A Girl in Wartime (17 page)

Sitting at the kitchen table, Dorothy, her stomach big now, the baby expected late February or early March, glanced up. ‘Hope I hear from my Ron soon.' She sighed. ‘Seems ages since I had a letter from him.'

Mum looked at her in sympathy. ‘Should get one soon, love. I just hope both my boys are all right.' She turned back to Connie. ‘But George – don't know what your dad will say when he comes in tonight and reads this.'

He'd left to do his coal deliveries well before the post had arrived. In normal times it would get delivered about seven thirty, another one around eleven, one in the afternoon, and the last one around teatime. But the war made deliveries erratic; sometimes one post was missed out altogether.

Connie's father had no sympathy for postmen – nowadays more often post-woman. ‘Wouldn't 'urt 'em to get a bit more of a move on,' he would grumble if his football coupon was late turning up. As for Mum, every time the letterbox clattered, she'd hurry to collect it, hoping it was from her boys. Letters from the fighting forces had priority and were delivered as regular as possible, but sometimes a delay would have two arriving at once.

‘My George in prison!' she said, unable to believe it, while Connie read the letter to herself.

Short and to the point, it confirmed the arrest had been for fighting in the street and disturbing the peace. She'd have smiled at the word ‘peace' had it not been for the consideration to send him to a long-term prison for the duration of the war for declaring himself a ‘conscientious objector'.

Connie handed it back to her mother not quite knowing what to say except, ‘Dad will be home in half an hour.'

Her mother began carefully to fold the official notice, running her thumbnail repeatedly along its edges, folding and folding until it refused go any smaller. Connie took it from her and put it on the mantelpiece for her father to read when he came in.

Mum, in an obvious fluster, had hurried out to the kitchen to get the meal she'd been heating up.

Ill at ease, Dorothy got up too, awkwardly waddling out to help the woman who had so unselfishly taken her under her wing, for which she had hardly stopped thanking her, as well as for all her kindness.

‘Don't let it worry you too much, Connie,' she said as she went out.

Connie nodded but said nothing. It was good to have another girl in the house, pregnant or not. Who cared? Lots of girls making the most of their men's leave were ending up pregnant – in war it didn't seem so much of a crime, and it gained more sympathy than recrimination – though some were still prim about it. Maybe they had nothing better to do, was Connie's thought. She found Dorothy a lovely person. Ronnie was a lucky man. When this war was over and he came home, they'd get married. And please God let it be soon, she prayed.

Swiftly she ate the stew Mum had managed to cook up for their evening meal, for all there was very little meat in it. She was seeing Stephen tonight but told Mum she was seeing a couple of friends she worked with.

Stephen was taking her to see a play and would be at the end of the road with a taxi. But her mind wasn't on that. Rather it was on him seeing her home afterwards. Maybe they would linger out of sight in that narrow passage between the tenements, but only briefly. He would kiss her gently, then urgently, and always she willed for him to take it further, to fondle her, but he always checked himself, saying that he couldn't, he mustn't.

Asking why not reaped no response at all, other than a few mumbled words about not thinking this to be the right time. And as they moved apart she would stand a little away from him, wanting to demand if he was serious about her or not. But she was never able to bring herself to do so, dreading a row that might have him saying it best they parted for good. What in heavens name would she do then, having to work with him knowing what he meant to her? And would he feel the same?

Changed and ready for the evening she was on the point of leaving when her father came in, making for the kitchen sink to wash off the coal-dust.

‘Tell your dad about the official thing we got, Connie,' Mum said without turning from the stove where she was dishing up his stew.

‘What official thing?' he growled.

‘The one about our George.'

‘What about 'im?'

‘Tell him, Connie.'

‘George has been arrested. We got a note from the police.'

‘Arrested? What for? Fer not signing on?'

‘No, for fighting in the street.'

Her father swung round, his face dripping soapsuds. ‘Gawd's strewth! I'll kill 'im! Him, perfessing not to strike the other cheek and all that soddin' rigmarole, and—'

‘I've got to be off, Mum,' Connie said, glad to be away from her dad's raised voice. Stephen would be waiting. And tonight she so hoped he might do more than just kiss her in that dark little alleyway when they said goodnight, but judging from all the other times, she didn't think so.

There'd come a time when she must introduce him to her family, and there lay the problem – that difference in their ages. She could almost hear Dad bellowing: ‘No, you find a boy your own age!' And Mum with her fingers to her lips, sighing, ‘Oh Connie, love. He's far too old for you, love. When you're sixty he'll be nearly seventy – an old man. No, love, your dad's right.'

And then having to tell them he'd been once married … Pushing away the thought, she hurried on. He was waiting by the taxi – few cars were allowed petrol as it was in short supply. He took her in his arms and, for once, kissed her lingeringly in view of all those passing. Maybe tonight he would prove his love for her – maybe not going all the way, for she knew he would honour her welfare and good name – but well towards it. Who knew?

Only then would she know that she was really his.

The play wasn't a long one; it finished early, but instead of bringing her back home, Stephen had requested the taxi go a different way.

‘Where are we going, darling?' she asked. Just lately she had made a point of occasionally addressing him as darling, at first just the once and as he hadn't objected, a little more often. Though so far he'd not reciprocated, which worried her even as she strove to ignore it.

‘I thought you might like to go back to my place,' he said in a low voice so that the driver wouldn't hear. ‘For a nightcap before I take you home, if that's all right with you?'

It was perfectly all right. Her chest tightened with excitement and, oddly, fear, considering she'd so long wanted him to prove his feelings for her.

In a wide mews, she waited while he paid the driver, then followed him to a door leading into a spacious hallway, up a broad staircase to his second-floor flat; she stood aside as he unlocked the door to be led into the loveliest sitting room she had ever seen. He turned on the light to reveal soft beige furnishings, a deep carpet in a soft pattern, gleaming coffee table and a side table on which stood a gramophone.

As he helped her off with her coat, she noticed the sideboard. It held two large photographs, and on a side table there were another two, each of a young woman – a pretty young woman – smiling into a camera. Connie instantly knew it to be Stephen's wife, his deceased wife. Suddenly she felt as if her world was about to collapse. Why bring her here when his wife was everywhere?

Invited to make herself comfortable on the settee, she watched him pour a gin and tonic for her and whisky and soda for himself. ‘Gives us a chance to relax,' he said lightly and came to sit beside her, ‘before I take you home.'

Suddenly those expectations of him making love to her fled. How could she let it happen with his wife watching them, if only from a photo frame? What had he been thinking?

But he merely came to sit beside her, no arm around her, no kiss laid on her lips. In fact he hardly spoke at all.

She could stand it no longer. ‘Stephen!' She shot it out. ‘Stephen, do you really love me? Do you?'

He sat away from her and studied her. ‘My dear darling, I love you,' he said slowly. ‘I've loved you from the moment you came into my office all that time ago. But I came to recognise it so slowly and you seemed so young and I tried to make myself dismiss it as the stupid reaction of a lonely man. I'm so sorry.'

Suddenly it felt as if her heart was floating – she was floating. She leaned forward and kissed him, ignoring the frowns she imagined on the face of that woman in those photographs. It was lovely to have him put his arms round her, kiss her, have him tighten his grip; through her blouse she could feel his hand on her breast as his kiss strengthened; she felt herself being borne slowly back on to the settee. It was more than anything he'd ever done in that dark passageway.

Suddenly his lips left hers. He took in a deep breath and sat up, she only just managing to collect herself enough to straighten up too.

‘What is the matter, Stephen?' she heard herself demand.

For a second he didn't reply. Then he said, ‘This is all wrong. I'm so sorry.'

‘What do you mean, all wrong?'

He looked chastened, his eyelids drooping over his blue eyes. ‘I can't. Not here.'

Instantly she knew what he meant and all the anger went out of her. It was here of course that he and his wife would make love, would couple in the room behind her where the closed door hid the bedroom. How could she think he could make love to her here? Why bring her here at all?

‘I think it best I go home now,' she said in a monotone.

He nodded in agreement. ‘Maybe that would be the right thing to do. I'm sorry.'

‘So am I,' she said with more sharpness than she'd intended. She waited as he gathered up her coat, helped her on with it, watched her as she adjusted her hat with its turned-up brim, tucking her short hair beneath it, all without either of them saying another word. In the taxi they were equally silent.

Helping her out as the taxi drew up at her destination, Stephen kissed her, lightly, on the cheek; she turned and walked quickly away, aware that he was watching her as she went.

She only just managed to wipe the tears from her cheeks and summon up a bright smile before her dad opened the door.

‘Bit late, ain't we?' she heard him growl. ‘Gel your age should've bin 'ome a damn sight earlier than this.'

‘Bus broke down,' she lied tersely. ‘I was with my friends, so it was all right.'

‘Well, make it decent time next time,' he growled as he closed the door. She made for the parlour, which was now in darkness. Mum was already upstairs and Dad went on up to join her.

Gently, Connie closed the parlour door, wishing she had a proper bedroom in which to give vent to the misery that seemed to be threatening to overwhelm her.

Was it over between them? If it was, to have to go into work and see him there was going to be unbearable.

All night she tossed and turned, unable to sleep for thinking, every now and again finding herself breaking into tears, silent tears lest Mum or Dad hear and came to find out what the matter was.

Morning found her unable to eat her breakfast. Mum wondered if she was sickening for something. Going off to work was agonizing, sitting on the bus wanting only to jump off at each stop and go … go where? Anywhere but work.

Entering the building as if going to the scaffold, she climbed the staircase rather than take the cranking lift, avoiding having to meet anyone. Reaching her desk she saw Stephen in his office look up, then look away.

Gathering up the filing that had been left in her tray, she began to busy herself.

Her nerves leapt as she felt someone come to stand behind her. Stephen.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

She forced a smile. ‘Yes.'

She wanted to say blithely:
Why shouldn't I be?
But she couldn't. Her lip was beginning to tremble. She caught it tightly between her teeth to stop it. He was regarding her closely, his own features grave.

‘Connie,' he began, then hesitated. He whispered in case anyone overheard, though she wondered why that should matter any more. ‘I need to apologise for last night. It's just that I don't want to treat you less than you deserve. I love you, and I feel I have to …'

He broke off then began again. ‘Connie, I don't want to lose you. I've never been all that good at making love. Maybe because my wife—' Again he broke off. ‘Can we still see each other? I don't want to lose you, Connie. Can we start again?'

For a moment she sat looking up at him, then looked away and nodded. She heard him take a deep breath, exhaling in a trembling sigh of relief. ‘Tonight?'

‘Yes,' was all she could say.

Everything seemed to be happening at once.

On Thursday second of March Dorothy gave birth to Ronnie's baby, it having taken two full days to come into the world. Mum wrung her hands as the midwife worked on the mother, and Connie felt just as anxious until finally a beautiful little girl made her appearance. An exhausted Dorothy decided to call her Violet in Ronnie's absence.

That same day the Military Service Act came into force. Stephen went straight to the recruiting office, which frightened the life out of Connie, even though her heart swelled with pride for him. He returned to say they'd decided the deafness in his right ear was too profound for them to take him. But he'd at least done his duty, unlike her brother George, who was in prison still, still refusing to bow to military service, and would be transferred to a place of detention until such time as the war was over or he changed his mind.

Three days after the baby arrived, Ronnie and Albert were given five days' leave. Their arrival had preceded their letters and the place was in instant turmoil.

‘Where're we going to put the two of 'em?' Mum asked Connie in a state of confusion. What with the anxiety of the birth, a second-hand cot needed to be bought to go upstairs in the boys' room, where Dorothy was nursing her baby.