After the War is Over (13 page)

They decided to get married the following month, June. The announcement was unexpected and the date was early enough for people to take it for granted that Rosie was in the club. She looked forward to proving them wrong.

Maggie bought herself a new dress from C&A Modes for the occasion, pale blue linen with three-quarter-length sleeves and a pleated skirt. Rosie made her a sort of hat by covering a cheap Alice band with blue velvet and attaching a narrow circle of net. She made a similar one for Nell, except it was red to match her own new dress, which was dead straight and sleeveless with a black patent-leather belt. Iris had talked her into buying it, saying it made her look incredibly smart.

‘You’re slim enough to be a model,’ she added.

Rosie made her wedding dress out of white rayon lining, though hardly anyone guessed that the material had cost a mere eleven pence a yard. Her only bridesmaid was little Bridie, who looked pretty in a pink frothy creation decorated with rosebuds. Rosie had no doubt made it out of old dishcloths, Maggie said sarcastically.

Nell, assisted by Iris, had made the cake: three eggless sponges joined together with layers of jam and covered with chocolate butter icing It was both utterly delicious and a little bit sickly.

The fact that the wedding was on a Wednesday instead of a Saturday like most weddings rather took the shine off in Maggie’s eyes. Nevertheless, when she woke up that morning, it was the first time in ages that there’d been a lift in her heart. It came partly from knowing that her brother would be happy with the bossy, rather nice young woman who quite clearly loved him to death, and who was taking over Maggie’s role in the house when she and Ryan returned from their honeymoon in Blackpool, which meant Maggie could go back to work. She couldn’t wait!

Although most of Rosie’s family came to the wedding, at least half had to go to work once it was over, so the number of guests who came to the reception held in a room over the Queen’s Arms was small. It was a pleasant, if sober occasion. Getting drunk on a Wednesday afternoon didn’t hold the same appeal as getting drunk on a Saturday. Everything was over by three o’clock, when the guests went home and the bride and groom left for their honeymoon.

Maggie and Nell returned to their own houses to change out of their new dresses. They arranged to meet afterwards and visit Iris, who would be interested to know how things had gone.

Paddy O’Neill had changed out of his best suit for his workaday clothes when Maggie went into the sitting room. Bridie had had a tiring day and was asleep upstairs. Maggie was about to go up herself, but her father asked her to stay. She sat at the table and he in his armchair – as yet, no one could bring themselves to sit in Sheila’s chair in front of the window, apart from Tinker, who enjoyed having it all to himself.

‘It’s about your mam, luv,’ her dad said tiredly. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but on the morning of the day she died, me and her, we had a fight, like.’ He put his hand over his eyes, unable to go on.

‘What about, Dad?’ Maggie asked softly.

He shook his head, still shielding his eyes. ‘She didn’t want me going into politics,’ he said eventually, in a raw voice. ‘It got dead heated. She thought I’d be spending all me time in London, that we – the family, like – would hardly see each other. She seemed to think I wouldn’t be around when the new baby was born, though I insisted that I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. She got in a terrible state, Maggie luv. There was nothing I could do to calm her. Christ!’ He lay back in the chair, an expression on his face of such naked misery that Maggie wanted to weep. ‘I should’ve given in, been more gentle with her, but I thought she was just being awkward. Up until then, she hadn’t seemed to mind the idea. That was an awful pregnancy she had, luv.’ Tears were running down his cheeks now. ‘It was my fault for putting her in the club. Oh, Maggie girl, sometimes I feel as if I want to kill meself.’

‘Dad!’ Maggie knelt beside her father and laid her head on his breast. She contemplated telling him about her own confrontation with her mother, but the truth of her association with Chris and the way it had ended was likely to upset him as much as it had done Mam. Instead, what she told him was close to the truth. ‘Her friend Alice came that afternoon and was really horrible. It turned out that over all these years she’d been dead jealous – apparently her husband was killed a few months after they’d got married and she was pregnant with their daughter. She was dead spiteful, Alice, and it upset Mam no end. So it wasn’t your fault, not at all, Dad. I mean, you and Mam had had rows before, but it didn’t cause her any harm, did it?’

Even as she watched, it appeared to her that her father’s brow became smoother, and his face didn’t look so gaunt.

‘Is that really true, Maggie?’ he asked.

‘As if I’d make up a story like that! I bet Mam really liked the idea of you going into politics, but she was feeling dead lousy that day and Alice really got under her skin in the afternoon.’

‘Mebbe.’ He stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Y’know, I wouldn’t mind half an hour’s kip.’

Maggie got to her feet. ‘It’d do you good, Dad. I’ll just get changed and call for Nell.’

Nell had gone when she called at the house. Mrs Desmond was ironing on the dinner table when Maggie went in the back way.

‘She said to tell you to meet her at the doctor’s. She makes their tea, you know.’ Mrs Desmond was desperately proud of her daughter’s relationship with Iris.

‘You’re looking well,’ Maggie remarked. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who’d spent years stuck in a chair being waited on hand and foot. With her husband no longer in the clutches of Rita Hayworth, Mrs Desmond was her old self again, and Mr Desmond no longer gave the impression of being the devil incarnate either.

As she walked towards Iris’s, it occurred to Maggie that there was no need for Nell to stay in Liverpool. With her mother on her feet again, she could live in London as she had originally planned. And what was more – Maggie caught her breath –
they could go together!
Rather than hunt for a new job in Liverpool, she would look for one in the capital, where she would find something far more interesting than being a typist in a roofing firm with someone like Iggy for a boss – a receptionist in a dead-posh hotel, for example, an extra in films, secretary to a millionaire. The list was endless. With Rosie installed in the O’Neills’ house, Maggie wouldn’t be missed.

It was still horrible to think of Mam dying virtually before her eyes, but her poor sick heart must have exhausted her and the visit from Alice had been the last straw.

As soon as she could get Nell to one side, she’d bring up the idea of them both going to London. She just knew that Nell would jump at the chance.

‘I suppose I’ve gone off it, that’s all.’

‘But Nell, you were
mad
to go to London,’ Maggie gasped.

‘I know I was, but I couldn’t, could I,’ Nell said reasonably, ‘not with me mam the way she was. Now she’s better, but I don’t want to go any more. Y’see, Mags, I’m really enjoying getting me little business going. I’ve already made a few lunches and dinners for people, mainly Adele’s friends. I get paid really well, and Iris gives me ten bob a week for making her and Tom’s tea. And it’s
so
interesting,’ she added, with such enthusiasm that Maggie winced – fancy getting enthusiastic about
cooking
! ‘Iris thinks I should have menus printed, like, and cards with me name on.’

‘How exciting,’ Maggie said, hoping she didn’t sound as underwhelmed as she felt. ‘Where do you get all the food from?’ she asked in an attempt to show some interest. ‘Everything’s still rationed.’ Nell was her best friend and she should be pleased for her, not bored.

‘The customers provide the ingredients,’ Nell said. ‘All I do is cook it for them and serve it up nicely. Anyroad, not everything is rationed.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Maggie said lamely.

Well, she thought in bed that night, if Nell wasn’t prepared to go with her to London, she’d just have to go by herself!

‘Your bed will always be here for you,’ Rosie assured her, which Maggie thought was a bit of a cheek, seeing as she’d been born in the house and Rosie had hardly been there five minutes.

‘It’s a gear idea, sis,’ Ryan said. ‘You’re obviously fed up to the teeth here. Go and have a good time.’

‘Lucky old you.’ Nell gave her a hug. It was a ridiculous thing for her to say: she could easily have gone to London too, so what was lucky about it?

Iris bought her a tan leather handbag. ‘It’s nice and big. You need a big bag in London to hold all the things you’ll take to work each day, like a book and make-up and a rain hat and stuff.’

‘Thank you.’ Maggie wished someone would say they were sorry she was leaving, that she’d be missed. She got the impression everyone would be glad to see the back of her, including her father.

‘Well, it’s not the first time you’ve left home, is it, luv?’ Dad said. ‘But this time you’ll be on your own. Now,’ he gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake, ‘I want you to promise to come back straight away if you’re not happy down in London. It’s a big place with lots of people living there and it’s easy to feel lonely in a crowd. Promise now!’

Maggie nodded. ‘I promise I’ll be home like a shot.’

Maggie wasn’t happy in London, but she didn’t go home. She didn’t want anybody to think she was a failure. And she wasn’t
desperately
unhappy, just not particularly happy. She was no longer crying herself to sleep every night, and hopefully it would stop altogether soon.

She’d got herself a nice room on the fourth floor of a big house in Shepherd’s Bush, an attic room with sloping ceilings and a lovely view of hundreds and hundreds of roofs. She had never thought that roofs could be so colourful: black, red, orange, all different shades of grey, a single roof with green tiles. Some appeared white in the moonlight or gleamed like black satin in the rain. When the sun shone, they looked like a multicoloured chess board. Chimneys, stubby and tall, puffed smoke from early morning till late at night. When it was foggy, the smoke and the fog combined, casting a pall on the part of the city that was visible from Maggie’s window.

Realising that it would take time before she found her ideal job, when she’d first arrived she had registered as a shorthand typist with an employment agency in the city and had worked in a series of little Dickensian offices, full of dusty ledgers and wooden filing cabinets that were so jammed full of papers they were difficult to open. The typewriters she’d worked with were genuine antiques and incredibly hard to use, the keys sticking, the print barely readable. She was usually the only female there; the men were ancient and had worked there all their lives. Occasionally there’d been an office boy, bored witless by the utter tedium of his life. What had he to look forward to? one boy asked Maggie, who was unable to provide an answer apart from recommending that he leave and find another job with prospects and a more cheerful atmosphere to work in.

It was advice she’d eventually taken herself when a girl she’d spoken to on the tube advised her to register with an agency in the West End. ‘They’ll send you to more modern places.’

Since then, she had been working as a temporary typist for Thomas Cook, the travel agent, in their head office in Berkeley Street just off Piccadilly. After a week, she was offered a permanent post, but turned it down. She’d sooner wait until the job of her dreams turned up and she’d be able to start straight away.

Shepherd’s Bush was only a few stops on the Underground from Bond Street, where Maggie got off each morning and walked through the Mayfair streets to Berkeley Square. Lunchtimes she sat on a bench in Green Park or wandered along to Piccadilly Circus and joined the tourists who were beginning to return to London now the war was over. As in Liverpool, the boarded-up bomb sites were an ugly reminder of the Blitz that had so recently been the curse of British cities.

Although she enjoyed working at Thomas Cook’s, there were no women of her own age in her part of the office, and Maggie badly wanted to make friends. In July, it was her birthday and she turned twenty-two. Almost that many cards fell through the letter box downstairs, but not a single one bore a London postmark.

She had never known what it was like to be friendless, had never thought that one day she would discover how it felt to be lonely. In the army, she’d been one of the most popular girls in the camp with both men and women. Until now, never in her entire life had she gone to the pictures or a dance on her own. In her darkest moments, she imagined collapsing in the street and being taken to hospital in an ambulance, and being unable to give the name of a single friend or relative who could be contacted.

Sundays were the worst days. An elderly foreign couple lived in one of the ground-floor rooms. Every weekend, dozens of relatives would turn up armed with food: casserole dishes, tureens of soup, and large tins of other food. They would spend the afternoon there, and their busy conversation and laughter could be heard four floors up. It used to be rather like that in the O’Neills’ house in Bootle. Not quite so many people, not nearly so much food – Sheila O’Neill would have been outraged had people brought their own – but all sorts of friends and Irish cousins who spent the rest of the day there, staying for tea and supper too.

That was what Maggie missed most of all, the sense of belonging and being surrounded by family, in particular Mam, something she hadn’t appreciated when she’d had it. She continued to cry at odd moments thinking about her mother, wondering if it would ever stop.

As she sat contemplating the hundreds of roofs and thousands of windows visible from the attic room that, as yet, showed little sign of anyone living there, she was conscious of the odd tear slowly trickling down her face. She would angrily brush it away before settling down to write a letter to someone, usually her father, telling him that she felt absolutely fine.

There are so many things to do in London
, she would write,
and I am making loads of friends . . .

Nearly every day Nell and Iris made yet another list of the refreshments to be served at Adele and Cyril’s ruby wedding celebration. It was now nearing the end of August and the party was three weeks away. Iris had made a list of twenty names to be invited, a list that was quickly doubled when Adele got her hands on it. It turned out she had tracked down a number of guests who had been at the original wedding forty years ago, and Cyril wished to invite some of the members of his golf club.