by Annie Groves
Biting her lip, she nodded. She remembered how her stomach had dropped when he’d told her how his ship had been scuppered and crew members had died. Her admiration for his bravery was mixed with a very real dread for his safety. She wouldn’t even contemplate what she might feel like if he failed to come home. Life would be changed for ever. It would be unbearable.
Then she was back to her steady, practical self, pushing away the feelings that must stay hidden. ‘We should. You’ll enjoy it, see if you don’t.’ But before they got to the door she took his hand as it rested on her elbow, escorting her along. ‘Promise me, Joe – stay safe. If you possibly can – stay safe.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Winter 1943
It wasn’t as if Peggy had expected that James would arrive on the front doorstep and shower her with gifts. She knew from his regular letters that he would not have much leave over Christmas, and many of the GIs on his base were being invited to spend the festive lunch with local families, to learn more about British customs. He would have to be back at base by late afternoon, which hardly allowed for a trip to London. However, she felt a little let down when 1942 turned into 1943 and still there was no word.
It wasn’t until the second week of the new year that a battered-looking brown paper parcel arrived, bearing her name in his handwriting. She took it with delight from the postman, but also with some suspicion. Ever since poisonous Mrs Bellings had handed over the letter she had received in error, Peggy was on the lookout for ominous delays in any correspondence from James. It wasn’t as if she directly distrusted the postman; he seemed perfectly friendly, especially now that he’d got the hang of who lived where in their neighbourhood. It was more a question of wondering if anyone was interfering somewhere along the line.
She had never found out who had attacked her in the alley. She didn’t know where to start, as she hadn’t seen who it was, hadn’t recognised the voice, or noticed any possible witnesses. She had to hope and believe it was a one-off, and whoever it was had said their piece. She’d laughed off the scratches on her face, telling Mrs Cannon that she’d tripped at work and landed on some rough stone. It was close enough to the truth to account for the marks, and they’d soon faded. She’d risked using some of her precious store of makeup to cover them until they vanished completely.
Now she thanked the postman and took the parcel through to the dining table, fetching a sharp paperknife so that she could salvage as much of the packaging as possible. She could hear her landlady singing to herself in the kitchen, mopping the floor.
The postmark showed it had been sent three weeks ago. So he had thought of her and intended this as a Christmas gift. Peggy felt her heart beat a little faster. She wondered if he had received what she had sent him: a smart dark tie, pattered with tiny spots. She wondered if he’d get the reference. It was the closest she could find to the kind worn by the Ink Spots in one of their recent pictures. Even if he didn’t make the connection, she thought it was just his style. She’d tried to forget just how much of her pay packet and clothing coupons it had set her back.
Carefully she cut the string, winding it into several loops so that it could be put away in the ‘useful bits and pieces’ drawer. Then she set about undoing the brown paper. The outside layer would be no good as wrapping, as it was torn in many places. It would do on the fire, so she balled it up and tossed it into the grate. The inner layer she folded and set aside with the string. Within nestled a small cardboard box and an envelope, which she tore open.
It was a card, showing what she took to be an American cabin covered in snow. The gables were edged with glitter. It was breathtakingly pretty, and she ran her finger along the rough line of sparkling silver, amazed that a man should have the delicacy to choose this. She opened the card.
‘To Peggy. Season’s Greetings and with best wishes for a happy 1943. All my love, James.’
Her face flamed. All his love. Did he mean that? It was just the sort of thing people wrote on cards. He had probably written all of his in exactly the same way; she mustn’t think it meant anything too special. All the same … he wouldn’t say it to just anybody, would he?
The very idea made her fumble as she cautiously opened the box. The scent hit her before she drew back the final delicate paper. It was soap – proper lavender soap, totally unlike the sensible, practical kind she used every day. This was soap to pamper yourself with.
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. It was how she imagined walking through a field of lavender would be – not that she’d ever come close to doing such a thing. It was high quality, she could tell by the smooth feel of it, and by the little purple flowers printed on the wrapping. It would have been beyond her means before the war; these days it was not only rationed and expensive but almost impossible to find. That made it priceless, to her at any rate.
‘What have you got there, dear?’ Mrs Cannon asked as she came in. Peggy started, nearly dropping her present. She’d been so caught up in the card’s message that she hadn’t heard the older woman stop her work in the kitchen.
‘A late present from James.’ Peggy held out the soap so that her landlady could smell it. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’
Mrs Cannon bent her head to it and breathed in. At once a smile lit her face. ‘Isn’t it! That takes me back to when I was younger.’ Her eyes grew misty. ‘Back to when I first met Mr Cannon. He bought me something like this, maybe not as grand, but that smell … ah, it does me good. There’s nothing quite like it.’
‘We’ll share it,’ Peggy said impulsively. ‘We must.’ It struck her that Mrs Cannon hardly ever mentioned her late husband. She knew that he had died long ago, before Peggy had met Pete, and there was very little in the house to show that he had ever lived there. She had wondered if that meant the marriage had been an unhappy one. Now she realised it might be because Mrs Cannon could not bear to be reminded of her loss day in, day out. She understood that all right.
The older woman gave a small chuckle. ‘No, no, dear. It’s for you. It’s obviously very special. That young man must think a lot of you, to have sent such a gift.’
‘Maybe.’ Peggy felt shy at considering the idea in front of her mother-in-law. It felt disrespectful. ‘Well, I shall leave it by the bath, so if you’d like to use it then you can. It would be a waste for it to sit there drying out, after all.’
Mrs Cannon smiled gently. ‘If you say so. But we’ll both know who it is intended for.’ She spotted the folded paper and string. ‘I’ll pop these in the drawer, shall I?’
Peggy recognised that she was trying to make an excuse not to pursue the discussion, again maybe because the thoughts of her own loss were too painful. She nodded dumbly. What was she doing, she wondered suddenly, letting herself be drawn to a soldier like this? She knew the risks they ran. What if she had to go through another loss, reviving all that she had endured in the aftermath of Pete’s death? That she was still enduring …
Yet James had sent her this beautiful present. She could feel her blood fizzing with suppressed excitement. He liked her, he really did. This meant more than a casual turn on the dance floor – not that their last turn had felt casual, anything but. Yet she didn’t want to presume. She hardly ever saw him. She didn’t want to make assumptions, to build unreasonable hopes on what was at best a few hours’ acquaintance. Even so, she could not help but wonder what this might lead to.
Mrs Cannon eyed her carefully. ‘Peggy,’ she said slowly.
‘Yes?’ Peggy held the soap in her hand, sensing its coolness.
‘You do like this young gentleman, then?’
Peggy noticed how the skin around Mrs Cannon’s eyes had grown more lined recently, and how papery it was. How hadn’t she seen this before? With all her WVS activity, the woman had seemed to have a new lease of life, always out doing something or meeting the other women in the service. Peggy had forgotten how old she must be. She didn’t want to add to the burden of her worry. Unthinkingly, her hand went to her face where the scra
tches had been.
Mrs Cannon nodded, acknowledging the movement. ‘It’s all right, dear. You don’t have to pretend. I know those marks didn’t come from an accident at work.’
Peggy gasped. ‘But …’
Mrs Cannon smiled gently. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. People don’t like what they don’t understand or what they think is different. Promise me one thing, my dear.’
Peggy nodded. ‘What?’
Mrs Cannon sighed. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘That’s all. Promise me you’ll be careful.’
Alice knocked on the now-familiar front door, which was still in terrible condition. She considered if she should report the landlord, but then thought that the tenants wouldn’t thank her for causing trouble. It had taken so long to get the grandmother to trust her; she didn’t want to risk it. All the same, she wondered what sort of reception she was in for this time.
‘Good, I’m glad it’s you, miss. Nurse.’ The familiar little girl opened the door, rubbing her hand across her face.
Alice took one look and realised what the trouble was. ‘Hello, Pauline. Is your gran in?’
Pauline shook her head. ‘She’s gone to the shops, miss.’
‘What about your mother?’ Alice asked, more in hope than expectation.
‘No, it’s just me brother and me. You said to call you if he was took sick again. It’s him and me this time.’ She scratched at her chin as she spoke.
Alice picked up her Gladstone bag. ‘Shall I come in, then?’ She stepped inside as Pauline led the way into the living room. It was in no better state than before. Dirty clothes were piled in one corner, dirty plates in the other. The remains of a fire smouldered in the grate, giving little heat on the cold winter’s day. On a stool in front of it sat Larry, but the room was so dark that Alice could not make out his face other than in silhouette.
‘Remember me, Larry?’ she said cheerfully. ‘Why don’t you come over here by the window so I can see you. Then I can help you. What’s wrong, then? Why did you want to see me?’
The little boy twisted away, too shy to speak, let alone come close.
Pauline huffed in exasperation. ‘She won’t bite, you daft sausage. She wants to make you better. Get over here, do as yer told for once.’ Still he didn’t move.
‘Why don’t I take a look at you first then?’ Alice suggested, crouching to the girl’s level. ‘You seem to have a bit of a problem with your face.’
Pauline turned so that her face was illuminated by the dull light coming through the filthy window. ‘It’s this red stuff, nurse. It bleeding itches, all the time. Driving me round the twist, it is.’
Alice surveyed the rash from several angles, without touching it. ‘Tip your head back,’ she said, squinting at the girl’s skin. ‘And to the side once more … All right. I know what it is. Is your brother suffering from the same thing?’
‘Course he is. Larry, get yerself here so Nurse can look at yer face.’
Reluctantly Larry rose from his woodworm-infested stool and came over, hanging his head. ‘You’ll have to look up a bit so that I can see you,’ Alice said as encouragingly as she could. ‘That’s it, come right beside the window. Do like your sister did – turn to each side and then lift your chin up … yes, I see. Does it make you want to scratch it?’
Larry looked down at his feet in their boots with no laces. ‘Yes, miss,’ he whispered.
‘How long has it been like this?’ Alice turned to the girl again.
‘Couple of days. Gran said not to bother you cos it was just cold sores but I thought, what with him being so ill before, we was better to ask you. It isn’t like the sores what we had before.’ Pauline’s face twisted with worry. She clearly didn’t like going against her grandmother.
Alice immediately sought to reassure her. ‘You did the right thing, Pauline. What you’ve got is far from uncommon, but it’s worse if you aren’t healthy when you get it. It’s a bit more serious than cold sores. We have to keep an eye on Larry. He’s still a bit small for his age. Aren’t you?’ she said kindly.
‘It’s not his fault, miss,’ Pauline said hurriedly. ‘They tease him at school something rotten.’
Alice sighed. She strongly suspected malnourishment was to blame for the boy’s lack of growth, and also as an underlying factor in catching the rash; children with low immune systems were more susceptible. Lack of hygiene was another contributor. Larry was vulnerable on all fronts. ‘No, it’s not his fault at all, nor is it yours. Have you been going to school while you’ve had the rash?’
‘Course we have. I don’t want him to miss his lessons,’ Pauline said staunchly. ‘But Miss Phipps said we was to come home early today. She don’t want no others going down with it. Will it spread like wildfire, miss?’ Her eyes lit up.
‘Quite possibly,’ said Alice severely. ‘You weren’t to know, but yes, it’s contagious. You don’t want all your friends catching it, do you?’
Pauline scuffed her feet. ‘Ain’t got no real friends since Dottie got evacuated. And like I said, lots of the other boys picks on Larry.’
Alice sighed. ‘That’s a shame. All the same, we’ll get you sorted out. What you have both got is called impetigo. That’s a skin infection. It will probably get better by itself if we leave it, but it could take a long time and we don’t want you missing all that school.’
‘No, I don’t want to miss it either,’ said Pauline. ‘I like it now I’ve got Miss Phipps again.’
Alice grinned, knowing that her friend Janet Phipps had a soft spot for Pauline, just as she herself did. ‘Exactly. So we should try to speed up the healing process. First of all, have you got any carbolic soap?’
Pauline laughed. ‘Soap, miss? No, we don’t have any of that. Gran don’t hold with it. She says it’s a waste of money when you can just wet yer flannel and wash in cold water.’
Alice could guess what the money was spent on. Gran’s thirst for gin was unquenchable.
‘It so happens I have some in my bag. It’s important that you use it. You’ve got to try to fight off infection and cold water on its own won’t do it. Can you warm up the water you wash in?’
‘No, miss.’ Pauline said it quietly, as if she knew this was wrong, but wasn’t in a position to do much about it.
Alice shook her head. ‘While you have this rash, you really should. Let’s try now. Where’s your kettle?’
Now it was Pauline’s turn to hang her head. ‘Pawnshop, miss.’ Alice could hardly hear her.
‘So you can’t even have a cup of tea?’
‘Don’t drink tea, miss. Me and Larry has water …’
‘And I know what Gran’s favourite drink is.’ Alice sighed. ‘What about milk? You should get that on ration.’
Pauline shrugged but clammed up. Alice had a horrible idea that the grandmother sold it or swapped it for more gin. She made a decision.
‘Right, you two. It’s not far to the nurses’ home. You’re coming with me. I’ll give you some ointment for your rash but there’s no point unless you are clean first. Have you got any clean clothes to change into?’
‘Not really, miss.’ Pauline sounded ashamed. Alice realised that the girl was growing up; that she knew how much worse her home was compared to those of her schoolmates.
‘Doesn’t matter. I expect we can find you something.’ Alice knew that Mary often helped with clothes swaps at the church hall, or they could send round to Miriam or Flo for WVS assistance. How she longed to go to work on this room and make it clean enough for the children to recover. ‘Get your coats and scarves – Larry, do you have a scarf? Never mind, we’ll get you one.’ Now she had made up her mind, Alice wanted them out of the filthy house as fast as possible. Keeping her smile in place, she escorted the children out of the door.
On the short journey to Victory Walk, she reflected that it didn’t matter how much she tried with this family: as long as the children lived in that place, they would be sitting targets for all kinds of diseases and infections. The
adults simply had no interest in keeping them or the house clean. She would have to do her best and lead by example, and just hope that some of it sank in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Evelyn was in a particularly bad mood, even by her standards. Gladys frowned as her sister flung down her apron and pulled on her woollen cardigan, which Gladys had mended very carefully so that it looked good as new. Evelyn pouted in the mirror in the back kitchen, reaching into her pocket for a stub of bright lipstick. She drew on a cupid’s bow, blotted it on a scrap of newspaper and reapplied the slash of scarlet. Angrily she twirled her hair and fastened it with a slide, then tried again when the first attempt didn’t satisfy her.
‘What’s the matter?’ Gladys asked. She noticed that her sister’s hair was even blonder than usual; she must have redone it earlier in the day.
‘What do you care?’ snapped Evelyn, her reflection in the mirror glaring across the room. She stabbed the sharp end of the slide into the disobedient curl.
Gladys raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Sometimes that was for the best when Evelyn was like this.
After a few moments she relented. ‘It’s that Patty. She thinks she’s got Max wound around her little finger but she’s wrong. He only pays any attention to her to make sure she sings on the nights I’m not there and does it on the cheap. It’s me he wants really. If she reckons I’m going to disappear and let her take him off me, she’s got another think coming.’
Gladys swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t realise things had got that far with you and Max.’
‘There’s a lot of things you don’t realise,’ said Evelyn.
‘So he’s not just a friend, then?’ Gladys thought that a friend wouldn’t dump you on the floor of the first-aid post, but she knew better than to take that approach. Perhaps her sister would confide in her, and that way she could start to help her.
