Crossing the River (15 page)

SEPTEMBER 1939

Our wedding day. Into the Registrar’s office. One of the war brides. Get married quickly for now nobody’s any idea what’s likely to happen. Nobody has. He’s got her up the aisle. Nudge, nudge. On my side, my mother. That’s all. And on his side, Stan. A couple more mates from the village came down to the big town, but I was barely introduced and they didn’t stay. Pathetic, I thought. But then he’s got no parents so I shouldn’t be so snooty. They’d long since gone. He’s only got his mates. I should have been so lucky. I hadn’t even got mates. A wedding. My wedding. It was the only wedding I was likely to have, so I thought I’d better do it right. Len was surprised that I didn’t have anything in my bottom drawer. Not even a tin of pineapple chunks, or a jar of marmalade. I told him, you’re the shopkeeper. My mother, well, she found a way not to cry. Set her face like a mask and just stared straight ahead as if she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Maybe this reminded her of her day. Maybe she didn’t want me to see that she cared. Maybe. Earlier in the month, I’d been with her when the war started. Eleven a.m., Sunday morning. When the National Anthem came on the wireless she stood up. When it finished she sat down and was quiet for a few moments. Then she said that they’d already begun recruiting for Air Raid Wardens. She informed me that this was going to be a civvies’ war. I said nothing. She sighed, and then announced that she’d have to start stocking up. She calculated twenty fags at two shillings, tea at two and six, matches a penny ha’penny. She reckoned up how much she could afford to buy with her savings, and I listened. And then I told her that the date was set. A fortnight hence. I’d be wed. But she didn’t say anything. She just continued doing her sums in the margin of the previous day’s newspaper, using a little stump of pencil that was blunt at one end and chewed at the other.

SEPTEMBER 1939

And then the wedding was over, and we were off to Wales for a week in a small hotel on Anglesey that seemed populated with rich ladies who were already hiding from the war. They always dressed properly, with earrings and lined skirts. They even dressed for breakfast. Then came their morning walk, then lunch, gin and tonic, and an afternoon nap. Then cards. Dinner. Sherry. Bridge. They always stood for the National Anthem on the wireless come evening. I’m sure they all harboured a secret desire to salute. The anchor of their lives had prematurely dropped. I watched them watching me and Len. All right, so he might not be up to much in your eyes, but he’s decent and honest. Or so I thought. They didn’t talk to me. Sometimes they forgot themselves and nodded as they spread some jam on their crustless toast. I looked closely. The backs of their hands were mottled with purple veins. I think they knew that I was jealous of them. How could they not know? Why shouldn’t I be jealous of them? They had money. They’d found a way to hide from the world. They had each other. And there I was. I had Len. I had to train him not to sleep with his socks on. To undo his shoelaces before he took off his shoes. To do up his cuffs instead of just rolling them back. He was thirty going on seven. I liked it when they forgot themselves and sometimes nodded. But when they saw Len I noticed that they simply turned away. I wondered what they knew that they weren’t telling me. But I couldn’t ask. Len and I were supposed to be together. A team against the rest of the world. Man and wife. Him and me. I couldn’t side with them.

SEPTEMBER 1939

We got lost on the way back up. Len had borrowed a motor car from one of his farmer friends, -but there was only enough petrol to drive us there and back. Petrol had already gone on coupons. We couldn’t even go for a spin around Anglesey. So we parked the car up by the hotel and left it. Until we were ready to come back, that is. It was like dusting off an old friend and readying yourself to make an escape. We left early in the afternoon. It’s not enough time, Len. Shouldn’t we have left earlier? He looked at me. That ‘woman, you’re talking daft’ look of his. Very endearing, I must say. Enough to make you feel like you’d no right to be on this earth. Two hours later, he got lost. Just like I knew he would. It had been a bit touch and go getting down to Wales, but somehow we’d got lucky and made it. Len had pointed out (in his defence) that all the street and road signs had been taken down. In case of invasion. It’ll help the Hun. But coming back up our luck ran out. I thought you said you knew the way. I do know the way, I’ve just got a little mixed up, that’s all. A little mixed up seemed to me to be putting it mildly. But there was no point in arguing. No point whatsoever. As the day set around us, we had no idea of where we were. There were slogans in all the papers about saving petrol. They read: Is your journey really necessary? I’d begun to wonder this myself, honeymoon or no honeymoon. Next village, I’ll stop and ask somebody, he said. And then I noticed a light on in a small cottage, and Len pulled over. He got out and left me in the car. I saw a woman open the door. They spoke, Len pointed, she looked, I smiled politely. I hated him for doing this to me. Making me feel helpless and at somebody’s mercy. Me, I didn’t want to be anybody’s charity case. Especially not when I was supposed to be with my husband. The man who said that he would protect and honour me. Some joke. Well, Len came back and said we weren’t far wrong but we couldn’t go anywhere because of the blackout. I said nothing. I just looked at him. I let him know what I thought. And I reckon he understood all right. But he didn’t say anything except, come on, let’s get our stuff. She’s got a spare room and she says that we can have it for the night. Len laughed. Then he went on. I think she’s relieved I wasn’t the warden. I looked at Len but still said nothing. Reduced to being a bloody beggar. Her husband was already away. Left her and a three-year-old daughter behind. The girl’s in bed, she said as she buttered us some bread and asked us if we wanted our eggs turned over. No, mine’s fine as it is, said Len, his feet under the table. It’s easy to get lost, she assured me. Don’t bother, I thought. I already know he’s a bloody fool. And then Len did it. He fished into his inside pocket like some bloody spiv. Here, he said. I’d like you to have these. No, we’d like you to have these, he said. We appreciate what you’ve done for us. And he gave her some coupons like she was a common tart. The look on the woman’s face. Well, I nearly died of embarrassment, but I was learning. This was Len. His way of dealing with people. That night I couldn’t so much look at him, let alone let him touch me. No, Len. What’s the matter? Nothing. Is it because we’re in a strange house? Goodnight, Len. I hope this isn’t going to become regular. Goodnight, Len. Goodnight, but I’m not right pleased. Goodnight, Len.

SEPTEMBER 1939

When we got back the evacuees had arrived. A dozen boys and girls of a sensible age standing in the church hall. Gas masks in a cardboard box, an identification tag around their necks, and carrying a bundle of personal belongings. They huddled together, their feet swimming in big shoes that were clearly badly scuffed hand-me-downs. Some of them looked as if they had never had a decent meal in their lives. Most of them had already wolfed their emergency rations. A block of chocolate, a tin of corned beef, and a tin of condensed milk. Amongst the grown-ups, confusion and resentment reigned in equal proportion. Why us? None of the other villages had been designated as reception areas. Before us stood a dozen frightened children, the farmers eyeing the husky lads, the girls and scrawny boys close to tears. And then a decision was reached that while it was still light we should send them back. Somebody whispered that all these children wet the bed. That half the mattresses in England were awash, and that at eight and six per child it wasn’t really worth it. I looked across at Len, who firmly shook his head. Not even one of them, he said. They can bloody well go back to where they come from. We’re not in the charity business. At four o’clock I noticed that the church bells didn’t ring. It was a decree. No more church bells because of the war. The children stood in silence.

SEPTEMBER 1942

Today an officer came into the shop wearing dark glasses. He seemed a bit surprised that a bell rang when he opened the door. Excuse me, ma’am. He took his hat off. He should have taken his glasses off as well. I wanted to say to him, it’s not sunny out, you know. So you can take them off, you know. Unless you’ve got something to hide, that is. I’ve come to talk to you a little about the service men we’ve got stationed in your village. Oh yes, I thought. It took you nearly three months to get here, did it? Well get on with it then. I’m all ears. A lot of these boys are not used to us treating them as equals, so don’t be alarmed by their response. What are they going to do, I thought, throw themselves on the floor before us if we smile? ‘They’re not very educated boys and they’ll need some time to adjust to your customs and your ways, so I’m just here to request your patience. I see. He relaxes now. Would you like a smoke? No, I don’t. Mind if I do? No, go ahead. So he does. Husband out? Yes, he’s out, I say. What business is it of yours? I think. Smug bugger. That’s what I think of him, standing there in his uniform, telling tales on his fellow soldiers behind their backs. Behind his glasses. Why did you send them to us then? I ask. Why not to some other place? No, no, he says. There’s no problem. We’re not sending you a problem or anything. It’s just that they’re different. We want you to know that you’ll have to be a little patient, that’s all. I smile at him and he smiles back. His white teeth, his confident pose, pulling at his cigarette, lazily blowing out smoke. He really thinks he’s something.

NOVEMBER 1942

I stood outside the church today and stared up at the trees. They’ve worn their leaves shabby. Hardly a breath of wind and they start falling. Ahead of us is winter. And it’s not exactly warm up here on this ledge. The wind gets a good go at us and gives us a pounding. Just thinking about it makes me shiver. I turned up my collar and got ready to carry on with my walk. And then I heard their voices starting up. I knew it was them for nobody else in this village sings that way. Like they mean it. I forgot all about the trees and winter. I found myself just staring at the church and listening to the sound of their voices and-their clapping hands. Across the road I saw old man Williams. He was out with his dog. He stood and listened as though, like me, he too hadn’t heard anything like this before. Just the two of us listening.

DECEMBER 1942

According to today’s copy of the
Star
, all over Britain standards of behaviour are breaking down. A young woman Air Raid Warden recently said that if gas spattered her clothes she’d have no hesitation in taking them off and walking starkers. According to this woman, every right-minded person in Britain should be ready to do the same. The
Star
thinks she’s barmy. But they don’t stop there. It is to be regretted, says the
Star
, that one of the more popular jokes on the factory floor is one which is made at the expense of our boys in the sky. What does an RAF man do when his parachute doesn’t open? He brings it back and gets a new one. The
Star
wonders if we’re not all the victims of German propaganda that’s designed to undermine our confidence. Apparently, some
Star
journalist was outraged because when he was in London he was charged 6d. for an apple and a guinea for a pound of grapes. The man who sold them to him then added salt to his wounds by asking him if he’d not heard that there was a war on. I’ve been getting some choice-comments, about tinned sardines and baked beans, for instance. We’ve had a directive to put up their points value because they’ve been proving too popular. It’s hardly my fault, is it? And as for the National loaf. Well, it’s definitely got a khaki tint to it, and it feels to me like paper that’s been repulped once too often. Full of straw-like bits. But if you don’t like it, nobody’s forcing you to eat it. I don’t know why they’re always complaining to me.

JANUARY 1943

I got a letter from Len. I knew it was him before I opened it. Mean handwriting. And addressed to a Mrs Len somebody. My name isn’t bloody Len anybody. Happy 1943! it says at the top. And bits of it are censored. He says that when he comes out he wants us to move away. Further north. Anywhere. But he says that we have to get away from here and start afresh. I see. He claims that he can’t stand the shame and he doesn’t see why I should have to put up with it too. Well, I’m doing all right. They still talk about me when they think I’m not listening, but I’m doing all right. I don’t see why I should have to leave. He’ll have to go by himself, I reckon. He can’t expect me to follow him around like some silly puppy. No, if he wants to go, then he can go. Good luck to him, I say. I’ll have to write to him and tell him this, in a nice way, of course. No need for him to suffer any more than he has to. I’ve got nothing against Len personally. No reason to hurt him. He just needs to grow up a little bit. A lot. And he’d be better off growing up with somebody else. When I get a minute I’ll let him know this. Better he gets it straight. Nothing to be gained by kidding each other. Not now. The best years of our lives and all that. If he wants to sling his hook and go off somewhere, then good luck to him. Good luck to you, Len.

FEBRUARY 1943

Two of them came into the shop this morning. One tall one. One not so tall one, but he wasn’t short either. Far from it. They were both quite stocky, and both of them were polite. After all this time, they still seem surprised at how cheap things are. One woman told me I ought to put up the prices for them. She said Len would have. I said I know. But look where Len is now. I didn’t tell her this last bit, though. They both took their caps off. And then they asked me to a dance they’re having on Saturday. Asked me politely. Well, I can’t dance, I told them. You’ll learn, said the tall one. He smiled. We’ve got our own band, ma’am, said the other one. You hear us play, you can’t help but dance. He laughed. So I laughed too. Then we were all laughing. A dance, I said. On Saturday, said the tall one.

OCTOBER 1939

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and thought to myself, bloody hell. What have I done? I’ve come back to this village with Len, after marriage, after Wales, after being lost. And I’m married now. For nearly a month. A wife. In this bleak and silly little village that’s filled with its own self-importance. The only relief I have from this place is when I travel down to see my mother, whose sole occupation in life seems to be to make me feel guilty. A guilt I’m determined to resist. I stare at her as she lies in bed. She’s taken to her bed as a permanent place of refuge. I stare at her and listen as she talks incessantly about the phony war. You’ve been listening to the wireless, haven’t you, Mother. She ignores me and continues in her own vein. About how she’ll not be digging for victory and growing cabbage and onions. About how, although nothing has happened as yet, they’ll soon be coming home in boxes like in the last war. It’ll happen, she keeps saying. She pauses, then starts up again. She can’t be bothered with her gas mask, she says. All that spitting on the mica window to stop it from steaming up. And it smells, of rubber and disinfectant. I don’t tell her that most people have stopped carrying them around. That the novelty has worn off. If you’d have stayed down here you’d have been in Air Raid Precautions, I suppose. WVS, for you. Do you have it up by you? I shake my head. I expect that’s why you went, isn’t it. Nothing much to do up there except knit socks for the troops. I don’t rise to her. Whenever I do she just snaps and tells me not to use Latin in front of her. So I don’t bother. She goes on. But meanwhile, they make us live in the dark like bloody bats. It’s ridiculous. Anderson shelter? Two bits of bent steel stuck in the mud, not fit for a pig to wallow in. And nobody’ll be hanging out any washing on the Siegfried Line, you mark my words. She knows I’m not really listening to her but she doesn’t care. She just likes to have somebody to talk to. Somebody whom she feels it will be all right to bore. She feels she has a right to bore me. I’m her daughter. And then she falls asleep and I have to make my way up the hill on that long, slow bus journey back, to the village. It is pretty. I have to give it that. The view from the road, just outside the village, carries all the way across the moors. Well, you’d have to be blind or stupid not to notice that in its own way it’s grand. Nothing but green fields and small villages for miles. But then entering our village is like coming into a tunnel. You can’t see anything except small houses dotted on either side of the road. And then a big church. A small pub. A nob’s hall. Our shop. Some more houses. And so this is my home now. God help me. Maybe I was better off in the warehouse. If I’ve thought this once I’ve thought it a million times. But then again, I always say to myself, it’s probably just the war. Nothing can look good to anyone in the war. Let’s be honest. It’s not a great time for anybody. They say that eventually there’ll be serious shortages. We’ll see.