The Women of Waterloo Bridge

by Jan Casey

  ‘You’ve been kind, Jim,’ she said. ‘But I think I’m ready to go back properly.’

  ‘Good. Alright then.’ Jim stood and scratched his head, leaving a strand of hair curling over one ear. ‘Report to Evelyn for this week. She said she could do with another pair of hands to bring down the temporary works.’

  The day was warmer now. Overhead, squawking gulls looped in a wide circle, dredging for food with their eyes, dive-bombing their targets like Messerschmitts. The din was less forceful and crushing than she imagined it would be, the machinery more of a comforting hum than a grinding, grating racket. Evelyn looked up and smiled when she approached, signalling for her crew to down tools. She introduced Gwen to each of the girls, none of whom she knew. They nodded or said hello in a pleasant enough way then pulled their shields over their faces and carried on.

  Evelyn explained what she wanted Gwen to do. ‘For now,’ she said, speaking firmly, ‘I want you to place these cut rods together in half dozens, then a couple of others will lift them onto the back of a lorry and drive them off. Okay with you?’

  Gwen nodded, pleased with the task.

  ‘You’ll be moved back to the flame after that, I’m sure. We just want to make sure you’re acclimatised.’

  Gwen smiled to herself at Evelyn’s turn of phrase, wondering which course she’d got the word from. Well, if she were younger she might be more ambitious herself, but at this time in her life she was striving for one thing only. The spring.

  12

  December 1943 – March 1944

  Joan

  Hazel was assembling some sort of contraption in the middle of the parlour. Spread out around her were large blocks of wood, which she was picking up at random and trying to piece together with the help of a handful of nails and screws.

  ‘Whatever are you up to now?’ Joan said, shrugging off her coat and loosening her scarf. ‘For goodness’ sake, let me help.’

  ‘Oh hello, sweetheart. I didn’t see you there.’ Hazel sat back on her haunches, looking defeated, pushed back the sleeves of her lavender cardigan, and blew out a puff of air. ‘Mummy could do with a cuppa, couldn’t you, Mummy? Joan will make it for you.’

  Joan glanced at Ivy, barely visible amongst the soft folds of blankets and cushions enveloping her. Every week, more of Ivy seemed to fade away, making the wing chair that was her world appear to swell around her diminutive figure. ‘Tea can wait. Let’s get this sorted first,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  Holding her hand out for Joan to hoist her up, Hazel started to sing a verse from the old Jack Buchanan favourite ‘Everything Stops for Tea’.

  ‘Mummy used to love that one. Didn’t you, Mummy?’ Hazel let go of Joan’s hand and tucked the satin edge of a blanket under Ivy’s chin. ‘You carry on here then, I’ll get the tea.’

  It took all the patience Joan could rally not to show her frustration. If she’d been dealing with her own mother she would have stormed out long before now. ‘But, Hazel,’ Joan could hear herself pleading, ‘What is it?’

  ‘A shelter.’ Hazel mouthed the words, her lips contorting in exaggerated shapes.

  ‘In the house?’ Joan asked.

  ‘Come with me a minute.’ Hazel made for the kitchen where she washed her hands and filled the kettle. Joan gathered tea things together on the battered George V Silver Jubilee tray that Ivy loved, according to Hazel.

  ‘Churchill,’ Hazel started, ‘and you know how much I think of him, said, “It’s quite like old times again.”’

  ‘Did he?’ Joan asked. ‘But I beg your pardon, Hazel, what’s that got to do with the shelter in the sitting room?’

  ‘The whole bloody thing’s starting up again. That’s what,’ Hazel said, steam streaming from the water she poured into the pot.

  Another series of nightly bombings had everyone living on the edge. The pattern this time seemed to be different: more feeble, less aggressive. Joan sniggered at her cynicism. Was this now the measure of the world they lived in where bombing was ranked on a scale of antagonism? Surely it was all destructive and hostile, no matter the degree of belligerence. Nevertheless, it did seem as though, this time around, the Jerries couldn’t muster the same forcefulness and persistence they’d battered London with three and a half years ago.

  ‘It’s every night. Again,’ Hazel said. ‘Regular as clockwork it starts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joan said. ‘I know. But it doesn’t last until dawn, does it? So, not quite like old times.’

  ‘You are a sensible girl, Joan, but that was last night and the night before. Who can tell what tonight might bring?’

  She was right, of course. That was the worst of it and it had everyone scuttling for cover once more. Hoping to revive herself, Joan flicked cold water on her face. The shift had been a hard one, when fog as thick and glutinous as rice pudding made working the crane difficult. Thankfully, no one was hurt when she’d dropped a load too soon – although there was talk of a girl on the far side being taken to hospital with a mangled leg.

  Hazel stood close to Joan and lowered her voice, ‘I don’t want to alarm Mummy.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Joan said.

  ‘But I’ve got to get her shelter ready to use tonight. I’ve not slept this past week for worrying she’s not safe.’

  Picking up the tray, Joan said, ‘So that’s what you’re trying to put together. But how does it work?’

  ‘Wait and I’ll tell you. I don’t want Mummy to hear.’

  Joan turned and looked at her landlady, a fine mixture of strawberry blonde and grey twists of hair corkscrewing from her loose bun, pale eyes almost feverish, high cheekbones pink with exertion. Often when Joan was with Hazel, something inside her seemed to crack open and ooze with pity for the woman whose life had been this and nothing else. That, and a touch of admiration.

  ‘A neighbour made it for me after Mummy had her stroke and wasn’t able for getting under the table any longer.’

  ‘Mummy used to… I mean, Ivy used to shelter under the table?’ Joan remembered the Anderson her father had put up for Mother and kitted out with gramophone, wireless, sherry in a decanter, petit-point frame.

  Hazel nodded. ‘We both did. Quite happy we were. I had my book so I could read to Mummy, and my knitting, of course. We’d try to make a little party of it, sometimes, when the noise was so loud we couldn’t sleep. You know, tea and cake, a round of Old Maid.’

  To prevent Hazel from seeing that the irony wasn’t lost on her, Joan closed her eyes and nodded purposefully. ‘So,’ she said, ‘how does the neighbour’s makeshift shelter work?’

  ‘Well, it was my idea.’ Hazel sounded proud. ‘But my lovely neighbour made it. When you nail the pieces of wood together – and that’s the bit I can’t seem to get right – the frame then fits right over the bed. Just the ticket.’

  ‘But what about you? Where do you shelter?’

  ‘I crawl in with Mummy,’ Hazel said, looking astounded. ‘Like always.’

  Joan had never thought about it before, having presumed that after Ivy was tucked up, Hazel made up a bed for herself on a couple of chairs or on the floor.

  ‘Leave it to me and Alice,’ Joan said, picking up the tray. ‘She’ll be back soon. We’ll have it done in a flash.’

  ‘You are a couple of sweethearts,’ Hazel said. ‘Let’s see what’s left on the sideboard. Oh, a lovely bit of tack. Mummy will enjoy that softened in her tea.’

  With another person to hold the boards while they were nailed together, the shelter was constructed without a fuss. In addition to the holes already driven through, Alice and Joan beat in a fresh series to make the crude structure sturdier. They then moved the old, worn furniture around the crowded sitting room so that things were more manageable for Hazel, who was effusive in her thanks.

  ‘We’re used to heavy work.’ Alice was unfazed. ‘We does it every day.’

  ‘Well, I can’t thank you enough. We’re so lucky to have you two girls here, aren’t we, Mummy?’

&nbs
p; Joan looked across at Ivy, whose eyes were fixed on Hazel. They’d all get a shock if she answered her daughter one day.

  ‘Oh, in all the excitement I quite forgot.’ Hazel stepped over to the sideboard. ‘Two letters for you, Joan. One from your mother, not that I peeked but I recognise her writing by now. And another from an unknown sender.’ Batting her eyelashes in what she must have thought a coquettish manner, she fanned Joan’s face with the envelope.

  Grabbing the letter mid-flap Joan said, ‘Now, I wonder who that can be from?’

  ‘So did we, didn’t we, Mummy?’ Hazel said. ‘But I’m sure we haven’t a clue.’

  Joan examined the unfamiliar handwriting. ‘That,’ she said, ‘makes three of us.’

  Alone in her room, Joan tossed the unread letter from Mother to one side and stared down at the mystery envelope. It could be from Cyril, apologising to her at last. Then again, it looked too neat and well blotted for him. Ralph, perhaps, coming back for her? No, the paper was too WH Smith and not enough Selfridges. But who could the sender possibly be, if not one of them?

  She took a deep breath and lifted the flap. Dear Joan Violin. It was from Colin. After all this time – she hadn’t seen or heard from him since she’d absented herself from the orchestra. She kicked off her shoes and leaned back on the bed, smiling when she remembered how he’d made her laugh.

  I don’t suppose for a minute you remember me, your old chum Colin Cello? You saved me from what would have been certain death by whispering the correct way to address SIR Ralph Myers. So, as I am forever in your debt, I decided to hunt you down. The last I heard about you, three years or so ago, was that you had a horrid bout of gastroenteritis after which you never returned to the Hall. I do hope you’ve made a full recovery?

  I am still a slave to my first love, the muse of music. But I longed to cut a dash in uniform, so joined the RAF and was immediately assigned to their very own Symphony Orchestra. Somehow, I managed to talk them round to allowing me to fly a plane or two instead of playing it safe with the cello, so I’ve ratcheted up quite a few hours on the wing.

  Perhaps you’d agree to meet up with me for a bit of a chinwag? I expect you’re chomping at the bit to find out how and why I traced you. I know I would be. Well, all can be revealed Saturday next, 6:30 p.m., outside the Empire in Leicester Square.

  Yours,

  Colin

  Closing her eyes, Joan thought about Colin. He’d been very entertaining, young and gawky, never afraid to poke fun at himself and everyone else. His face had been so fresh and unlined, he couldn’t have shaved more than once or twice a week at the most. She found it hard to imagine a grittier-faced Colin, stubble on his chin and cheeks. During one rehearsal, she’d turned to see him in a rapture, his eyes closed, head waggling from side to side like a puppy listening for the return of his master. She remembered thinking the music must be ingrained in him, living and moving with his every heartbeat. She almost came a cropper then, when his crossed eyes sprang open and his jaw, jutting towards her, pulled his bottom lip up to his nose. He could have won a Cornish gurning competition.

  It hadn’t all been fun, though, had it? She squirmed when the look of disillusion on Colin’s face forced its way past the good memories to the forefront of her mind. He’d known about her and Ralph. Everyone at the Hall must have; she’d been as spectacularly inept at hiding it as she had been at hiding Cyril from the women on the bridge. So, whatever did he want from her now? Folding the letter, she stared at where the smoky sky beyond the blackouts would be camouflaging night-fighters and bombers.

  From downstairs came the low grumble of the wooden shelter being shifted into position. Perhaps she should give Hazel a hand; make sure she and Ivy felt safe. It would be interesting to see them lying side by side under their timber canopy, but she lay still and thought about what Colin could want from her now. Bribery, or extortion maybe. But she couldn’t imagine the boyish Colin being devious or underhand in any way, even if he was older and wiser now. No, Colin was as readable as a lilting line of music so it was puzzling for her to imagine what he wanted to talk to her about.

  A tap on the door, followed by a sturdy hand holding a bottle of sherry. ‘A bit of what you fancy?’

  Joan threw the letters onto her bedside table. ‘Come in, Alice. Where did you get that?’

  ‘Hazel,’ she said, placing two minute glasses next to the bottle on the floor and bouncing down on the bed. ‘She wanted us to have a drop to say thanks very much for helping, but you hotfooted it upstairs with your secret treasure.’

  ‘Two letters.’ Joan tried to sound offhand. ‘Hardly a secret. Or a treasure.’ She inspected the bottle of ruby liquid in the light from the weak bulb. There were a fair few fingers left in it. ‘Wonder where she keeps getting this stuff from.’

  Alice shrugged. ‘No idea. How many times has she said this is the last bottle? Then she finds another one half-full at the back of a cupboard.’ Pouring two glasses, she handed one to Joan. ‘Here’s to secrets,’ she said. ‘And I reckon you has some of those.’

  ‘And I think…’ Joan touched the tip of Alice’s nose ‘…you’ve got a long one of these!’ Knocking back the sweet, syrupy tipple and filling her glass again, she went on, ‘Anyway, don’t count on anything mysterious from me. I’m as unexciting as they come.’

  Alice raised her glass to her mouth, wet her lips with sherry and licked them. ‘Who’s the letter from, then?’

  ‘Mother,’ Joan said, enjoying the tingling as the alcohol coated her mouth and throat.

  ‘I knows about that one. The other, with no return sender on the back.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joan lingered over the word. ‘That one. Nobody important, just the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Give over. Even I know there’s no Prince of Wales. More than likely it’s from someone you met at the Prince of Wales. The one in Pimlico that smells of dogs’ ends.’ They laughed at this until they choked and when one of them stopped, the other took over.

  Calming down enough to refill their glasses Alice said, ‘Tell us then. What is it you’re hiding? I know there’s something you doesn’t let on about.’

  Joan refused to answer. She preferred it when they were being silly.

  ‘I gots something I hide, too,’ Alice said. ‘Well, not hide, exactly. Something that’s hard to talk about because of the shame. I tried to tell you a couple of times, but I never got very far.’

  ‘Did you?’ Joan asked. She had no recollection of Alice ever attempting to relate anything as traumatic as the experiences she herself had been through.

  Alice nodded. ‘I think you was busy worrying about that horrible old bugger Cyril.’

  Or Ralph, Joan thought. Or Mother. But she couldn’t imagine what sort of secret Alice could be harbouring, and was intrigued. Perhaps she’d forgotten to get the chickens in one evening, or had lapped the cream from the top of the milk while everyone else was busy. From the corner of her eye she watched Alice, who was concentrating on the way the last of her sherry clung to the sides of the glass when she swirled it around. Months ago she’d realised that the patronising way she’d initially thought about Alice was inaccurate and unfair, and she didn’t want to start the habit again. ‘Any more of that left?’ she asked, holding her glass out.

  ‘Plenty,’ Alice said. ‘I’ll have a top-up, too.’

  ‘Go on, then. I’m listening now. Tell me.’

  ‘And will you go after me?’

  Joan considered and decided she would gauge her response and how much she would or wouldn’t tell according to the gravity of Alice’s confession.

  Alice shook her head, impatient to get started. ‘It don’t matter one way or another if you does or you don’t. That’s up to you. I’ll tell you anyway.’ She took a swig of sherry, a couple of deep breaths, then she began.

  ‘I were an ARP Warden back home and right proud of it. One of the youngest in Gloucestershire, maybe the whole country.’ Alice hesitated and ran her finger around the rim of her glass un
til it played a high, whining note. ‘And then because my pa and his friend drunk too much and did a wrong thing, I wrongly thought I was in my rights to do a wrong thing, too and it led to me neglecting my duties.’

  Joan frowned and wondered how bad the wrong things could have been.

  ‘I mean because of what I did, or didn’t do, people almost died.’ She lowered her head and her curls hung over her face. Joan pushed them aside and she could see that Alice’s face was burning.

  ‘After the whole sorry mess were finished and done, I suppose you could say I were made to feel so ashamed that I come to London to get away from the stares and wagging tongues.’

  Joan looked into the bottom of her own glass. ‘I can’t imagine you doing anything shameful, Alice.’

  ‘Well, you have to remember. This weren’t London, this were Old Sodbury where nothing much good or bad ever happens.’

  They were quiet for a moment. Alice sighed, her broad shoulders hitching up and back down. ‘It all involved a boy. Now I know he weren’t worth my time. After the incident that ended so badly, he never come near me again. But…’ Alice seemed to brighten. ‘The whole thing were a good lesson for me and it’s an old one. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Just because someone done something bad don’t mean you have to follow their lead.’ She nodded to emphasise each syllable she spoke. ‘I, for one, am determined never to get into the situation again whereby I blame others for what I do. I will make up my own mind about what’s right and what’s wrong.’

  ‘But you still go back to visit everyone in Old Sodbury?’ The concept bemused Joan. ‘How could you?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘It’s hard when I’m there, the way they go on about what I did when all the time they’ve got faults of their own. But they are my family. I couldn’t let them go altogether.’

  The all-clear had sounded an hour or so ago. The sherry bottle was empty and the room was cold and still, icy air clinging to Joan’s nostrils as she breathed in. They sat quietly side by side on the bed until Joan took Alice’s hand in hers. So we’re all the same, she thought. But in so many different ways.