by Jan Casey
‘It’s your turn now,’ Alice said. ‘Will you tell?’
Joan started at the beginning and didn’t leave anything out.
*
It wasn’t until the last minute that Joan decided she would meet Colin. He was waiting outside the Empire, stamping his gleaming shoes up and down, blowing into his thick gloves and looking every bit as debonair in his uniform as she had hoped he would. He shook her hand with both of his and skimmed her cheek with his lips. She’d been right to imagine he would look older; his youthful face was more accustomed to a razor now and the lines around his eyes and mouth didn’t disappear when he wasn’t smiling.
‘In here.’ He guided her into a lively pub. ‘Still a cordial and tonic?’ he asked when they’d managed to find a forgotten table and two stools.
She laughed aloud, remembering the trip to the pub after their first rehearsal. ‘Replace the cordial with gin this time, won’t you please?’
When Colin returned with the drinks, Joan crossed her legs and waited for him to launch into his reason for getting in touch with her. He was as charming and animated as ever, talking about news from the orchestra, his eyes bulging to emphasise scandal, narrowing when he whispered behind his hand about some intrigue or another. Edward and Eileen were engaged to be married and had asked Colin to be best man. ‘I’ll have to stay off the sauce until after the speech,’ he said, tongue lolling, eyes flickering. ‘Don’t want to embarrass them too much.’ He sat up and rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. ‘Or do I?’ He burst into laughter. ‘Well, Joan Violin,’ he went on, ‘do you want to know why I was so desperate to find you?’
‘Yes, please,’ Joan said, sipping her drink. ‘I’m curious.’
He told her he’d often wondered how she was, what she was doing and whether she still played the violin. ‘Your touch was sublime,’ he said. ‘Other-worldly.’
Joan was surprised but didn’t comment.
‘I asked the office at the Hall and eventually they gave me your home address. Your mother told me you were working in construction and living in a ladies’ hostel. So I wrote to you there. Do you mind awfully, Joan dear, that I ran myself ragged to find you?’ Colin batted his eyelashes and went to lay his head on her shoulder. Joan pulled away from him and he let out a sigh that reminded her of a fawning Romeo in the balcony scene.
‘But why, Colin?’ She remained business-like.
‘Do you still play?’ he asked.
Joan shook her head with rigid decisiveness.
‘Would you again?’
Joan looked him in the eye and said, ‘No.’
‘Not even for me?’ Colin lowered his eyes and feigned bashfulness.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Joan said. ‘And I don’t intend to change it. But why are you asking? Unless Mother’s put you up to it.’
‘No mother involved,’ Colin said, sitting back. ‘Just me.’
He went on to tell her he had been trying to organise a small jazz combo he had great hopes for and wanted to concentrate his efforts on when the war ended, as he was sure it would any day now. He thought she would suit the set-up perfectly. If she wanted to come along to his mum’s house next time he was on leave, they could listen to some of the music he hoped to play and discuss the offer further. Perhaps join him and one or two others on a couple of numbers. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a card on which was printed an address under the heading Colin’s Kats.
Joan wouldn’t take it from him until she sensed he was about to cause a scene, then threw it into the bottom of her bag. She downed her drink and stood to leave. ‘Thank you for thinking of me, Colin. But I won’t change my mind.’
‘As stubborn as ever,’ Colin said, his open face hard with disappointment. ‘And still intent on cutting off your nose to spite your face.’
The audacity of the remark stung. ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ Joan said, ‘before I slap you.’
It rankled with Joan the number of times Colin and their conversation came to mind, given that she was so sure of her decision. A whistle off in the distance on the other side of the bridge would make her think of middle C, and that would lead to music, to Colin’s compliments, to the group she’d been invited to join. When she had a few moments rest in between lifts with the crane, she wondered about the tunes the trio might play, and what their audience might be like.
Another conundrum was what she would do when the bridge was finished. More of the same, somewhere else? She didn’t think so; it wasn’t exactly a calling for her like it seemed to have become for Evelyn. Most often, she wondered whether Colin would really have her, if it ever came to it. If her playing was indeed inspired, as he’d intimated.
*
Rain had been scarce during March, until one Thursday when it persisted in falling in sheets. Joan and Alice had planned an outing uptown to a tea dance but the day-long downpour put paid to it. Kicking around in Joan’s room for something to do, Alice reached under the bed and dragged out the violin case. ‘Play it,’ she said.
‘Oh, Alice…’ Joan wished she’d understand. ‘We’ve been through this, haven’t we?’
‘Alright, then I will.’
‘Be my guest.’ Joan laughed as Alice opened the case and wedged the voluptuous piece of wood under her chin.
Raising the bow, she scratched it along the strings with all the weight of her hefty hands. ‘I can makes it sing,’ she said.
‘Put it back,’ Joan ordered.
Alice pranced around the room, scraping and grating out a caterwauling noise.
‘You’ll ruin it.’ Joan grabbed at Alice as she turned her back.
‘What do you care?’ Alice said.
‘That’s not how you do it.’ Joan plucked the instrument from Alice and cradled it into her neck. In her hand, the bow stroked and caressed the strings.
Alice smiled at her and nodded. ‘Don’t stop now,’ she whispered.
No, Joan thought, I won’t. She could not believe how familiar and reassuring the instrument felt in her hands and she realised, with a lurch, how much she had missed playing.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Oh, please come down,’ said Hazel. ‘Mummy’s been longing to hear you play for ages.’
13
April – July 1944
Evelyn
The blanched pallor of Dad’s face stopped Evelyn short in the doorway. In his lap he turned over a letter, then turned it over again, leaving the imprint of his clammy fingers on the pale, flimsy envelope. ‘It’s for Sylvie,’ he mouthed in a flat whisper that sounded as if all the life had been wrung out of it. ‘From Italy.’ He shook his head. ‘But not Alec’s writing.’
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Sylvie shouted from the hallway. ‘Anything special happening round here? It’d make a change.’
Their eyes locked, Dad and Evelyn silently begged each other to take charge, to know what to say when they gave the unwelcome and unwanted news, as it couldn’t be anything else. But neither of them made a move. At least, Evelyn thought, it’s not an envelope edged in black like the one that had arrived last August.
She’d thought that letter from Alec, addressed to all of them, must have been a mistake. Whose death would Alec have been notifying them about? But a letter about a death it was. And so they learned that Malcolm Russell Macoun had been killed on the 12th of September 1943 on the island of Sicily. Alec had thought it right and proper that he should inform the three of them who would, by extension, have become part of Malcolm’s family in due course.
They sat together in the kitchen, a dagger of summer sun slicing through the teapot in the middle of the table and cried for Alec’s cousin. One final letter from Malcolm, dated the end of July, arrived almost immediately after Alec’s. His flippant commentary on what sounded a hot, dusty, hungry conflict was painful to read. Evelyn wondered how he could compare heat exhaustion to all those times he’d had a few too many in the dear old Ship and Shovell. Or how pushing forward hour by hour towards the Bernhardt Line made him feel like a fron
tiersman trailblazing his way across Canada.
She tried to remember him like that, optimistic and buoyant, jollying the other men along. There were times, though, when she couldn’t stop herself imagining him taking the fire that killed him, his face shocked and betrayed, momentarily aged in the instant before death.
There were no more letters after that and she missed them. She missed him being alive, a presence somewhere in the world. And the world would miss out, too, on everything that he could have brought to it.
A very small parcel had arrived that November. Inside was a note from Malcolm’s mother in Saskatchewan. As she thought they must have been close, she wanted Evelyn to have Malcolm’s ID tag. She would keep the King James Bible he had in his pocket when he died a hero, in his mother’s eyes. So despite their chat before he left, Malcolm had been carrying a flame for her all through the Italian campaign. Evelyn had picked up the round, battered, dirt-red disc by its chain and laid it with care in the palm of her hand. The Service Number L124824 was pressed along the top; PREB – for Presbyterian, she supposed – underneath his name; CDN at the bottom. All that it had meant to be Malcolm reduced to those four lines of embossed characters.
Leaving a week or two to pass, Evelyn wrote back to Malcolm’s mother telling her what a lovely son she’d had. Evelyn said he’d been a gentleman who danced beautifully and kept everyone entertained with his stories and breezy outlook on life. And although she couldn’t recall everything they’d talked about the last time she’d seen Malcolm in London, she told Mrs Macoun that her son had said he was looking forward to getting into the thick of things at last and that he loved his mother very much. There was no harm in that now.
But it did seem wrong to let Malcolm’s mother believe they’d been planning a future together, so she finished by saying she’d been fond of Malcolm but they had never made promises to each other and she would understand if, on that basis, Mrs Macoun would like the ID tag back. When there was no reply, Evelyn wrapped the tag in tissue paper and put it in a little box alongside a marcasite brooch that had belonged to her mother.
Now it took Sylvie pushing her way into the sitting room to horrify Dad and Evelyn out of their immobility, but it was too late to hide the letter from view or to prepare Sylvie with an arm to lean on. She stared down at Dad’s lap, a puzzled look on her face.
‘Sylvie. Love,’ Dad said, his lips pale and trembling. ‘I think…’
Her eyes wide, Sylvie reached out for the envelope.
‘Sit down first,’ Evelyn said. ‘Here. With me on the couch.’
‘Or here,’ Dad said, levering himself out of his chair.
Sylvie shook her head, raking her hands through her hair. ‘He’s not dead,’ she said. Evelyn saw her sister’s chest rise and fall rapidly beneath her blouse. ‘I’d know if he was dead and he’s not. Nothing else matters. Does it?’ She looked up at Dad, a small girl seeking the comfort of rock-solid reassurance.
‘That’s it, my love,’ Dad said.
Evelyn wasn’t so sure and hated herself for thinking it, but some of the injured and disfigured men coming home must wish they had been killed; it would have been kinder on them if they had. And on the people who loved them, who had to see and deal with them every day in their dreadful, misshapen states.
The air was heavy and breathless, waiting for the news. A sparrow swooped past the window but didn’t make a sound; the pounding pulse in Evelyn’s ears muffled the ticking of the clock.
As Sylvie aimed her nail under the corner of the envelope, Evelyn clung to her arm.
‘No. No, no.’ Sylvie’s sobs splintered the hush. She sank to her knees, an empty sack of grief. Evelyn went down with her. ‘Alec. No.’ She beat her fists on the floor, dormant dust rising from the rug. ‘I can’t bear it.’
Picking up the letter from where Sylvie had dropped it, Evelyn read it, then handed it to Dad. She heard the words as he read them in a whisper.
23rd May 1944
Dear Miss Draper,
Your intended fiancé, Corporal Alexander Gordon Buchan L124830 Saskatoon Light Infantry (M.G.) R.C.I.C., requested that I write to inform you that he has sustained a serious facial wound in action in the Battle for Liri Valley. After immediate treatment at the Fifth Field Hospital, he has been transferred to the No. 1 Canadian General Hospital here in Andria, Italy.
Corporal Buchan has asked me to tell you that he is otherwise well and in good spirits and will write to you himself when is able. He sends you his love.
Yours sincerely,
Edna Kendall (Nursing Sister R.C.A.M.C.)
‘His face,’ Sylvie said, her hands playing with the contours of her nose and cheeks, forehead and ears.
Dad leaned into his daughters who were huddled together on the floor. They gripped his legs until the shadows across the yard merged together into nightfall and Evelyn thought she must take charge of tea and food.
Towards dawn, Sylvie fell into a twitching, agitated sleep, Evelyn’s arm pinned underneath her. It had been a long, draining night with Sylvie vacillating wildly between panic and resilience. She paced the room, tormenting herself with thoughts of the hell he must have gone through and what he was experiencing now, this very minute, with Sylvie thousands of miles away from where she should be. At his side. How long had he waited for help? Who had been with him when it happened? The unanswered questions were endless.
Then she’d drop into a chair and reproach herself for not keeping calm. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Sylvie,’ she’d say. ‘Isn’t that right, Evelyn? You tell me.’
‘It’s alright,’ Evelyn said. ‘Don’t worry now. You have a right to be upset.’
Clenching her jaw, Sylvie shook her head. ‘You were right before, don’t you remember? When Alec was sent away and you said I should try to be the woman he fell for. Besides, am I the only one? No. Not by a long shot. Any woman with a whole fiancé or husband at the end of this war will be the odd one out.’
Then one of them would sniffle or reread the letter, and the cycle would start again.
They picked at a late tea that Evelyn had cobbled together, but none of them could do much more than push it around on their plates.
Desperate to let Sylvie sleep, Evelyn eased her arm from under her sister’s weight and folded herself out of bed. She wanted to be washed and dressed with breakfast on the go, ready to help in any way she could before Sylvie woke and reality hit her. And she’d have to scribble and post a quick note to Stan to let him know why she wouldn’t be able to meet him for a while. She looked down at Sylvie for a couple of minutes, listening to the whistle of her breathing through swollen nasal passages, tucked the covers around her and crept from the room.
Sylvie seemed to feel better than she looked when she came downstairs with sore eyes set in a pale face. Getting her to eat was difficult; it wasn’t that she didn’t want the porridge, she said, but it seemed to stick in her throat like concrete and make her gag. Fishing around in his bowl, Dad plopped his lump of jam onto Sylvie’s oats, and then she managed the rest.
‘Ready?’ Sylvie said.
‘For what?’ Evelyn was at the pantry door, wondering what to cook for dinner.
‘Work,’ Sylvie said, snubbing her nose with a long wipe of her hand.
‘Now then,’ Dad said. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. They’ll understand you staying off today. Evelyn won’t go in either, will you, love?’
‘Of course I won’t. Not until Alec writes himself and we know a bit—’
‘I can’t,’ Sylvie said. She was gripping the back of a chair, her knuckles strained and white. ‘Don’t want to. The letter could take ages. Come on, let’s go.’
‘Dad?’ Evelyn deferred the decision.
Unshaven as yet, Dad’s whiskers stood grey and patchy on the loose skin of his chin and neck. He hadn’t put on a tie and his braces hung in limp loops at his sides. ‘Best you carry on,’ he said. ‘Do what you have to do. I’ll be here waiting for the post.’
*
/> Sylvie headed straight for Jim’s office to tell him why she might not be at her best today, and Evelyn went to prepare for her gang who were inching their way towards the south pier. Gwen was there before her, clapping the previous day’s grime out of her gauntlets, minute particles dancing in the sunlight.
‘Morning,’ Gwen said, waving a hand that boasted white-tipped nails. ‘I can’t believe the spring we’re having.’ She breathed deeply, then coughed as the powdery dirt hit the back of her throat. ‘Shall I light one for you?’ she said, opening her tin of tobacco.
Evelyn nodded. For months on end Gwen had been living for the spring. Building herself up and counting down the days until George would take her to Wales. That time had finally arrived; George was due home on leave and had promised to take Gwen to visit their kids. Evelyn hadn’t seen her happier or healthier. A hopeful spring for one; a time of despair for another. Evelyn sat cross-legged on the deck of what was left of the temporary bridge and told Gwen about Alec.
‘It’s awful,’ Evelyn said, tapping ash between the beams beneath her. ‘Not knowing’s the worst. Bugger, I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve heard someone say that since this bloody war started.’
‘I’m ever so sorry for Sylvie,’ Gwen said. ‘I’ll look her out during the day and have a word with her. She’s a good girl, one of the best.’
‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ Evelyn said, releasing the anger she’d felt since yesterday through snarled lips.
‘No one does,’ Gwen said. ‘But I think you’re wrong about one thing. Knowing can be the worst that happens. There ain’t no hope after that.’
Determined to keep herself occupied, Sylvie put her name forward for any overtime going and Evelyn, wanting to stay close to her sister, did the same. Whether by instinct or design it was a clever move; Sylvie slept at night and ate at mealtimes and, although she was doing little else, she was taking care of the basics. She didn’t miss a day’s work until the letter she’d been waiting for arrived five days later.
