Wartime Brides (33 page)

‘That wasn’t the first time David had hit you, was it?’

Polly shrugged. ‘Sometimes I said things he didn’t like. A bit like her really.’

She jerked her chin at her adversary who was still lying spark out on the ground. A crowd had gathered round, applying smelling salts to her nose and wet cloths to her forehead.

‘But I wasn’t going to have her call my kiddie names,’ she added.

Charlotte smiled warmly and patted her arm. ‘I don’t blame you. A mother has a right to keep her child and a child is best living with his natural mother.’

‘Shame that little Edna couldn’t keep her baby,’ said Meg who was standing with them, arms folded and a smug smile painted on her face. Polly
did
sometimes give her occasion to be proud. She went on, ‘I know it might have been hard on Colin, but all the same, if the father had married her …’

Polly kicked her gently on the shin. Of all the things to say!

Charlotte smiled sadly. ‘Mixed marriages are not allowed.’ She looked directly at Polly. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you that.’

Polly felt the full power of those silver-grey eyes, couldn’t hold their gaze and had to turn away. Up until now she was the one who’d been wronged. The truth was hard to swallow. If only she’d thought things through a bit more and asked a few questions before blowing her top at Charlotte and getting involved with David. There must be some way she could make things up to her.

It wasn’t thought through, but she had to do something.
‘If
you want me to give you a hand making these kiddies some clothes, Aunty Meg’s got an old Singer in the front room. It’s a treadle. Real nice it is.’

It was poor compensation for what she’d done. And she was about to start a job at the New Palace – chance of a lifetime she reckoned; wages a bit low but there was no paying to watch the film, was there? ‘I could do the sewing during the day,’ she added when she noticed the look of surprise on Aunt Meg’s face.

Charlotte’s face brightened. ‘That is really wonderful. May I drop off some materials sometime this week?’

After Charlotte was gone and she’d closed the front door, Polly took a deep breath before turning round. Meg had to be faced, and there she was, arms folded and waiting for an explanation.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I can manage to do the sewing and go to work,’ Polly said.

‘It’s not the baby clothes I’m thinking about. Polly, if you ever get married I hope you never have to go through what that poor woman’s been through. You’ve got a lot to answer for and don’t try to deny it!’

Chapter Eighteen

ONE OF THE
typists employed by the Marriage Guidance Council had decorated the office with paper chains. They looked a little faded and Charlotte guessed they were prewar but their presence was appreciated. They helped lift the sombre drabness of her office and fill the gaps between the scratched and dated furniture.

A four-drawer filing cabinet sat in the corner. Her desk and chair were of similar age and of the same dark oak as the cabinet. Clay-coloured linoleum, cracked with age, squeaked underfoot.

As if the office wasn’t dark enough, the lower halves of the windows were painted in a dirty cream. Brush strokes and stuck bristles gave it an uneven, scruffy look.

‘It’s not very welcoming,’ she’d said to the director of operations when first shown her domain.

He’d pursed his lips and drawn himself up to his full height so that he almost seemed taller than she. ‘It’s not supposed to be,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘Divorce is a very serious business and should not be considered
lightly
!’ His look of condemnation was enough to tell her not to press the point.

‘Excuse me,’ she had said, sweeping past him with dignified ease as if she were one of those people who always were and always would be in complete control of their lives. Little did he know.

She had an appointment at eleven, a Mr and Mrs Masters who had married young in the middle of the war and were now having problems. Charlotte was of the opinion that their marriage was not beyond repair. It was just a case of rediscovering each other. First she would need to take some notes. Tugging forcibly on the right-hand drawer eventually persuaded it to open. Her pen lay on top of a pile of unopened letters – unopened but for one, that is.

Thoughtfully, and not without sadness, she took out the opened envelope. Her thoughts immediately went back to the day when Matron had told her that Sherman Burbage had gone out on a ‘trial adoption’. She had instantly known what Edna’s reaction would be.

‘Before you go to her,’ Matron had said, her eyes full of concern, ‘perhaps you could take these.’ She had handed her the unopened letters, about twelve in all. ‘They were hidden beneath the clothes in the parcels. I’m sorry about the first one having been opened.’ She blinked and Charlotte sensed her embarrassment. ‘I didn’t know quite what to do with them – whether to hand them to Edna or what. I thought I’d leave it to you.’

Charlotte had stared at them as if they were likely to burst into flame and scorch her brown leather gloves.
They
felt strangely heavy, heavy on the heart rather than on the hands.

‘It’s from Sherman’s father. There’s a photograph,’ Matron went on.

The edge of the photograph poked out of the envelope. Like Matron, Charlotte couldn’t help being curious. Although she was telling herself that it was none of her business, she pulled the photograph from its covering. A smiling Edna, cheek to cheek with a handsome young black soldier, looked up at her. They had that certain expression in their eyes that she’d seen so often during the war years.
I want you today. Tomorrow may never come
.

‘I’ll take them,’ she’d said.

Her footsteps had quickened as Edna’s wail of despair joined with that of babies disturbed from their sleep, reminding Charlotte of an air raid siren as it resounded through bare corridors. She had to run to Edna, the pile of letters clutched tightly in her hand.

As Charlotte reached the nursery door a thought came to her. Sherman had been put out for a trial adoption. Hard as it was, it meant Edna’s marriage would survive. No one could pretend it was easy to put the past behind them. Goodness knows she was trying to do it herself!

She had paused, considered quickly, then opened her handbag and shoved the letters out of sight.

Now they sat in the right hand drawer of her desk. The drawer itself was difficult to open because the office was damp and the wood had swollen. It was just as well. They would stay difficult to get at. She was as convinced as she
could
be that she had done the right thing. Once Sherman was adopted they could be destroyed. There was no point in handing them over to Edna. It would only give her further heartache and risk undermining her marriage and any chance of happiness. Wartime love affairs were best forgotten. Just like hers and Josef’s.

So far she had received no word of what Josef was doing in Germany: a mixed blessing. There were enough complications in her life. But sometimes, usually late at night, she sat in her silent, empty house, staring at her bed and thinking of what had been.

Edna hated the hospital. At first it had been the smell of antiseptic. Now she hated it because it reminded her of the orphanage where she had last seen her son, now farmed out to potential parents like goods on approval. The thought was horrendous and she did her best to put it out of her mind. She kept telling herself that it was for the best, that Sherman now had the chance of a real family and a decent future.

Despite hating the hospital, she regarded it as her duty to go with Colin for his check ups. They had become much more frequent of late. On previous visits she had never been allowed to accompany him into his examination so she was surprised when a nurse asked why she hadn’t gone with him. On this occasion it was allowed. ‘It’s just an investigation,’ the nurse said.

‘I don’t think he wants me. He’s a very private person,’ she answered nervously. The nurse sniffed, took a swift glance at the chromium plate watch dangling against her
chest
and marched off to more important matters.

It was an hour before a student nurse wheeled her husband out, her bottom stuck out behind with the effort of pushing him and his chair back to Edna.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked with nervous hesitation.

Colin avoided looking her in the eye.

‘Of course it is. Just get me out of here.’ He slapped impatiently at the wheels.

Edna put her back into the job. ‘I could have come in with you,’ she said to him.

‘I don’t want you to! This is something I have to face by myself,’ he snapped.

She opened her mouth to ask what he had to face that she couldn’t face with him. Was he ill? Had some disease arisen out of his injuries? She thought of all the things it might be. Lots of dreadful conditions resulted from terrible war wounds. The list was endless. The worst thing was that she was frightened of finding out the truth, so she shut her mouth, but determined to keep her eyes open. Perhaps in time Colin would tell her what was going on.

Polly loved the pictures. The films were shown continuously, so she got to know the plots really well and could almost recite the dialogue word for word.

It was her job to shine her torch and guide the patrons to their seats once they’d shown her their tickets. Giving people information, such as where the toilets were and what time the ice cream girl came round, were also part of her duties. When at last the projector was switched off
and
the lights went up, it was her task to weave her way through each row of seats, upending those that were left down, collecting rubbish, and taking forgotten umbrellas, purses, shoes and handbags to lost property. Goodness knows how some people had gone home with no shoes!

Billy and his black van were always waiting outside when she’d finished and sometimes he treated her to fish and chips on the way home.

‘I’ve got a treat for this Saturday,’ he said to her one Friday night.

‘I’m working,’ she responded thinking it was the pub or the pictures – as customers, of course – and another slap-up meal of fish and chips eaten from newspaper. No airs and graces were needed to fit in with Billy’s plans, that was for sure.

‘All day?’ Billy went on. He sounded excited, like a small boy who can’t wait to show someone his first bicycle.

She sighed. ‘I’m doing the afternoon and night shift, but I’m doing some more sewing for Charlotte in the morning.’

Billy remained silent. She sensed something about what she’d said had disturbed him. She glanced at him sidelong. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

He shrugged his shoulders casually and tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘I was thinking of Colin and Edna. Ain’t ’ad much luck, ’ave they!’

She gripped his arm, eyes wide with alarm. ‘You haven’t told him about her baby, have you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Wouldn’t dare. He’d go
doolally
. Adores Edna, ’e does. But I was thinkin’ about ’er. Sad about ’aving to give ’er baby away. You ought to ’ave seen the look on ’er face when I took ’er to that orphanage. All brightness and light it was and when she came out, she was crying.’

Polly sighed. Through the grimy glass of the van window she casually watched couples walking arm in arm along pavements that were wet with drizzle. ‘Well, that’s something that’s changed. She doesn’t go out there now. Her baby’s been put up for adoption is what Charlotte said when she came to collect my last lot of baby clothes.’

‘Jesus! Poor cow! She’ll never see him again.’

‘It might be for the best. The father was black.’ Suddenly Polly remembered Aaron, and the way he sang and played the piano; a bittersweet memory. Some of the bitterness turned to nasty words. ‘Shouldn’t have lowered herself like that, should she!’

‘Polly! You ain’t no bloody innocent!’

Polly felt her face colouring. Billy had made her angry. She had to retaliate.

‘And you can’t read and write! So what?’

It hurt, just as she’d known it would.

Billy took his attention off the road for the smallest of moments. The surface was slippery, his tyres not too special. The van skidded. The brakes squealed. Car headlights glared like twin suns, then were gone. Suddenly the van was careering onto the pavement where it spun once, righted itself, then smashed headlong into a lamppost.

*

When Charlotte went round to collect Polly’s completed sewing, Meg was standing at the door, her face creased with worry and a crying Carol in her arms.

Since getting a permanent position with the Marriage Guidance Council, Charlotte had regained the confident air she had had before David had come home, but she was filled with apprehension when she saw Meg’s face. Something bad had happened.

‘What’s the matter?’

Meg told her about the accident. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ she said. ‘My sister’s ill.’ She went on to explain that she was off to look after her sister in Lancashire and would have taken Carol, but there was a risk of infection.

‘Polly said to ask Edna to have her,’ Meg said. ‘She reckons she’d dote on her – considering the circumstances with regard to her own.’

‘Would you like me to take her there?’ asked Charlotte.

It didn’t take Meg long to pack Carol’s things and wash the sticky mess of dried jam off her face.

A fog was brewing, a foul mix of natural mist, the smoke from thousands of coal fires in living room grates, and yeast from Georges’ Brewery. Chimney stacks towering above the city appeared to puff their effluent upwards when in fact it merely hung in the air, mixing with the smoke from streets of terraced houses.

Charlotte switched on her car lights. She’d left Meg dusting off a battered brown suitcase she’d taken from the top of a worm-eaten wardrobe ready for her trip to her sister’s. She wrinkled her nose as she remembered the smell of mothballs when she opened it.

Carol’s clothes were stuffed into two brown paper carrier bags, which now lay beside her on the back seat of the car. The child was sleeping, her cheeks still red from the crying she’d done earlier. Charlotte guessed Carol was teething again. Every so often the child sniffed back what was left of her sobs.