The GI Bride (6 page)

Still on the subject of groceries, I was
amazed by the
Irvines’ vast stockpile of food and household
necessities. When shown around their house, I saw shelves in the basement laden with
canned goods, paper goods, laundry and cleaning products. Stacked up the edge of the
attic stairway were staples such as sugar, flour and boxes of cereal. In the attic
itself, which used to be Bob’s bedroom (his desk and bed were still there), there
were still more household supplies. Did they think there might be another depression or
war? Struck by the extreme contrast to home life in England, I pictured Mum’s
pantry in which you would usually find a small bag each of flour and sugar, perhaps a
tin of corned beef for emergencies, a bag of soda crystals for use in the bath and
laundry, salt and pepper, a sack of potatoes and little else. Mum went to the shops
every day, to buy the food for that day’s meal. There was no money for extras and,
of course, you could only buy what you could carry home in your shopping bag or basket
since hardly anyone we knew had a car. My goodness, I thought, life is certainly
different here in America, and it was going to take some getting used to.

The next important visit was to the family
burial plots. At first I thought the Irvines took us there for Bob to pay his respects
to his deceased relatives because he’d been away for two years but, no, it was for
a far more (pardon the pun) cryptic reason. They went to check the ‘grave
blankets’, which were rectangles of woven pine branches to keep the graves warm in
the winter, I supposed. To me, that was just plain weird. I couldn’t conjure the
image of a dead person or ghost shivering with cold and reaching out for a blanket.
Later, when I researched the strange custom, I discovered that grave blankets were also
available to
celebrate a variety of occasions. You could (and
apparently still can) buy birthday blankets, Christmas blankets, Valentine’s Day
blankets, and more. I still have no idea how the custom originated but I had to give
credit to the good old American entrepreneurial spirit. They certainly knew how to make
money, even out of their dead.

Driving around in the suburbs was a strange,
almost surreal experience. It bothered me that nothing looked permanent. All of the
shopping areas, or strip malls, as they were called, were single storey and strung out
along concrete parking strips. Little of the construction was in bricks and mortar and
most buildings reminded me of the prefabricated houses built in Britain after the war. I
remember wondering why they didn’t construct multi-storey buildings, as they did
in Europe and in the larger American cities, where shops usually had apartments or other
businesses above them. Bob said it was because there was more land to build on in
America. Everything reminded me of what I’d seen in movies about the old Wild
West, except that there were proper roads and the shops had modern frontages. I hoped
that I wouldn’t have to live in that wasteland: I needed to be somewhere that felt
more lived in, where I didn’t feel so unattached, so disconnected, like an
untethered balloon blowing about in the wind. Those wide-open places, which looked
barely used, didn’t seem very different from ghost towns. Years later, watching
the American television series
The Twilight Zone
, I was reminded of my early
impressions of Chicago’s newer suburbs; there had been something eerie about them
back then.

The most important visit of all, as far as
the Irvines were
concerned, was to the church that the family
attended. They were Lutheran, a denomination I had never heard of before. Mrs Irvine
worked as housekeeper to the minister and his wife, which surprised me: every vicar or
minister I had known in England, not that I had known many, was poor. They could not
have afforded a housekeeper, and certainly wouldn’t have been driving a brand new
Cadillac or spending their winters in Florida, as this minister did. I was also shocked
that members of the church had to sign a pledge as to how much they would give it each
week or year since the church’s budget was based on projected income. Apparently,
the pledge could be as binding as any other contract. I remember thinking how mercenary
it sounded. It was definitely not my idea of religion. American churches seemed to
operate like businesses and I hated the idea.

I was amazed again when I saw how
Bob’s mother and sister dressed for church on cold days. Along with their Sunday
dresses, full-length fur coats and high-heeled shoes, they wore white ankle socks over
their nylon stockings. I found that most unattractive and peculiar and hoped they
wouldn’t expect me to follow suit. I’d rather have died than wear socks over
my nylons.

Every Sunday after church, the family would
gather at the Irvines’ house for midday dinner, and then at Roberta’s for
the evening meal, or supper, as they called it. I would mentally hold my nose against
whatever strong food smells prevailed and pray for something I could eat without
gagging.

At first I thought it was nice that the
family spent so much time together, but soon the obligation became a
nuisance. They expected us every Sunday, which gave us no freedom to do anything else
at weekends, especially if Bob was working overtime on Saturdays. Those Sunday meals,
always served on the best china, crystal and silver, meant lots of washing-up
afterwards: every piece had to be cleaned individually, by hand, never allowing one to
bang against another. Then, each item wrapped in its special protective cloth, it all
went back into storage until the next Sunday. The process took hours and, believe me, I
dreaded the routine; there were times when I would have given anything for our old
Sunday dinners back home, when Mum dished up the food in the kitchen to make sure each
person got the appropriate quantity, according to their place in the family, and we
shared one glass.

I was soon experiencing problems after
I’d eaten some of the rich food, especially the heavy German dishes prepared by my
mother-in-law. I had to refuse some, asking if I might just have some toast, and she
would be offended, often bursting into tears.

‘No one’s ever insulted the food
I prepared for them,’ she would choke out between sobs. I felt awful about it, but
what could I do? I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings and certainly couldn’t
control my physical reactions. ‘Please, Bob,’ I said, ‘could you
explain to her about the simple diet I’ve always been used to? I can’t just
change overnight. Please try to make her understand.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said,
‘but my mother’s a stubborn German and I doubt she’ll be willing or
able to change either.’

Poor Bob. I remember how frustrated he
became with both of us. He and I had little private time together and even our
lovemaking was strained: we were always
concerned that his parents
might hear and know what we were doing; I mean, did we really think they didn’t
know? Occasionally we ended up laughing at our fumbling efforts to be quiet under the
covers.

‘Is everything all right in
there?’ we’d hear from next door. It wasn’t easy to sleep in the
bedroom adjoining theirs, knowing how thin the walls were. It had been different when we
were with Mum and Dad: we joked about it through the wall and had some good laughs. I
was beginning to think that those people never laughed. They seemed devoid of any sense
of humour.

‘Do you think they’ve ever done
it?’ I asked Bob. I tried to imagine it and ended up giggling.

‘Nah, I musta been adopted,’ he
said. ‘There’s no way I coulda come out of those two.’ I was glad he
was different from the rest of his family.

Bob had told me his sister had learning
difficulties and had attended a special school. He also claimed that his mother had been
instrumental in Roberta and Mike getting together. Apparently Mrs Irvine had worked with
Mike and had arranged the whole thing, even their marriage. I didn’t intend to
allow our lives to be dictated, as theirs obviously had been.

It soon became apparent that our living with
Bob’s parents wasn’t going to work. I was terribly homesick, which no one
seemed to understand or have the slightest sympathy for, and I began to feel quite ill.
I was constantly hurting my mother-in-law’s feelings by not eating the food
she’d prepared or staying in my room to write letters or read, sometimes just to
cry. The situation worsened when, just a few weeks after our arrival, I received word
that my
granddad had died. I was devastated and inconsolable for days.
My poor husband was at a loss to know what to do. There was no one to share my grief
with so I buried my head under the bed covers and wept.

At about that time, and perhaps to take my
mind off my grandfather’s death, Bob announced that he was taking me away for a
few days. He had realized that I needed a break from all the stress and we really did
need some time alone together.

He didn’t tell me where we were going.
It was a surprise, he told me, and it certainly was.

‘I need to give my car a good
workout,’ he said. ‘Dad did drive it occasionally while I was away, just to
keep it in order, but it needs a real road-trip to get it in good shape.’
I’d been thrilled to learn that Bob had a car and felt as though I had taken a
giant step up in the world. I don’t remember what make it was, but it was huge
compared to British cars.

We drove to the neighbouring state of
Wisconsin. First, we stopped to see some relatives who were dairy farmers. There, I
helped gather eggs and learned how to size them and place them in cartons. Although
Bob’s aunt Freda was his mother’s sister, the two women were as different as
chalk and cheese, just like my mother and her sister, Iris. Mum was blonde and chubby,
still had a Cockney accent and was a messy housekeeper, while her sister was dark-haired
and slender, her speech was refined and she kept an immaculate home. Here on the farm,
the family worked side by side, seemingly enjoying each other’s company, but best
of all, laughter echoed throughout that old farmhouse. Why couldn’t Freda and her
husband have been
my parents-in-law? I thought. They were much more
like my own family. I was sad when we left, but soon cheered up when I discovered the
next of Bob’s surprises.

We left the flat farmlands and soon the
terrain became a little more rugged and hilly.

‘Where are we going?’ I
asked.

‘Wait and see,’ replied a
grinning Bob. ‘It’s a special surprise and I think you’ll really like
it.’

We drove into a town called Wisconsin Dells
and I loved it as soon as I saw all the old, mostly white clapboard houses, many
surrounded by white picket fences. This is more like it, I thought. None of the
buildings was new, like the California houses in movies. They were old and had real
character.

The main street through the town displayed
numerous advertising signs for local attractions. Among those I remember was the Tommy
Bartlett Water Show, Duck Rides on the Wisconsin River, and the Authentic Indian
Ceremonial. The latter caught my attention and made my heart somersault.

‘Can we really see Indians here? Are
they real Indians? Can we go to the Ceremonial?’ The questions tumbled out, one
after another. I was as excited as a child at Christmas.

‘Of course we can go. We’re
going to see everything, if you want to, and yes, they are real American Indians,’
he assured me.

We pulled into the driveway of a large old
house. The sign in front said ‘The White House’. It was a guesthouse and
there were vacancies.

‘Good,’ said Bob. ‘I was
hoping we could stay here.
This is where my parents and my sister
spent their honeymoons. It’s cheap but comfortable.’

Oh dear, I thought. Something else that
everyone in the family has to do the same. Honeymoons. I didn’t really mind,
though, because it was nice, and cost only three dollars a night.

I don’t remember much about the other
attractions we saw but the Indian Pow-Wow was amazing. That evening, we boarded a boat
that took us down the Wisconsin River. It ran between high craggy cliffs, and on the
way, a guide pointed out various unusual rock formations. There was the high,
chimney-shaped Stand Rock, separated from the cliff behind it by just a couple of yards
or so. We learned that you could pay to see a dog jump from one to the other. It sounded
dangerous, and one woman asked the guide if there was a safety net in case the dog
didn’t make it. I don’t recall the guide’s answer, except that he
ended up laughing and saying, ‘Well, they can always get another dog,’ which
I thought was disgusting.

The boat tied up at a wooden landing, and we
all filed off. It was now dusk and a guide led us down a dimly lit pathway between rocks
and scrubby trees. Soon we entered a clearing and a new scene opened before us. We were
in, I believe, a naturally formed, vaguely circular arena. In the centre, on a slightly
raised area, the tepees were arranged in a semi-circle, with a blazing bonfire in the
middle. Rows of benches for the audience circled the space. We crowded onto the seats
and soon the show began. I’d always been a dreamer and was immediately drawn into
this exhibition of America’s true history, its living history; it was not only
colourful, but also beautiful and moving. Tears pricked my
eyes as I
listened to Indian folklore and learned what their dances and songs meant. I felt
privileged to have come halfway around the world to witness this re-enactment of an old
way of life. At that time, I was unaware of the other part of their history in which
they had been slaughtered in their hundreds of thousands for the white man’s
greed, but that is another story.

The next day, as we wandered around town, I
recognized one of the Indians from the previous night’s show; he had been the
narrator. He was now in ordinary clothes but accompanied by an older man in full Indian
garb. We watched the first man get into what looked like a brand new Cadillac.