your childhood,’ Romare said. They walked side by side, their hands only touching briefly now and then. Each time she felt his fingers brush hers, Frankie’s heart leapt. ‘What does your father do?’

  ‘My father died when I was a year old,’ she began, ‘and I lost my mother when I was ten.’

  He looked at her, stricken. ‘Oh gee honey, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she assured him with a shrug. ‘It’s just the way life turns out sometimes, isn’t it?’

  ‘What happened to your mom?’

  So she told him. She told him about her birthday tea on Hillbarn and the doll her mother had made. She told him about coming home from school to find the ambulance outside the door. She told him about Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry, and Alan and Ronald, taking her in. She told him about the scramble races and the florist shop and eventually joining up. ‘I was always motorcycle mad,’ she said. ‘That’s why I joined the ATS. When I heard that chap saying women should be able to do the same things as men he’s quite right. Do you know once I came second in a race but I was disqualified just because I was a girl!’

  They had reached the Serpentine and he stopped walking. Frankie felt her face flush.

  ‘You’re real fiery, ain’t you,’ he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know I shouldn’t go on like that. It’s just that it makes me so cross, the unfairness of it all.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, honey,’ he said. ‘I like a woman with spunk.’

  They resumed their walk. ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘You told me about your family and the church helping you but was it hard becoming a doctor?’

  ‘For a black man like me? Yes. I went to the Howard HBCU.’

  ‘HCB …?’ she began.

  ‘H-B-C-U,’ he corrected. ‘Historically Black College University.’

  ‘So you had to go to a school just for black people?’ Frankie squeaked.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  Frankie felt her hackles rise again. ‘But that’s awful!’

  Romare chuckled. ‘That’s the way it is in the States, honey. Black folks don’t mix with white folks. If we were back home right now I’d be whipped for standing so close to you and I could never ask a white girl on a date.’

  Frankie gaped in disbelief.

  ‘Anyway, you asked about my schooling,’ he went on. ‘My Uncle Lemuel had a shop in Washington DC and I needed somewhere to live while I was doing my studies. All I had to do was help out in the store.’

  ‘So how long were you there?’

  ‘My uncle took sick so I had to take a back seat for a year,’ said Romare. Frankie slipped her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. ‘We all knew he wasn’t going to survive. He had no family of his own, so during the Fall of 1934 my family joined us.’

  ‘That was nice,’ she said.

  ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘After nearly half a century apart, my daddy and my uncle had a few precious months together before Uncle Lemuel died.’

  The atmosphere had become tinged with sadness. ‘But it wasn’t all bad,’ he added quickly. ‘My uncle’s two shops became four and daddy was very popular. As for me, I had time to devote myself to my studies.’

  They were walking towards a WVS van which served teas. Romare bought them a cup each and they sat on a nearby bench to drink them.

  ‘I have enjoyed my time with you, Frankie,’ he said as they resumed their walk. ‘Is it possible I could see you again?’

  ‘I should like that, Romare,’ she whispered. ‘I should like that very much.’

  Twenty-Nine

  North Farm, September 1943

  September found Frankie home again with a magical seven-day pass. She was so exhausted, her first few hours were virtually ‘wasted’. She woke at eight thirty, a lie-in as far as she was concerned. Normally she woke at 6am to the sound of the National Anthem being played over the tannoy system and the squad corporal bursting into the room to chivvy them all out of bed. After fifteen minutes of PE exercises outside, even in the dead of winter, it was back to the hut to get washed, dressed and tidy her bed before breakfast at eight. The army didn’t give anyone time to think.

  Behind the blackout curtain of her bedroom, her window was slightly ajar. Frankie lay in bed listening to the comforting sounds of the farm. The geese had gone but the chickens still scratched and clucked contentedly in the yard. She remembered dear old Loopy-Lu who had been such a comfort to her when she’d come here as a child. She’d lasted several years beyond normal chicken life but only because nobody had had the heart to serve her up for Sunday lunch, not even when she’d stopped laying. She’d always been fiercely independent and that was to be her undoing. Old and arthritic, she steadfastly refused to be locked into the hen house at night and the time came when she wasn’t quite quick enough. One evening, the fox got her on her way to her favourite roosting place in the old tree behind the hen house. It was a sad end but Frankie was comforted by the fact that she had enjoyed her life and far outlived her sisters.

  There were only three ducks left on the pond. One had been last year’s Christmas dinner and the others had been picked off by gypsies or scared away by a stray bomb.

  Today the sun was shining. She could see its borderline at the side of the curtain. It would have been wonderful to spend some time with Romare but he had been seconded to a hospital in Manchester. He’d also joined the American army and because he was already a doctor and they had a grave shortage of black doctors, he was given the honorary title of Lieutenant.

  Something thudded onto the small paved area under her window and a few seconds later, she heard the ratchet of the mangle as Aunt Bet prepared her washing for the line. Frankie stretched and yawned luxuriantly. She supposed she’d better get up.

  She heard a footfall and someone struck a match. Her aunt stopped turning the handle and said, ‘You all right, son?’


  For a second Frankie had forgotten that her cousin was home on leave too. He was on a six-day pass. It was purely coincidental but nice for Aunt Bet to have them both. Sadly, Alan hadn’t been much company. The medics had declared him fit for duty but he was far from the man she knew. The trouble was, he looked perfectly well. He’d manage normal duties for a month or two then the same old trouble would start all over again. Morose and bad tempered, he’d already upset both his parents by the time Frankie arrived. She heard his grunted reply.

  ‘Why don’t you go for a walk or something, son,’ Aunt Bet said. ‘It’ll do you good.’

  ‘For God’s sake, mother,’ he snapped. ‘Will you give it a bloody rest. Nag, nag, nag. You’re driving me crazy.’

  Frankie sat up as the door slammed and he went back in the house. What could they do? The army had tried everything. The softly, softly approach, the hard work with no time to think approach, long periods in the glasshouse for insubordination, and punishment regimes – but he remained totally out of control.

  Her eye drifted towards the drawer where she’d kept the princess doll hidden away for so long and a germ of an idea stole into her mind. When she arrived downstairs, she was wearing her old overalls.

  Alan was sitting at the kitchen table smoking his third cigarette. He barely acknowledged her as she walked in. There was a basin of dripping in the middle of the kitchen table. Frankie picked it up and looked closely. There was still a wedge of beef jelly juices at the bottom.

  ‘Ooh, delicious,’ she said.

  She made herself some tea and put a slice of bread under the grill. She made no attempt to engage in conversation with Alan. She could easily guess the reaction if she did. The smell of warm toast filled the kitchen. When it was done, she stuck the knife into the dripping, scooping some of the brown liquid onto her toast. One mouthful sent her into ecstasies of delight. She had been right. It was delicious.

  When she’d finished, she cleared away her plate and cup and saucer and headed for the back door.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Alan said at last.

  ‘The barn,’ she said as she began closing the door behind her. ‘To look at the bikes.’

  She’d only been in there about twenty minutes when he strolled through the door. She didn’t acknowledge him but she couldn’t resist a small smile. She’d known he wouldn’t be able to leave her here alone. He’d have to stick his nose in. So far, so good. The plan was working.

  *

  When Bet had finished putting the washing out, she came back to the house, calling as she went. The kitchen was empty. Upstairs, Frankie’s bed was made and her room neat and tidy. Alan’s room resembled a doss house. It took a while to create some semblance of order: making the bed, folding discarded clothes, emptying the ash tray and the overflowing chamber pot. She was really worried. What had happened to the cheerful chappie she’d always known? Alan was no shrinking violet. As a boy he’d got into any number of scrapes but they were mostly harmless pranks. The only really serious thing he’d got into trouble for was experimenting with an old stirrup pump he’d found somewhere. She hadn’t been too pleased when he’d put one end into a muddy puddle and aimed the other end at the postman. The postman hadn’t been too pleased either, but when the dust had settled Lorry had just laughed and said, ‘Boys will be boys.’ These days, Alan was in much deeper trouble. If he wasn’t picking a fight, he was smashing glasses in a pub or losing a day’s pay for refusing to obey an order. Her son had been locked up in more cells than she could remember. When would it all end? She had a terrible dread that by the time the war was over, her rudderless boy would be beyond salvation.

  She heard the back door open and called out again. There was no answer so she hurried downstairs. The back door was closed again and Alan’s army trousers were in a heap on the floor. The overalls he usually left on the hook behind the door had gone. Bet walked down the path towards the barn. She could hear voices.

  ‘I’ve already removed all the spark plugs,’ Frankie said. ‘They’re clean.’

  ‘Then the carburettor must be clogged up with old petrol,’ said Alan.

  ‘Already sorted that too,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Did you look at the jets and gaskets?’

  ‘Why do I need to do that?’

  ‘You should remember that, you daft mare,’ said Alan. ‘I used to explain it to you often enough.’

  Outside the door, Bet held her breath. He wasn’t going to lose his temper with Frankie, was he? Frankie didn’t reply.

  ‘Sometimes the gaskets get brittle, remember?’ said Alan, his tone a little less exasperated.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Frankie. ‘That’s right. I might need to rebuild them.’ Another pause.

  ‘Well, go on then.’

  ‘Okay, okay, keep your hair on.’

  Bet turned around and made her way back to the house. God bless you, Frankie, she thought. I bet you knew what you were doing all along. This is the first time in a very long time that Alan has thrown himself into anything that isn’t to do with drink and fighting.

  Frankie was enjoying herself. She always liked to be around the bikes and this one, a Richman JAP Scrambler, had been a particularly enjoyable ride. Laid up for the duration, it was in a sorry state. The shiny chrome tank was covered in grime and pitted with rust. Alan was at the other end of the barn tinkering with one of his old machines. They worked together in companionable silence and she lost all track of time until she saw Aunt Bet slip in with a plate of doorstep sandwiches and two mugs of steaming tea.

  ‘Thought you might be peckish,’ she said as their eyes met.

  As her aunt hurried off, Frankie pulled up an old wooden crate and an empty oil drum. Wiping her hands on an old rag, she called, ‘Biggest is mine.’

  Alan looked up and grinned. He always used to say that to her when she first came to live with them. He was only teasing of course and his father would give him a playful cuff on the shoulder as he said, ‘You have whatever you likes, girlie. It’s all the same.’

  They ate in silence until Alan said, ‘So how are you doing in the ATS?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘All right, I guess.’ Obviously the next thing was to ask him about the army but Frankie knew how touchy he was about that. ‘I never did thank you for helping me as a child,’ she said, keeping her eyes on her feet. ‘I could never have got through it without you.’

  He slurped his tea noisily.

  ‘I blamed myself, you see.’

  He nodded. ‘I remember.’

  There was a pause, then she said, ‘And you’re doing the same.’

  ‘Frankie,’ he said, ‘don’t.’

  ‘He had a wife, didn’t he? Why don’t you go and see her?’

  Alan looked up. ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘It might help her.’

  A frown crossed his brow and she could tell she’d taken him by surprise. He was expecting her to say, it might help you.

  He looked away. ‘She lives in Suffolk.’

  ‘So?’ Frankie challenged. ‘I’ll come with you if you like. You’ve got four days of leave left. I’ve got five.’

  He rose to his feet, his back to her as he put the mug back onto the bench. ‘I can’t just drop in. She isn’t on the phone.’

  ‘I’ll drop her a line and get it in tonight’s post,’ said Frankie. ‘We can go the day after tomorrow.’

  He walked back to the bike he was working on. ‘Better get this finished then.’

  *

  The next day, Frankie took the opportunity to catch up with Barbara. Since she’d given up the NAAFI, she’d got a job at the telephone exchange at Goring. Her shifts meant that Frankie was able to meet her in a small café along the Goring Road. Barbara had lost weight but she looked well. There was a lot of catching up to do and it seemed an age since they’d been together.

  While they waited for the cottage pie they’d ordered, Barbara was fascinated to hear about Frankie’s travels. ‘I admire you so much,’
she said. ‘Once you made up your mind to something there was no stopping you.’

  Embarrassed, Frankie said, ‘I never got around to asking you, did your aunt recover?’

  For a second Barbara hesitated then said, ‘Oh yes, ages ago.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘How are your parents?’

  ‘Okay,’ Barbara answered with a shrug. ‘I still live with mum and Derek. Dad joined up as soon as the war started. He only just got in. Another year and he would have been too old. He’s in Italy somewhere. Mum hates it.’

  Frankie nodded grimly. So many families had been ripped apart by the war.

  Their meagre meals arrived with a plate of bread and butter. When the waitress left, Frankie said, ‘Alan is back home on leave.’

  ‘I heard he was ill,’ said Barbara. ‘Is he all right now?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Frankie. ‘He’s back in the army but he’s not the Alan we knew. Whatever happened at Dunkirk changed him.’

  ‘Poor Alan,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him. I liked him a lot.’

  The mood had become sombre. ‘I’ve met someone,’ said Frankie recalling how excited Aunt Bet had been when she’d told her all about Romare the night she got back home. ‘An American doctor.’

  ‘Oh Frankie, that’s wonderful. Are we going to meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frankie suddenly feeling coy. ‘It’s early days yet. Have you got a new sweetheart?’

  Barbara chuckled. ‘I’m still Conrad’s girl. I know you didn’t like him much but he truly is the most wonderful man. He’s with ENSA at the moment entertaining the troops but after the war he’s going to Hollywood. He’s going to be famous one day, I just know it.’