After the War is Over (15 page)

Nell laughed. ‘So you think there’s something wrong because I look happy and have rosy cheeks?’

‘The cheeks could mean you have a temperature. Are you in love?’

‘No, I’m not. But I am happy; happy with my life.’

‘That’s good.’ Maggie had been hoping that Nell might change her mind about London after hearing what a wonderful place it was, but it seemed it was not to be. Nell was perfectly contented with her lot in Liverpool, which was a shame.

They were on the balcony in the Grafton – sitting on the same seats they’d been when Chris Conway had approached them all those months ago. Neither girl had mentioned Chris.

Maggie said, ‘Shall we stay up here and watch the jitterbugging?’

‘Okay,’ Nell said dreamily.

‘I have to go back tomorrow,’ Maggie sighed. ‘It’s work again on Monday.’

‘Poor old you.’

‘Lucky old you! It must be nice being self-employed and able to please yourself whether you work or not.’ Maggie watched as a young man threw his partner over his shoulder. The girl landed unsteadily on her feet and continued to dance, obviously not caring about showing her knickers to the world.

‘I had loads of dinners and parties to cater for in the run-up to Christmas,’ Nell pointed out. ‘I’ve got another big party on New Year’s Eve. I think I’m due a rest.’

‘You’ll make so much money, you’ll end up like Barbara Hutton, the Woolworth heiress,’ Maggie said.

‘I hope not.’ Nell shuddered. ‘She’s desperately unhappy, poor woman. If I make too much money, then I shall give it away.’

There’d been a postcard on the message board in Thomas Cook’s asking for new members for a club for ex-servicewomen who met fortnightly in the West End for a meal and a chat. Maggie had joined, but was disappointed to find herself the only one who’d been a private. Another woman had been a sergeant in the WAAF, but the rest, about ten altogether, were ex-officers. Most were unmarried. The leading light, Alicia Black, a nursing officer in the WRNS, had started the club, and ruled it with a rod of iron. Maggie felt obliged to make sure her shoes were well polished before they met, and was conscious of her posture. A few times she had almost saluted, but stopped just in time.

She had nearly left the club after the first meeting, when she’d found the other women cold and unfriendly, but in her experience, no matter what tensions might exist at the start of a friendship, they would disappear as time passed.

On New Year’s Eve, the women were eating in a restaurant in Covent Garden and afterwards making their way to Trafalgar Square to let in the new year with the crowd.

Maggie had promised to have dinner with Philip Morrison and his chess club on the night. She knew how keen he was to turn up with a woman on his arm, and couldn’t bring herself to desert him for her new women friends. As the chess club intended breaking up at about eleven so the members could celebrate the new year at home, Maggie arranged to meet the ex-servicewomen afterwards in Trafalgar Square, outside the National Gallery.

She thought about Nell while having dinner with the chess club. The meal was served in a pub off the Old Kent Road that was decorated with paper streamers faded with age and a Christmas tree that had lost most of its needles. There were gaps in the floorboards and it was also exceedingly cold. Draughts blew up her skirt and down her neck. She would have liked to put on a scarf, but it would have looked rude.

In fact, it had been an unusually cold December and the country was hoping that the new year might see an improvement in the weather. Maggie’s room in Shepherd’s Bush had only a small, inadequate gas fire. She had been sleeping with her coat on top of the bedclothes and had bought bed socks, yet still felt cold.

The reason she thought about Nell was because she wished she had been there to make the dinner. The steak was so tough she could have soled her shoes with it, the cabbage hadn’t been properly cooked and the roast potatoes didn’t look very roasted and were limp and tasteless.

Philip introduced her to his fellow chess players as ‘My
very
good friend, Miss Margaret O’Neill’ and squeezed her hand a lot. Maggie got into the spirit of things and flirted with him madly. After a while, she was able to see the funny side of the evening and enjoyed herself from then on, though she was relieved when the meal was over, a final drink was ordered, and everyone wished each other happy new year.

Outside, she kissed Philip on the cheek and caught an Underground train to Trafalgar Square, probably the noisiest place on earth that night. Men – women wouldn’t have been so stupid – were throwing themselves in the fountain and wading through the icy water soaking wet and dripping. Different songs were being sung in different places. ‘Lily Marlene’ was being played on a piano accordion, and an entire band in uniform blasted out a military march. A man in evening dress was making a passionate speech, throwing his arms about. Maggie listened and discovered he was arguing that the world was flat. Another man vomited in her path and she had to skirt round him.

‘Can I kiss you, girl?’ a soldier pleaded. Maggie refused with a laugh.

Trumpets were being blown. People danced, either with each other, or in a long conga line without an apparent end. They stood in circles and did the hokey cokey.

‘Put your right leg in, your right leg out, in, out, in, out, shake it all about, do the hokey cokey and you turn around, that’s what it’s all about.’

‘
Oh, hokey cokey cokey
,’ Maggie sang as she made her way towards the National Gallery. ‘
That’s what it’s all about
.’

They’d always done the hokey cokey at dances in Plymouth, usually at the beginning of the proceedings, along with the Gay Gordons, the conga and the Lambeth Walk. As the evening had worn on, the dances became slower, the lights dimmer, the smoke thicker, the music more romantic. ‘Who’s Taking You Home Tonight?’, ‘Goodnight, Sweetheart’, ‘You’ll Never Know’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ . . . She began to hum the last song.

She’d reached the National Gallery and was sitting on the steps, but soon got to her feet when she discovered they were freezing. For a while she marched up and down, hugging herself as she tried to keep warm, jumping up and down. She looked at her watch and saw it was ten to twelve, but there was no sign of Alicia Black or any other member of the club. Surely she wasn’t about to face the advent of the new year on her own? She looked wildly around the crowded square and couldn’t see one other person by themselves, not a single one.

‘Where are you?’ she cried. Her voice sounded pitiful and desperate. She wanted to get away, hide in one of the neighbouring streets in a doorway, where she wouldn’t look out of place on her own. But someone might still come. Anyroad, she’d never make her way through the hordes in time. Already people had begun to count down. She looked at her watch again and it was almost midnight. Not far away, Big Ben began to toll.

‘Twelve, eleven, ten,’ people were chanting. ‘Nine, eight, seven.’ Maggie put her hands over her ears. She sat down on the steps again, not caring if she froze to death. Why had she come to London? Back home in Liverpool, they’d be listening to Big Ben on the wireless. The house would be full; it would be warm there.

‘Six, five, four,’ the crowd shouted. ‘Three, two, one.’

It was 1947, and a tremendous cheer erupted. Everyone began to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, apart from Maggie who was in tears and had no one’s hand to hold. Previous New Year’s Eves flashed through her mind, and on every single one she was with loads of friends, being kissed, being hugged, laughing, feeling happy, oh so happy.

‘Young lady. Young lady, why the tears on such a night?’ She was being pulled firmly to her feet. She opened her eyes and looked into a pair of calm grey ones. Until then she had never believed in love at first sight, but now she changed her mind immediately.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He had a strong, yet gentle face; not handsome, but attractive. His hair was hidden under a woollen hat, but blond tufts stuck out on his neck.

‘Maggie O’Neill,’ she sobbed.

‘I am Jacek, Maggie, but over here people call me Jack. Jack Kaminski.’

Maggie was beginning to feel better. At least she wasn’t standing out like a sore toe, so obviously by herself.

Another man came bounding up, very young, very boyish. ‘Jack, people were wondering where you’d gone.’ He grinned at Maggie. ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is my new friend, Maggie O’Neill. She is not so happy with the new year. I was about to invite her to our party. Maggie, this is my friend Drugi Nowak. We are Polish and there is a party going on in a restaurant in Soho, not far from here. Would you like to come back with us?’

Maggie nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Oh yes please.’

‘What are you doing here by yourself?’ Jack asked.

‘I was supposed to be meeting people, but they didn’t come.’

‘Maggie!’ a voice screamed. ‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Maggie didn’t recognise the woman running towards her until she’d skidded to a stop in front of her. Daphne Scott, one of the club members, was terribly posh and had an army general for a father. She wore a full-length grey fur coat and a hat to match, and looked like a Russian countess.

‘Alicia and co. are waiting for you in the restaurant,’ she said in her beautifully refined voice. ‘A couple of the women aren’t feeling well, so they decided not to come to the square. I offered to come and get you.’ She looked extremely puffed. ‘We couldn’t very well let you down, could we?’

‘That’s dead kind of you,’ Maggie said gratefully, but Daphne had come too late. Jack and Drugi were waiting politely, and she much preferred the prospect of their party to the restaurant in Covent Garden. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Jack and Drugi have invited me to a party and I said I’d go.’

‘A party! Oh, can I come too?’ Daphne laid her lemon kid-gloved hand on Jack’s arm. ‘You look far more interesting than Alicia and her lot.’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘My name is Daphne Scott.’

Jack gave a little bow. ‘I am Jacek Kaminski, but you can call me Jack.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Jack.’ She linked his arm. ‘Shall we go?’

Maggie was left to walk with Drugi, who seemed very nice, except she much preferred his friend.

Nell only agreed to provide food at an event if she was able to leave by half past ten. On New Year’s Eve, she had packed up her kit, as Iris called the various tins, boxes and dishes she carried around with her, and was on the tram from Orrell Park back to Bootle before eleven o’clock, having left behind an assortment of savoury and sweet biscuits to be eaten later. The party had gone well. She had been congratulated on the food, and the payment, plus a large tip, was in her bag. She had given her card to several of the women there. Her father, who appeared to be dead chuffed about having such an independent daughter, was looking around for a small car for her to buy.

‘You’d be allowed a petrol ration,’ he assured her, ‘being in business, like. It’d look really professional, you turning up with your own transport. And your friend Iris can teach you how to drive, her having been a driver in the army, like.’

It was the gear having money. She’d bought some really nice presents for her sisters, their husbands and their kids, and a lovely checked jumper for her brother Kenny, who’d started courting a girl from Chaucer Street called Myra Hammond.

The tram stopped at the terminus at the end of Rimrose Road. Nell got off and crossed the road to Iris and Tom’s house, where she let herself in using her own key. The couple had gone to a party in Waterloo.

In the kitchen, she put the tools of her trade away on the bottom shelf of the dresser – she preferred to keep them here. Back home, things could well disappear and she might never see them again.

It was just after half eleven according to the clock on the wall. Her sisters were coming round tonight, so there’d be plenty of company at her own house. And she’d been invited to a party at the O’Neills’, to which she would have gone had Maggie still been home.

Being alone at the onset of the new year didn’t bother Nell. She’d stay where she was until Iris and Tom came home. They were unlikely to be late, as Tom’s surgery was opening in the morning, and there was something important she wanted to say to them. She made tea and took it upstairs, where the remnants of a fire glowed in the living room. She curled up in an armchair, drank the tea and promptly fell asleep.

She didn’t wake until almost one o’clock, when she heard the front door open and Iris and Tom’s footsteps on the stairs.

‘Hello!’ she called.

‘You’re still here.’ Iris came into the room. She looked really lovely in a new pink satin frock that she’d had made by a dressmaker from Pearl Street. The material had once been a bedspread with frayed edges. ‘I thought you’d have gone home by now. Were you very late back?’

Nell unfolded herself out of the chair and stood up. ‘No, it’s just that I wanted to talk to you about something, that’s all.’

‘That’s nice.’ Iris kissed her on the cheek. ‘Happy new year, Nell.’

‘Did you have a nice time at the party?’

Iris made a face. ‘No, it was horrid. The host and hostess, only a young couple, fought all night long, and the food was dire. I shall send them your card tomorrow.’ She sat on the settee. ‘Sit down and tell me what you wanted to talk about.’

‘I want Tom to hear too.’

‘Tom!’ Iris called. ‘Nell wants to talk to us.’

‘Just a minute.’ Tom came in seconds later carrying two drinks. ‘Sherry for you, darling, whisky for me, and nothing whatsoever for Nell here – unless you want lemonade or something?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘No thank you.’

‘If you’re about to tell us you’re going to live in London with Maggie,’ Iris told her, ‘then I positively refuse to listen.’

‘I’m expecting a baby,’ Nell said.

Iris choked on her drink.

Tom looked at Nell in total surprise. ‘When?’ he enquired after a pause.

‘At the end of May, I’ve worked it out,’ Nell replied.

‘That means,’ Tom said slowly, his brow furrowed, ‘that you became pregnant around the beginning of September.’