Wartime Brides (20 page)

‘What’s the matter?’

Still with his gaze fixed on the door, he rubbed his hands together.

‘I have decided to go home as soon as I am allowed.’

She hadn’t expected this.

‘But I thought …’ She got up and stood behind his chair, her arm trailing around his shoulders. Briefly she glanced outside the small, square window, desperate to be close to him yet concerned that their behaviour should not be observed.

She knelt at his side then reached up and touched his cheek, a slight stubble rough but enticingly masculine beneath her fingertips. ‘What is it, Josef?’

He too looked out of the window but not, she guessed, for the same reason. ‘They made us watch a film today about war crimes.’

He turned back to look at her. His eyes were moist.

Charlotte had been hurt both physically and mentally since David had come home. Now she was hurting more. She didn’t want him to leave.

‘I would have thought you would be put off going home. If you stayed here I could arrange …’

He clasped her hand between his. ‘It would be easy for me to stay here. But I have to go back. Don’t you see that? I have to make amends.’

They drove silently to the village pub after she’d seen her last appointment.

‘It’s going to take some time to arrange your repatriation. You do know that?’ she said, as they sat at a rough oak table with their drinks.

He nodded and folded his hand over hers, the gesture hidden by the tabletop.

‘You say I can get a job in the meantime. Perhaps on a local farm or something.’

But I want you with me, not stuck in the country
.

Her mind searched for a solution. An idea came to her.

‘Do you like children?’

His mood lightened. ‘Are you propositioning me?’

‘Be serious, Josef …’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think I might be able to arrange something.’

He seemed pleased but she could tell that something was troubling him.

‘Everything will work out terribly well,’ she said brightly, as though she were talking about a netball game result rather than the course of their lives.

‘I was not thinking about me,’ Josef said haltingly and suddenly rested his head in his hands. ‘I’m wondering if you really will get Aaron’s address.’

‘I fail to see why not!’

Josef stayed silent and in that silence she sensed there was something about Aaron he was not telling her.

Edna approached Colin’s mother about making her wedding dress. Gladys had a sewing machine in an upstairs room and was sympathetic to the fact that Edna did not wish to wear her mother’s old gown.

‘Remember, the bridegroom’s not supposed to see it before the big day,’ she said, as she bustled about the
room
pulling pins, scissors and tape measure into Edna’s easy reach.

‘There’s no chance of that,’ said Edna and could have bitten off her tongue. Colin would never climb the stairs again. ‘I’ll lock the door,’ Edna added in an effort to repair the damage.

Mrs Smith’s face brightened a little. ‘Good idea. Now I’ll leave you to it.’

Edna did indeed lock the door. But it was the baby clothes for boys she got to work on first, her fingers feverishly cutting out the tiny garments. It was boy babies she was interested in.

By the end of one week she had made four outfits, mixing silks with cottons and blues with yellows. The material for her wedding dress remained in the bag.

Colin asked her to go and see Billy Hills with him. There was a whole box of aeroplanes, horses on wheels and pull-along dogs, all painted and ready to sell. Besides, they had to make the final arrangements about the house. There were curtains to be measured and furniture to be bought. Although she longed to be elsewhere, Edna went along with the plans.

The furniture was strictly utility and bought on coupon. A bedroom suite was a must. A dining suite would also be useful but a three-piece suite might have to be second hand – if at all obtainable.

For Colin’s sake, Edna gave her all to the plans. But the baby clothes – washed, ironed and sitting in the paper carrier bag – still filled her mind. Charlotte had said that she would collect the garments, but Edna had
her
own agenda. She wanted to deliver them herself. A weekend was out of the question. Her time was taken up with Colin. In the time she wasn’t with him, her mother’s eyes followed her everywhere as if she were fearful she might run away before she got to the altar.

Much as she disliked doing it, she made up her mind to take a day off work. On return the next day she would feign illness as the excuse. She’d had little time off since joining the firm and it shouldn’t be a problem.

On Wednesday of the following week she dressed as though she were going to work, wearing her grey dress, tweed coat, and a red and gold patterned scarf. She’d taken the carrier bag from Colin’s house the night before and hidden it behind the laurel bush that grew against the front wall.

Taking care not to leave until her mother was hanging out the washing, she rushed out of the door, retrieved her parcel and made her way towards the park entrance.

There were no railings or gates to stop her from using Victoria Park as a short cut. Park railings were early casualties of the war, taken away to boost the metal mountain that was needed to make guns and shells.

The trees were in bud and a mist promised that the day would turn warmer. But Edna hardly noticed a thing. Instead of turning off in the direction of the tobacco factories, she carried on to St Luke’s Road, a long sweep of terraced houses that would take her towards the railway station and the city centre.

There were no buildings between the station and up Victoria Street. Here and there were gaping holes and
danger
signs. Young sappers with the worried faces of old men were over seeing the removal of twisted and blackened beams of buildings that had stood for centuries and were now no more.

She caught a bus in the city centre that would take her up Muller Road to the orphanage, which bordered Stoke Park and an area known as ‘the Duchesses’.

Orphanages were not something Edna was familiar with, except that when older people talked of them they seemed to lump them together with workhouses. She had never wanted to think of her baby’s home that way. In her mind she had imagined him in a place of bright colours and warm people. As she stood outside the iron gates and looked up the drive at the grey Victorian edifice before her, she wanted to cry. How could her mother have put her baby in a place like this?

Concern for her child gave her the courage to step forward and make her way to the front door, a large, wide opening surrounded by solid grey stonework.

The entrance hall had high ceilings and a shiny brown floor. The windows stretched from ceiling to floor and had wooden shutters on the inside.

Her footsteps echoed around her.

A woman in navy and white who she presumed to be the matron greeted her.

‘Mrs Hennessey-White sent me,’ she blurted, knowing it was a lie but determined to be let in. ‘I’ve got some baby clothes,’ she added, raising the bag she carried.

‘That’s very kind of you, my dear.’ The matron looked at her quizzically. Edna wondered if she really believed
her
or was the shame of her wrongdoing stencilled on her brow forever. ‘Shall I take them?’ The matron reached out her hand.

Edna swung the bag behind her back. ‘I’ve come a long way. I took the bus,’ she blurted. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the babies.’

The woman looked surprised and for a moment Edna was sure she was going to be sent packing with or without her donation. Her heart felt like lead.

‘I don’t see why not,’ said the matron. She called to a passing nurse. ‘Sister Ruth? Take Miss …?’

‘Burbage. Edna Burbage,’ Edna replied, hardly able to believe her luck.

She felt as though she were in a dream. The pristine surroundings blurred into softness simply because she was feeling warm all over. Sister Ruth led her into a colourless room where wooden cots were ranged around the walls. Some of the babies were crying. Some lay quietly, eyes following the newcomers as they moved around the room.

‘Are they all boys?’ Edna asked and feeling stupid for doing so.

‘No.’ Sister Ruth indicated a nameplate on the side of a cot. ‘Their names are written here, boys on blue paper, girls on pink.’

Edna’s heart went out to the round little eyes looking expectantly up at her, the soft little faces of those sleeping. But one cot above all others caught her eye. The name ‘
Sherman
’ was written on a piece of blue paper.

‘Most of the children are half-caste,’ sniffed Sister
Ruth
. ‘All of the girls, of course, are unmarried. That’s how dependable Negroes are, I suppose.’

Edna was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on the cot and the name she knew so well. Hardly daring to breathe she approached and looked down at her son. His eyes were open and so was his mouth. He was the one crying the loudest.

‘Sherman!’

The bag of clothes fell to the floor. Before Sister Ruth could stop her she leaned over and picked up the child wrapping him tightly to her body, his little head resting on her shoulder. The crying stopped immediately as he made sucking sounds against the shoulder pad of her coat.

Sister Ruth rushed over.

‘Miss Burbage! You have no right doing that! You’re spoiling him.’

‘He needs me,’ whispered Edna, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He needs me.’

‘Put him down or I’ll get Matron and you’ll never be allowed in here again!’

The last comment hit home. She had to come here again. She just had to.

‘There, there,’ she cooed, rocking Sherman tightly against her until his eyes were almost closed. Slowly and gently she lowered him back into his cot and tucked the bedding around him.

‘He’ll be all right now,’ Edna said softly and her heart ached fit to break. But she determined that she would visit again. No one would stop her from doing that.

Sister Ruth was too busy to tell Matron what had happened. She was the sort who administered the necessities of life but not the love. The incident was forgotten. It was Matron who remembered the young woman with the intense expression and the carrier bag when she did her rounds. Thoughtfully she slid a baby’s name card out of the receptacle to reveal his mother’s surname. This one said
Potterton
. It rang no bells. She did the same to the name card of the next baby along. This time it revealed the name Burbage. She smiled. Sherman’s mother had come looking for him, unmarried no doubt. I wonder how much she’d sacrifice in order to have him back, she thought?

On the following day at work Edna was called to the supervisor’s office. He was a middle-aged man who rarely entered the typing pool except to complain about errors or ogle a new recruit who he might be able to do favours for – given the right incentive. The girls called him The Groper.

He had the neck of a giraffe and looked at her stiffly. ‘Do you have a note from your doctor, Miss Burbage?’

Edna tried to be brave. ‘No. I’m sorry. It was only a day and I thought …’

‘You’re not paid to think, Miss Burbage. You’re only an invoice typist. I do all the thinking round here.’

Yes. And we know what about
.

She tried not to show what was in her mind.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again wishing the floor could swallow her up.

‘Well so am I, Miss Burbage.’ He lit a cigarette, drew
on
it and almost spat the smoke into the air. ‘I hear you’re leaving us soon anyway. Is that right?’

‘I’m getting married. But I don’t want to leave. Not right away.’ She was worried. She couldn’t afford to leave and live on Colin’s money, not until Billy Hills got more orders for toys.

Teasing young women was another of the ‘Groper’s’ favourite occupations. ‘Well, I don’t think we can keep you on once you’re married, Miss Burbage. As far as I’m concerned you’re taking liberties with the company having days off without a bona fide medical note.’

It was too much to bear. The threat frightened her. She sprang forward, palms flat on the desk. ‘I can’t afford to give up work, Mr Gordon. Please reconsider!’

A slow smirk crossed his face. Yes, he would reconsider. She could see it in his face.

‘In this office after work and we’ll discuss it further.’

For the rest of the day Edna’s fingers refused to hit the right keys. Groper Gordon was only part of the problem. The other lay more heavily on her mind. She could still see Sherman’s eyes looking up at her, feel his wet little lips sucking against her coat. If only she had the courage to do something about it. But she wasn’t courageous. Her mother had seen to that. Even now, she was afraid of what she would say about the dress she was making and the house Billy was letting them have. But in her heart of hearts she knew that owning up to Sherman would be the hardest thing of all. Could she ever bring herself to tell Colin about her son and what would his reaction be? No! It would do no good. She couldn’t do it.

Chapter Twelve

POLLY HELD HER
head high as she made her way down the Batch towards York Street. The workers from Georges’ Brewery were coming in the other direction, a host of clogs clattering on the old cobbles like a herd of horses.

The men divided and lifted their caps as she passed by. The women eyed her enviously and muttered disparaging comments. They cut no ice but only served to make her hold her head that bit higher.

It had been two weeks since she’d last called in at York Street and she hadn’t stayed long. Carol had been howling her head off on that occasion and Hetty’s two had been arguing over some cardboard cut-outs that Meg had probably made.

Bertie had been sat shirtless in front of the fire, his thin arms poking out through the sleeves of his vest. He was reading the paper and barely acknowledged her as she entered except to say, ‘Put a bit of coal on the fire while yer up, our Poll.’

She glared at him. ‘Too busy, are you?’

‘He’s thinking about work,’ Hetty had explained.

‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Strikes me he’s doing more thinking about it than actually doing it!’