by Annie Groves
‘Look!’ she beamed. ‘The first radish of the year. Isn’t it a beauty?’
Kathleen laughed and applauded. ‘It is. Proper ruby red, that is.’
Mattie nodded in appreciation and dug up two others. ‘There, one each: for you, me and Ma. We can dip them in a bit of salt and they’ll be lovely. I know it’s only a little thing, but I do enjoy springtime when the new vegetables start to be ready. I feel I’ve done something to help.’
Kathleen smiled in acknowledgement. ‘You’re clever, Mattie. I’d never know what to plant and when. Then you fit so much into this space.’ She looked around the area, just too big to be a yard but not really worthy of the title garden, especially with the big mound of the shelter in the middle. Still, Mattie had made use of the earth piled on top of that, and sowed seed for salads. Any old container available had been put to use for potatoes, just beginning to show their first leaves.
Later on there would be tomatoes and cucumbers in the lean-to greenhouse. Mattie had persuaded her father to bring back any reusable glass that wasn’t dangerous from bombsites, and to use it to construct the makeshift hothouse. Kathleen wondered whether to ask Billy to do the same, although their space was much smaller and she didn’t want Brian to collide with any sharp edges.
She hoisted little Barbara higher onto her shoulder. ‘When you’re bigger you can have one of Auntie Mattie’s radishes too. Would you like that?’ She grinned into the little face, which grinned back at her. She was such a good baby, easier than Brian had been – but then, he’d gone hungry for many of his early months. Despite the war, Barbara was being well fed with a balanced diet, and Kathleen gave thanks every day for such a healthy daughter. The only downside was, her arms ached when she carried her for too long. ‘Let’s find your pram,’ she said.
Mattie followed her inside, and washed the radishes at the sink. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said as she dug out a small plate and the salt.
Kathleen looked up from settling Barbara. ‘That sounds serious,’ she teased.
Mattie shook her head and her untidy hair swung about her face. ‘No, really. I know I help out by growing vegetables as well as looking after the children and doing the housework with Ma, but I wonder if I shouldn’t do more.’ She trimmed the leaves off the little plants and added them to the compost crock.
‘But you work so hard,’ Kathleen protested. ‘You’re never still, Mattie.’
Her friend wiped her hands on her apron. ‘All the same. I mean, look at Billy. He works a full shift down the docks and then does an evening as an ARP warden. So does Pa – works eight hours then patrols the streets more nights than not.’
‘But when they come home they have a meal waiting for them and a clean house,’ Kathleen pointed out.
Mattie shrugged. ‘What about Clarrie, then? She does a day in the factory and then goes up on the roof for a night of fire-watching. And then she helps her mother around the house, specially now her sister is away. I think I should do more.’
Kathleen narrowed her eyes at her friend. ‘How do you mean? What’s brought this on all of a sudden?’
Mattie shook the salt onto the plate and took it to the big wooden table. ‘It’s not sudden, not really. It’s been on my mind for a while,’ she confessed.
Kathleen cocked her head. ‘Is it something to do with Lennie?’ she asked. ‘What with him being away so long?’
Mattie hung her head. Sometimes they didn’t even mention her husband’s name for weeks at a time. They were coming up to the third anniversary of Dunkirk, when he had been taken prisoner. But just because they didn’t speak of him as often, that didn’t mean she had forgotten him. She missed him every day.
‘Sort of,’ she said, with the slightest catch in her voice. ‘He did his bit and then he got taken out of the fight. I feel I owe it to him to carry on what he started. Does that make sense?’
Kathleen frowned in puzzlement. ‘Maybe. I’m not really sure, to be honest.’
Mattie dipped her radish into the salt and took a bite. ‘Here, try.’ She pushed the plate across to her friend. ‘It’s like, if he was on the front line fighting, I’d know he was helping to make us all safe. But he can’t do that now. He’s stuck in that POW camp. So it’s up to me.’ She took a second bite, nearly finishing the small red globe. ‘The children are older now. I’m not feeding them myself any more. Gillian and Brian are both four – not long before they go to school. Alan’s two. I could leave him with Ma, just like I do when I go shopping. He wouldn’t mind – he’d hardly notice.’
‘I’d help,’ said Kathleen at once. ‘He’s used to me as well. If you’re serious about this. That way, I’d feel like I was doing my bit to help, even if it isn’t much.’
Mattie waited a moment before replying. This idea had been going round and round in her head for weeks, months even, but it was the first time she’d spoken the thoughts aloud. She was still feeling her way to making sense of them. She knew deep down it was her way of carrying on what Lennie had started. She rarely talked about his absence, of how she hadn’t imagined their life like this. To complain would do nothing to change matters. So she hid her sorrow, keeping it to herself, until those hours of the night when her children and parents were asleep. Then she could sob into her pillow, worried to distraction about what conditions were like in his camp. Whether he was all right or sick, knowing he would not want to worry her in the few letters he managed to send. Wondering if she would ever see him again.
Doing some form of war work would be a distraction, if nothing else. Yet she also wanted to show him that she was doing her utmost and to make him proud of her when he did return. It was a way of boosting her faith that he would come back to her, to their children – finally to meet Alan, born after his father had been captured at Dunkirk.
‘Yes, I am serious about it.’ There, she’d said it. ‘You know lots of factories have nurseries now, or the WVS will know of council places. Ma could find out.’
‘It might not even be for very long,’ Kathleen said quickly, now filled with optimism. ‘Billy says the tide has turned, that after Monty won in North Africa the Germans are on the run.’
‘Maybe.’ Mattie didn’t want to get her hopes up. ‘I don’t know about those things. That’s Pa’s business – or Alice’s. I just want to do more. Besides, we aren’t out of danger. Look at those explosions recently.’
‘But they were anti-aircraft shells, weren’t they?’ Kathleen grew anxious once more at the memory. They hadn’t landed near her new house or on Jeeves Street, but they were still in Hackney, and so close enough to remind them all of how perilous bombs could be.
‘Whatever they were, it makes me even more sure I need to join up. I wouldn’t go away, I’d have to stay with the children, but maybe a factory like Clarrie and Peggy work in. If they can do it, then so can I.’
Kathleen nodded, impressed at her friend’s courage and resolution. She wouldn’t want to be separated from her children for one minute longer than she absolutely had to. ‘Of course you can,’ she assured her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Summer 1943
Peggy nervously patted her hair. She always felt it looked a bit dull: not stunning red like Clarrie’s, or strikingly dark like Belinda’s or Edith’s. Mary’s chestnut waves were enviable, too, and they all knew that she had more money than most to spend on keeping them that way. Perhaps Peggy’s hair was closest in colour to Alice’s: dark blonde or light brown, depending on how you looked at it.
But Alice never went out of her way to dress up to look special. She was neat and tidy – elegant, even – but making an impression was not her main aim. Whereas Peggy, particularly at this moment, desperately wanted to look right.
She had wound her hair into rags overnight to give it shape, and brushed it carefully until it shone. She had sewn new buttons onto the seasons-old cotton dress to make it smarter, and pressed it until the edges on her collar and lace cuffs were razor-sharp. Her best home-made brooch was pinned to
her jacket’s lapel, and the scuffs on her shoes were hidden by a fresh layer of polish, buffed to a bright shine. Truly, she could not have done more.
Perhaps she had no need to be so worried. James had seen her in her dancing best, but also when he’d taken her unawares by turning up at the house that time; he hadn’t minded then that she was not all dolled up. But she wanted to be special, to impress him. What if some of the other GIs saw her when she met him near the Red Cross dormitory where he was again staying for his leave? She didn’t want to let him down.
It had been so long since she had seen him. They had written, of course, and he had sent her that beautiful soap, which was now all gone, and the drawing for Valentine’s Day. People could change, though. She hoped against hope that he hadn’t.
If anything, her own feelings had grown more solid since they had last met. He was such a contrast to the men she met in everyday life – the fellow workers at the factory, usually those too old or unsuitable for the Forces, or the dock workers who were exempt from conscription. She liked her men friends well enough, but she’d had the best one of those and now he was gone. The rest did not compare.
James was a gentleman, considerate and caring; he listened to her. He was also, to her eyes, magnetically handsome. She had always preferred men who could dance well, but to combine that talent with looks like his – that just made him irresistible. What if some other girl thought the same – and happened to live conveniently near his East Anglian base? She didn’t think he was the cheating type, but she’d been wrong before.
Why were the butterflies going crazy in her stomach as she approached the place where they’d chosen to meet? They were getting worse, not better. She could hardly walk the final few paces. Her legs had turned to jelly.
Then there he was: handsome as ever and smart in his uniform, his eyes gleaming with pleasure at the sight of her. She ran towards him and suddenly all her worries flew away. He was here and she was in his arms. Nothing else mattered.
‘I reckon you been taking dance lessons since I last saw you,’ James said towards the end of the evening. ‘You’re even better than you were. Those steps ain’t easy but you never missed a beat.’
Peggy chuckled in appreciation. ‘I had the best partner, that’s why.’
‘We make a good pair, don’t we?’ James halted suddenly, as if aware of what that might mean. He glanced around the crowds of dancers taking a break from the floor, some clutching cold drinks, some fanning themselves with programmes. It was very warm.
Peggy looked up at him and into his velvet eyes. ‘We do, don’t we.’ She had caught some envious glances as they’d moved together around the dance floor, keeping perfect time. It was reassuring to know that their peers were admiring their performance, but for Peggy it was much more important that James thought she was good – his was the only opinion that really mattered. She hadn’t let him down. ‘Boy, it’s hot in here. How come you aren’t melting?’
‘I must be getting used to your British weather.’ His face creased in amusement.
‘Is it warm where you’re from?’ She realised they hadn’t spoken much about his life in America. Again she was struck by how little she knew of it. ‘Is it like in the pictures?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends which movies you mean. If you’re thinking of the plantations of Gone With the Wind, it ain’t like that – leastways not where I was. We often went to New York City, so I’m used to big places, same as you, except there’s no bomb damage, of course.’ He smiled again to take the edge off the observation. ‘Mighty hot come the summer, all the same.’
Peggy nodded, trying to imagine it. London could get pretty stuffy at the height of August and it was uncomfortable until the sun went down. How would she manage somewhere hotter than that? Then she brought herself up short – she was getting ahead of herself, making an assumption that one day she’d find out.
‘Here.’ He gave her his programme so she could fan herself, which she accepted gratefully. ‘Care for another lemonade?’
Peggy shook her head. ‘I’ll go pop if I have any more.’
‘Another dance, then?’
‘Listen – they’re finishing up. This is the tune they always play for the last one of the evening.’
‘So let’s hit the floor one more time.’ He took her hand and they squeezed into the crowd, making the most of the final song, slow and sweet.
Peggy swayed in time to the music, loving the sensation of his arms tight around her. ‘I wish we didn’t have to go,’ she murmured.
He nodded, his chin resting on her shoulder. ‘But we do,’ he said softly.
‘I know. I just wish …’ She tightened her arms on his body, sensing the taut muscles beneath. ‘I wish we could be together more. I don’t want to let you go.’
‘Nor me, Peggy. Not now I’ve found you. Will you come out with me tomorrow? I’ve got one more day of leave.’
Peggy had put her name down for the Saturday early shift, keen to make up for the fact she wasn’t fire-watching like many of the others. Quickly she calculated when she would be free. ‘We could meet for tea?’ she suggested.
His eyes told her he would prefer to stay in her company for far longer, but he nodded. ‘Tea, a proper British tea,’ he smiled, and then bent to kiss her swiftly before the band played the final notes. They held each other tightly until the last chord faded away and the crowds around them began to disperse, reluctant to let each other go on this night of precious moments together. Time seemed to stand still. The lights were still dimmed and she thought she saw his mouth move, cast a little into shadows by the shifting waves of men and women leaving the floor. Was that really what he was saying? ‘I love you too,’ she whispered, but did not know if he had heard.
Next morning Peggy wasn’t sure if she’d dreamt it. She went through her shift in a daze, hardly noticing when anyone spoke to her. Several colleagues teased her for it, but she didn’t react. They taunted her that she must have had such a good night out that she was too hung over to answer, but she smiled vaguely and ignored them. Eventually they gave up.
Clarrie had the day off and so there was no need to explain anything. Peggy mechanically assembled her boxes and stacked sections of piping and rubber seals, forgetting to look for any scraps to be made into jewellery, just wanting the minutes to go by faster. The wireless played music to encourage them to work harder, but she ignored that too, though usually she would sing along with any tune she knew.
She was glad that Mattie had rearranged her interview with the factory. Her friend had asked her if there were any vacancies, as the factory was an easy distance from Jeeves Street and she would know workers there already. Peggy had offered to show her around if she could coincide with her shifts, but Alan had gone down with a late cold and so Mattie hadn’t wanted to leave him. Peggy knew that she would have made no sense today and was relieved, even if she felt a little sorry for poor Alan.
It felt like the longest ever shift, but eventually the wireless played the news on the hour and she was free to go. ‘Coming down the Duke’s Arms?’ called one of the men who had such poor eyesight he couldn’t join the services. ‘Or what about the tea shop down the market?’ shouted the woman who’d worked alongside her earlier that morning.
‘No, I’ve got to go somewhere else,’ Peggy replied, oblivious to their nudges and speculative glances. She exchanged her tired old overall for her pretty light jacket, tore the protective scarf from her head and delved into her handbag for a hairbrush. Then she found her compact mirror and stub of lipstick and carefully drew on a pink cupid’s bow. It wasn’t much but it was the best she could do in the circumstances.
She all but ran from the factory gates to the bus stop, willing the service not to be delayed. It was still afternoon and the sun was bright in the late spring sky, illuminating the main road as she squinted to see if there was any sign of transport. She reckoned most folk would be coming the other way at this hour of the day, returning from a trip to the West End. It wa
sn’t yet time for the evening revellers to set out. People around her had either been working or shopping locally, by the looks of them. She was the most dolled-up there.
The bus had a few spaces left and she treated herself to a window seat on the top deck, staring out at the streets as they passed through Hackney to Islington, past Sadler’s Wells and into Holborn. She moved closer to the window to make space for an older woman who smelled strongly of cigarettes. She resisted the hints of conversation. She was too excited to think about anyone other than James.
She might have known there would be some delays to the journey. The conductor announced that the bus would have to terminate early, as a road ahead was shut because of a burst water main. People grumbled but nobody made a loud fuss, as it was just the sort of thing you had to expect these days. Peggy followed the other passengers down the curved stairs at the back of the bus and weighed up her options. She could try another route or she could walk through the back streets and cut through. That would be quicker. Besides, she was in her sensible shoes. She set off as fast as she could, hoping James would wait.
There he was, next to the entrance to Lyons Corner House on the Strand. She rushed to meet him, her smile wide. All the doubts of the previous evening had vanished. She wasn’t in torment that he had found someone else or didn’t want to see her; by the expression on his face, he was as keen to meet up again as she was.
‘Am I late?’ she gasped.
‘No, not really. All right, maybe a little.’ He grinned his open grin and she felt the tiredness from her shift vanish. ‘Do you want to go in? You Brits like a cup of tea and a scone – is that how you say it? – at this time of day, don’t you?’
Peggy cast a glance into the busy tea room, noting the shoppers with their purchases piled around them, or at least those who had been lucky enough to find what they wanted. The hubbub of conversation was audible even from beyond the doors. Tempting as it was, she knew they would have to shout to be heard. ‘No,’ she said decisively, ‘let’s walk. Have you ever been along the Embankment?’
