The War Widows (5 page)

The bucket seat was low down, bagging her skirt, and the bit of rust by the door had kept snagging her lisle stockings the last time she was out in the van. How many times was Levi asked to get it seen to?

There was a pile of other mail addressed to Freddie waiting at home, letters from foreign parts that none of the family had the heart to open yet. It was years since they had waved off the youngest son. Lily could
hardly recall his gruff voice except when she read his cheery letters.

Tears were rolling down her nose again. It was hard to drive. Now she must tell lies to a total stranger. No wonder Polly Isherwood looked so pinched. She carried her grief with pride but it was etched into the lines on her face.

How did people survive such loss? Walter lost his own dad in the Great War and his mother clung to him like a limpet. There are always those who’re worse off than you, she sighed. But now war was over and the streets were full of demob suits, it was so painful.

At least Gertie, usually slow to warm up, was purring gently while Lily was daydreaming. Where were the peppermint chews in her handbag? Dash it! She swerved, missing the turning to the left.

‘Where on earth’s the aerodrome, Dolly Daydream?’ she muttered. Talking to herself helped to pass the time, but she needed to concentrate.

The Winstanley family was a right box of liquorice allsorts. Mother was a sherbet lemon-sharp on the outside but soft and fizzy inside, after a glass or two of Wincarnis in the evening, and took a bit of softening up. Dad had been a bar of Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Ivy was definitely an acid drop and Levi was a brazil nut cracknel, sweet one minute and tough the next. Walt was her favourite, a Cadbury’s Chocolate Caramel with the squidgy centre.

As for her own attributes, a Fox’s Glacier Mint, plain, serviceable, good in an emergency, would just about sum her up.

Sweets were something special now, being so carefully rationed. Neville got everyone’s ration in his ever-open mouth. He liked dolly mixtures…Sweets, food…no time to think of such stuff now.

Rationing was worse than in the war these days. Levi had hollow legs to fill but he somehow managed to scrounge a few extras from the U.T.C.-‘Under The Counter’-brigade. Not easy when there was always Ivy’s sweet tooth to satisfy. Her big brother needed to have his comforts when he was married to such an ambitious woman. Ivy was always making big plans for them.

They were living rent free in Division Street so the couple could save for a new house across town, one day. Ivy had her son, her husband and a dream of living on the south side, close to the golf club. She knew where she was heading.

If only life was that simple, Lily mused. It was two steps forward up the slippery slope to the pinnacle and one step backwards most of the time.

Esme blamed Ivy’s scheming on going to the pictures. ‘It might cheer you up for a few minutes but it gives simple girls like Ivy big ideas, American dreams,’ she explained.

It wasn’t as if Lily didn’t have dreams of her own: dreams of travelling abroad, a baby in a Silver Cross pram, dreams of the Grasshoppers winning the Cup at Wembley, of going to watch them in London to cheer on Freddie’s old gang. Even the dream of a cottage full of babies with Walter seemed far off now. There was always one crisis or another.

Someone on the wireless said what the world needed were babies to keep the numbers up. Dolores Pickles at number eight had yet another bump on show-was it the ninth or the tenth?-and all the reward she would get for being faithful to her Church was a tin of biscuits. Ten kiddies and she’d get a tin of biscuits for her suffering. The Pope himself would be hard pressed to find a tin of biscuits anywhere in Grimbleton, and Mother should know. Lily’s grandfather was one of the big noises in Crompton’s Biscuits. How did the old slogan go?

‘Just concentrate! Where am I now?’ She peered out into the gloom. ‘Getting nowhere fast. Come on, Gertie, we were volunteered for this mission whether we liked it or not so keep on top of the job for once.’

She felt like a lost sock in the Acme agitator washing machine of life, like the juggler’s dinner plates. Spinning around from one job to another, that’s me, she sighed. No wonder there was never any time for daydreaming except when alone in the van. That was the time to think things through. There was no justice in this world. Two world wars and what was there to show for all the suffering but exhaustion, drabness and telegrams like this one landing in their lap? There were thousands of families like them still mourning the loss of loved ones, unsure of the future, trying to hold everyone together in harmony.

At last! The barbed wires of the perimeter fence came in view. Ringway Aerodrome was in sight and it was not too late. Lily’s hands were trembling as she plonked on her brown felt hat with the pointed brim and fingered her gloves. The moment of truth was nigh.

In the pictures, airports were scenes of adventure, romance and the promise of far-off places. How she longed to be boarding an Air France Dakota for Le Bourget and Paris, or even a trip out over the runway would be fun. Arrivals and departures were exciting, but not this time. This was going to be a nightmare and the sooner it was over the better.

The plane landed with a judder onto the wet tarmac and Ana Papadaki looked out of the window with relief and dismay, her insides fluttering as if a flock of doves were on the wing. This was Manchester, her new home. Soon she would be meeting a new family. She hoped they could read the broken English of her letter well enough to be waiting for her today.

The classes in the transit camp in London were very basic. Speaking was no problem. It was writing that was a strain but she was determined to make herself understood.

Dina, her baby, started to whine and she gave her the strap of her leather handbag to chew on. She was still cutting teeth but her little mouth opened into a howl of protest. There was a dampish patch from her nappy seeping into Ana’s flimsy skirt.

Ana lifted up her child, jiggling her at the window to distract them both from the unexpected delay. There was nothing to see but Nissen huts, brick buildings,
grey skies and concrete. She could be anywhere in war-torn Europe. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Such excitement had soared within her when she’d stepped aboard the plane. At last! This was the last lap on their journey towards a new life, a fresh start away from the horrors of the past years.

Dina brought worries as well as hope into her life, but stepping off the plane into the autumn chill, Ana felt as if a damp cloth was slapping her face. So
this
was Manchester.

The passengers clucked like chickens when the plane landed, jittery women with babies puking on their shoulders, all dying for a pee. Her first thought was, would the soldier’s family recognise her in the crowd? Would
he
be there to meet them?

She could hardly recall his face. It felt so long since their tender farewell at Piraeus eighteen months ago.

First there was a rush for the toilet. Dina was tugging at her hair. Ana was glad of the Red Cross clothing parcel with its little siren suit and pixie hood: warm clothing for a baby in this dampness.

Her own thin dress felt like underwear, and the oriental mother opposite had only a silky summer dress covering her tiny frame with an ill-fitting suit jacket; probably her very best outfit. How shabby she felt in a headscarf alongside other passengers in fur coats and fancy hats.

Ana held on to the woman’s little toddler in the queue so that the Eastern beauty could relieve herself. Together they had watched all the other mothers jumping into the arms of their sweethearts, one by
one, lots of hugs and kisses and children thrown into the air with glee.

Perhaps his family were delayed or the bus was late. Perhaps she had given them the wrong date or the wrong address. She was grasping the well-thumbed envelope for comfort. This was her ticket to a new life, this proof of their correspondence, and the address was the one link with her lover. He must have filled in the forms to sponsor her and their child or she wouldn’t have got this far.

There was a draught on her bare legs, and she wrapped her jacket tightly around her skinny body. Five years of labour and hunger had taken its toll on her frame. She still hadn’t recovered from the camp years of starvation. How she managed to fall for a baby so quickly she would never know; a woman brought back to life by the kindness of one Tommy soldier who wooed and won her in a dance hall in Athens.

He was not like some of the other Tommies, who could only shuffle across the floor, but moved with grace, gathering her up in his arms like a fair Rudolph Valentino. He treated her nursing uniform with respect. She was not some easy whore ready for a quick fumble in return for a bar of soap. He was tender and understanding when she recoiled from his lovemaking at first. There were so many bad memories to expunge of her time in the labour camp.

Now she looked so shabby in her faded frock and felt hat covering her dark copper hair. ‘My ginger Greek with freckles,’ he called her, surprised that not all Grecian women were black-haired and doe-eyed. Her
hair was straggling across her cheeks and she could feel tears welling up.

She was not just any Greek woman; she was from Crete, the home of the gods, the most ancient of all the islands, and the most beautiful, in her eyes. It was an island torn apart by war, where the women were descended from Minoan gods, pale and golden, and the men fierce fighters for independence, a proud race. So proud of their women, that someone like her could never return to its shore.

Dina was struggling out of her arms, staring at the other little girl, who was muffled in the same Red Cross cast-offs. The oriental mother smiled and reached for her own child.

What a pity her little one was so plump-faced and plain-pug-nosed, Ana observed. It felt mean to be making a comparison but anyone could see Dina was prettier.

There were just the two of them left now, sitting in the draughty arrivals hall of Ringway Aerodrome like abandoned luggage, watching every movement in the doorway, every coming and going to no avail.

Suddenly Ana shivered and her heart went thump, thump. No one was coming. She would be sent back home, abandoned. Did they not know she could never go back home: an unmarried woman with a child, dishonouring the family name for ever? It was better they thought her dead.

A strict code of honour had been broken. On Crete women like herself were shadows, fit only to live in caves, out of sight. It would kill her mother to bear
such disgrace. If there was anything of her village left since the Germans invaded Crete in 1941…But why think on those things? What was done then was done in the name of duty. What she did in Athens was done for love and gratitude. He would not let her down. It tore her heart to be an exile but that life was over. To open such memories was like unlocking her battered case left behind in Canea, her hope chest, smelling of camphor, stuffed with postcards, embroidered linen, lace work, damp and discoloured with age, her frayed dowry never to be redeemed: all those long-faded hopes and dreams like butterflies that have lost their wings.

War washed away all that past life and the age-old customs that went with it. Her only duty now was to survive for her child’s sake. This was the start of a new life together.

But dreams betrayed her each night when the island came alive: a wine-dark sea shimmering at sunset, the green mountains of the Apokoronas, snow-capped, stretching high in the distance, and the soft breezes off the shore stroking her cheeks. She could smell the scents of home: wild thyme, lemons, and watermelons like footballs. She tasted honey and sand on her lips. In the shade of the vines the zizzies screeched.

Suddenly the scene would change to smoke and darkness, the stench of burning rubber and cordite, on that first morning of invasion.

Ana was too busy in the makeshift hospital to watch more parachutes descending into the olive groves around the city of Canea. The daily bombardment crushed the harbour buildings, trapping whole
families, men and boys digging them out with their bare hands. Everyone lay in wait for the one doctor while she and the other nurses wiped blood and tried to clean bandages. Her apron was filthy, her copper hair spilling out of her headscarf, but there was no time for neatness.

‘More white devils’ umbrellas from the sky,’ shouted a terrified woman. Their beloved island was being attacked again. Around her were British Tommies prostrate with mortal wounds. The bombs had done their worst and they were soft targets. This was no time for politics. It was enough to know Stelios, her brother, was out there shooting anything that moved. Their stone house had a cool cellar; she hoped Mother, Eleni and Aliki were hiding. How many times had this town suffered the aggressor?

‘Look, Ana…it’s like shooting birds out of the sky…pot shots,’ someone laughed. Parachutes descending like coloured balloons onto the shore, the groves, rooftops. Guns blasting out from Malaxa’s hilltop battery.

For months they’d been waiting, feeling the tension as British troops built defences-tired men evacuated from the mainland, ill equipped, with sallow-cheeked pale faces, who were wondering just why they were there. Her father was fighting with the Fifth Cretan Brigade far away in Northern Greece. With all their crack troops far from home, now the city was left to boys and old men, who must defend their honour or die in the effort. Freedom or Death! This was their slogan.

All morning they brought in wounded men. There were tales of Germans butchered on the roofs even as they fell, but this was the Red Cross and they must accept any wounded, whatever the uniform.

‘That’ll teach them,’ sighed Dr Mandakis, grim-faced as he covered the sheet over yet another enemy soldier, hacked to pieces by the fury of the mob.

Now the wounded were piled alongside each other, enemy, defender, stranger and known faces from the city streets. The medical staff worked by lamplight, stitching, sewing flesh together, mopping brows of amputees, giving sips of precious water to the dying.