The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  THE WOMEN OF WATERLOO BRIDGE

  Jan Casey

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Jan Casey, 2020

  The moral right of Jan Casey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781838930738

  Cover design © Cherie Chapman

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

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  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note from the Author

  Chapter 1: December 1940

  Chapter 2: December 1940

  Chapter 3: December 1940

  Chapter 4: April – July 1941

  Chapter 5: August – November 1941

  Chapter 6: December 1941 – March 1942

  Chapter 7: April – July 1942

  Chapter 8: August – November 1942

  Chapter 9: December 1942 – March 1943

  Chapter 10: April – July 1943

  Chapter 11: August – November 1943

  Chapter 12: December 1943 – March 1944

  Chapter 13: April – July 1944

  Chapter 14: August – November 1944

  Chapter 15: December 1944 – May 1945

  Chapter 16: June – November 1945

  Chapter 17: 10 December 1945

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  For my lovely Mum and Dad who always said I could do it.

  Note from the Author

  As we passed under Waterloo Bridge, the pilot of the Thames River cruiser said, ‘This bridge is known as the Ladies’ Bridge because there’s an urban myth that it was built by women during the Second World War. Careful it doesn’t fall on top of you!’

  The urban myth turned out to be fact that had been whitewashed by history. This book is a tribute to the women who turned their hands to the tools to construct Waterloo Bridge, and other structures, during WW2 and then went back to their daily lives when peace was declared, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

  1

  December 1940

  Evelyn

  Evelyn sat on a thin blanket, chin on her knees, unable to take her eyes off the stairs leading down from the street. Hordes were pushing in even though they were packed down here already. There was never a lot of room, but tonight they kept moving along under the Wood Green sign and rearranging themselves to make way for others who, like them, didn’t want to take their chances up there.

  ‘Budge up,’ Dad said, nudging Evelyn’s shoulder. ‘We’re over here now.’

  Evelyn looked around and her neck caught, stiff from holding it at an angle for so long. Dad cocked his thumb to a spot behind him and Evelyn could see now that her family had moved on and another set up camp around her. Blinking, she gathered her things and apologised to a woman who was passing bread and dripping to her children, their grubby hands still white and shivery from the cold.

  Settling her bedding next to his, Dad indicated the woman organising her children’s tea. ‘That’ll be you in no time,’ he said.

  Evelyn pulled a face. ‘Mine won’t be that mucky.’

  ‘Oh, won’t they?’ Dad smiled as if he knew something Evelyn didn’t. ‘You were. So was that sister of yours. Your mother used to despair.’

  ‘We haven’t even set a date yet,’ Evelyn said.

  Dad twisted the ring round Evelyn’s finger until the minuscule gem was facing the right way. He tapped it and said, ‘Won’t be long though and then…’ They both looked over at the children again in time to see the oldest girl cram the last of her tea in her mouth.

  Dad chuckled and picked up his paper. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?’

  ‘In a minute,’ Evelyn answered. She turned back to the entrance, searching again for her sister’s burgundy heels amongst the endless pairs of shoes that descended.

  ‘Give her a chance, she’ll barely have finished her shift. Then she might be meeting someone.’ Dad made a show of turning the page with studied nonchalance. ‘You know what she’s like.’

  Evelyn was as worried about Sylvie’s safety as her dad, but not in the way he presumed. She wanted her here in one piece so she could kill the silly mare herself. ‘We all know what Sylvie’s like. Nothing puts her off.’ Not even a night like this, Evelyn thought. If conditions were bad when she’d made her way down, a couple of hours ago, things must be dreadful out there now. She knew that by the looks on the faces pressing in around her, the snippets of news she caught passed on from the newcomers. When Uncle Bert made his way towards them, hair ruffled, cap in hand, Evelyn saw him catch Dad’s eye and shake his head. He didn’t need to elaborate for them to understand the seriousness of what was happening above them.

  Evelyn gathered their cups together and negotiated her way over to the makeshift kitchen. The queue for tea was long and orderly, none of them having the energy to do anything other than shuffle their way closer to the urn. Evelyn turned several times and glanced over the heads of the women behind her to scan the platform for Sylvie. Then the line snaked around the wall and her view was obscured. She gazed down at her brown lace-ups and thought about the words she’d had with Sylvie that morning, needles of heat prickling through her as she recalled the argument.

  *

  Her weekly letter from Ron had been delivered and she’d managed to grab a couple of minutes to herself after breakfast to sit and read it. She was about to slit the envelope when a movement at the front gate had cast a shadow over the sitting room. She’d moved closer to the window and craned her neck to see what had distracted her. ‘Sylvie,’ she’d fumed when she’d glimpsed the flash of her sister’s camel coat swinging out of sight. Stuffing the letter behind a cushion, she’d rammed her feet into her shoes and run out onto the pavement. She was determined that Sylvie wouldn’t get away with it this time.

  The wiggle her sister had recently cultivated made it easy to gain on her and when Evelyn could almost touch her Sylvie had turned, a puzzled look on her face.

  ‘Where is it?’ demanded Evelyn.

  ‘What?’ Sylvie said with exaggerated innocence.

  ‘It can’t be in there.’ Evelyn snatched at the minute black clutch bag, exquisitely embroidered with tiny sequins and perfect for a night on the town after work, which Sylvie carried under her arm.

  Sylvie dangled the shiny bag from its strap and said, ‘Of course it’s not. Don’t be daft. Besides, that old gas mask doesn’t match what I’m wearing, does it?’ She swept her arms wide, encouraging Evelyn to take in her outfit from hat to shoes and she smiled, her Max Factor red lips framing her even white teeth. She looked lovely, as she always did. Evelyn knew she could look like that, if and when she wanted to. But she wasn’t going anywhere so there was no need. Except back to the all-pervasive housework and her letter, after she’d knocked
some sense into Sylvie.

  ‘Stop behaving like this. You’re being irresponsible.’

  Sylvie let her arms drop to her sides and exhaled through puffed cheeks, like a deflated party balloon. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, is there? Or have you forgotten all about that?’

  ‘All you ever talk about is fun and it’s getting boring. I’m talking about something much more important.’

  ‘Me? Boring?’ Sylvie put her hands on her hips. ‘The word was invented for you. And that fiancé of yours.’

  ‘Don’t start all that again, Sylvie. I’m asking you. No, I’m telling you. Come back to the house and get your mask, then you can go and have fun.’

  ‘No.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘And don’t forget, I am older and therefore wiser.’

  ‘Then try acting it.’

  ‘Oh, I am. It’s you who’s got it wrong. Twenty-two going on fifty if you ask me. Besides, Mum told me to look out for you, not the other way around.’

  ‘Don’t bring Mum into it,’ Evelyn said, her voice catching. ‘She’s not here. But Dad is, and he’d be gutted if he found out about this.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to tell him. Are you?’

  Evelyn knew when she was defeated. They stood looking at each other until Sylvie walked a few steps backwards, blowing Evelyn a kiss. ‘I do know what I’m talking about when it comes to Ron. He’s nice enough, but a bit dry. Like toast without the butter and jam. When you want it, the offer of fun’s still there.’ Then she turned, and Evelyn watched her run towards the bus stop, her skirt revealing the perfect amount of leg with each stride.

  *

  The line reached the sink. Evelyn swilled the cups around in an inch of brown water and dried them on a soggy tea towel. Three women, about the same age as Mum would have been, hadn’t stopped gossiping since they joined the queue and were now throwing out remarks to others closer to the tea. She wondered if they recognised her and if they did, whether they would still feel sorry for her like they had after Mum died, when they would stop to stroke her hair or search their pockets for a toffee, one for her and one for Sylvie.

  ‘Squeeze one more out, dear sister.’ Sylvie spoke right into Evelyn’s ear, almost causing her to scald herself. ‘Steady.’ Sylvie laughed and took the pot from Evelyn. ‘You see to the milk and sugar – I’ve got this.’

  Relief overwhelmed Evelyn but she checked it with a stern glare. ‘Your mask is in my satchel,’ she said. ‘Dig it out when Dad’s not looking and he’ll think you had it with you all along.’

  Sylvie set the pot on the small, ring-stained table to brew, and put her arms around Evelyn, kissing her cheek with a loud smacking noise. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll do the same for you some time.’

  Evelyn looked away and busied herself with the cups. ‘Let’s take these back to Dad and Uncle Bert,’ she said.

  ‘No, let’s be friends first,’ Sylvie said, rubbing at the red stain her mouth had left on Evelyn’s face. ‘Please? I have so much to tell you and I want to hear about your letter from Ron.’

  Evelyn was reluctant to be drawn in so quickly. A sense of restlessness could be felt from the women in the queue behind. ‘Hurry up with the pot,’ Evelyn said, holding the cups out for Sylvie to pour.

  ‘Say it,’ Sylvie said, her grinning face pressed close to Evelyn’s. ‘Say friends.’

  ‘Alright,’ Evelyn conceded, laughing out loud. ‘Alright. Friends.’

  The talk in their camp was all about the war. Evelyn expected that was the case everywhere. Sylvie, though, wanted to tell her about dancing. Or, as it had turned out that night, the lack of it. She and a girl from work had tried two or three of their usual haunts, then walked to Regent Street where they’d heard that nothing stopped the ‘prancing at the Paradise’.

  Evelyn opened her mouth to chastise Sylvie for roaming so far, but stopped herself because she didn’t want to start another quarrel. More to the point, she was enjoying Sylvie’s retelling of her evening. She could picture the clubs and pubs they’d called in on and how she and her friend had escaped to the lav to repaint their faces and laugh at a couple of blokes they’d met along the way.

  ‘So you managed to fight them off?’ Evelyn asked.

  Sylvie rolled her eyes. ‘It didn’t take much. They were all over the place, the soppy sods. The Paradise was a dead loss, too. Packing up like everywhere else.’

  ‘Well, everyone needed to get to a shelter, or home if they could.’

  ‘I know.’ Sylvie sighed and smoothed her stockings over her calves. ‘Don’t matter. Tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘And the day after that? New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Got to be something happening then. Dancing and a…’

  ‘…bit of fun,’ Evelyn finished for her.

  ‘And you’re coming out with me that night. With me and Helen. No arguing with your big sister.’

  Quiet supplanted the earlier commotion. A few kids who’d been chasing around with battered paper crowns on their heads, holding tight to Christmas for as long as possible, stopped their games and settled down. Some men nearby played a muted hand of cards and, from close to the tunnel, underneath faded red and green garlands working their way loose from slimy walls, a group of women started to sing a song. No one joined in, perhaps because what was happening up there made it impossible to muster the energy.

  A number of people were still coming down but – sure that no trains would pass through until dawn – wardens were guiding them on to the tracks, something Evelyn hadn’t seen happen before.

  ‘This is horrible,’ Sylvie said, looking around. ‘Would you choose to sleep with any of these people?’

  ‘Trust you to think of that.’

  ‘No, I mean just sleep. If any one of them suggested such a thing in normal circumstances you’d be appalled, wouldn’t you? I would.’

  Evelyn nodded and flared her nostrils, a vile smell hitting the back of her throat. She waved her hand in front of her face and said, ‘The stench. It’s okay when I don’t think about it.’

  ‘But when you do…’ Sylvie gagged. ‘Here.’ She tapped a few drops of 4711 onto one of Dad’s big hankies and they sat side by side with it pressed to their faces.

  Sylvie unclasped her ear clips and nestled them in the toes of her shoes. They punched their coats into pillow shapes and lay down close together. ‘Now,’ Sylvie said, her hands under her head, ‘tell me about Ron. Anything exciting to report from Colchester?’

  Evelyn was hoping Sylvie had forgotten about the letter from Ron. She felt the same wound reopening as it had done earlier when Sylvie had said Ron was dull. And the times before when she’d called him boring and dreary and tedious. She was left in no doubt about what Sylvie thought of Ron.

  ‘Well?’ Sylvie propped herself up on her elbow. ‘What did lover boy have to say for himself?’

  ‘Well, the truth is…’ Evelyn picked a bit of fluff off her blanket and rolled it into a ball. ‘I was so upset after our set-to that I didn’t read Ron’s letter after all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sylvie slumped down. ‘Sorry. I really am.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Evelyn said, although that wasn’t the truth. Sylvie would be unshakeable if she knew what Evelyn had felt when she’d opened the envelope and unfolded the sheets of writing. The letter was dated Monday 23rd December 1940. Ron always wrote on a Monday. My dearest fiancée Evelyn, it started. Evelyn had searched through all the other letters from Ron she kept in Mum’s old writing box and she was right; the greeting was the same on every single one. Then he went on to tell her what he’d had for tea in the canteen that evening and hoped he wasn’t making her tummy rumble with hunger. She could probably write a book about the meals served in training camps.

  She hadn’t needed to read the rest of the letter to know that there would be a bit about the weather, something that witty Chalky White had said to make the lads laugh, details of pressing his uniform and how his ingrown toenail was healing – or not. Huge tears had boi
led over the rims of her eyes then and scorched her cheeks as they ran down her face. She’d balled up the letter and thrown it in with the others, kicking the box back under her bed.

  ‘Perhaps…’ Sylvie’s voice was teasing now. ‘Perhaps your Ron’s a dark horse and the letter is just too, too saucy to share. Was it?’ Sylvie leaned closer. ‘Go on, tell all.’

  ‘Oh…’ Evelyn groaned and turned away from Sylvie. She’d given herself a firm telling-off as the day had worn on, reminding herself what a decent, steady chap Ron was and that was why she was going to marry him. All she needed to do was concentrate on Ron’s good points – and there were plenty of them. She wouldn’t be drawn into Sylvie’s cataloguing of the qualities he lacked.

  But Sylvie never could stand silence for long. ‘Do you think people have a quick dash up the channel under the blankets?’ Sylvie said.

  Evelyn laughed out loud. ‘I don’t like to think about it, but I expect they do,’ she said.

  ‘You can hear them sometimes, trying hard to be clever and quiet.’

  They were still for a minute – then both realised at the same time they’d been listening for the sounds of stifled moans and grunts. Dad wound his way towards them and bent to kiss them both on their foreheads. They watched him crawl under his bedding and cover his face with yesterday’s paper. ‘Good job he didn’t hear us,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘He would have been shocked.’

  ‘And said something about Mum wanting us to be nice girls.’ They tried to muffle their laughter, stuffing their knuckles into their mouths.

  ‘Are you, Sylvie? Nice?’

  Sylvie folded her hands and lowered her eyes, as if she was in church. ‘I’m trying. I say to my admirers, “Dancing’s one thing but there’ll be none of the other.” You’re more likely, though, so close to being Mrs Ron.’ Sylvie opened her eyes and looked eagerly at Evelyn. ‘Is it hard to keep saying no?’