Wartime Brides (30 page)

Julian blushed and looked away. ‘Now steady on, old girl …’

She slapped him on the shoulder and he almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Don’t worry, Julian. You’re quite safe. I’ve already had passion in my life, but leopards don’t change their spots. I was made to serve and I’ll go right on doing that.’

He looked up at her with his mouth open.

She smiled down at him, thinking just how vulnerable people could really be when their Achilles heel is suddenly exposed. She knew Julian didn’t care too much for women – not in a sexual way. ‘We all have our wounds, Julian – and our secrets. I’m not a saint. Please don’t treat me as one.’

She saw him blink and his jaw tighten and knew he understood.

Charlotte had been at her bedside. Polly remembered it clearly though what she had actually said to her was less clear. Something about David being ill. Mad more like it, she thought to herself. Well that was that! So what was she going to do now? She certainly couldn’t go back to her job with him in Clifton. A factory? There was a fair selection; tobacco, chocolate or paper bags. Now which did she fancy?

Or there were shops. Working in a dress shop would be nice. Might even get some good gear she thought, with or without me ration card!

Aunty Meg made up the bed in the front bedroom for her when she came home. There was more room now because Hetty and Bert had been given a prefab out on a new estate at Brislington.

Meg explained what it was like. ‘I went out on the bus with them to have a look. It’s not a proper home. It ain’t made of brick like these old places. It’s made of metal and it all slots into place like a jigsaw. But it’s got two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom – all indoors! Ain’t that marvellous?’

Polly agreed that it was. She didn’t add that it was especially marvellous for her because their leaving meant there was more room in York Street, but she certainly thought it.

When Meg suggested that Carol should sleep in her mother’s room, she didn’t object. Although there was a cot in there, it looked far too small for the growing child, so Polly allowed her daughter to come into bed with her. She had a need to love someone, to cuddle a warm body close to her own and rain kisses on an innocent head. Because of this she began to get to know her daughter, to notice the way she wrinkled her nose, the fact that she had most of her teeth now and that she could get out of bed by herself and retrieve her potty from beneath it.

Once she was up and about, Meg allowed Billy to visit. Ever since she’d been home from hospital he’d knocked to see how she was, and when Meg told him off for hanging around outside the house, he waylaid her on the corner of the street when she was on her way to the shops.

Polly still enjoyed teasing him. ‘I’m taking Carol for a
walk
,’ she’d say, always pretending that she was going out when he had only just arrived.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he would respond with undisguised enthusiasm.

It never failed to surprise her that Billy offered to push the pram. She didn’t know any man who would do that. And there was no asking questions about why she hadn’t told him that she’d been alone in the house with David. He took it for granted that David had had some kind of brainstorm because of his wartime experiences. Plenty of people had been affected by it, some more so than others.

It was October and they walked down towards the Feeder Canal that connected the River Frome to the River Avon. Italian prisoners of war were repairing a part of the road that ran alongside it. The air was damp with mist, but streaked with shafts of watery sunlight.

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ Billy said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and brought out an easily recognisable tin.

‘Powdered egg,’ said Polly with little enthusiasm.

Billy’s face dropped. ‘Don’t you want it?’

She managed a smile. ‘It’s always useful. More omelettes. They’re good for you.’ She unclipped the apron on the pram and popped it in.

He asked her whether she was still going to get a job.

‘Of course! I’ve got Carol to support. It’s not easy you know.’

Thoughtfully he shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded in agreement. ‘I can see that. Still, at least you ’ad
the
guts to keep your baby and not …’ He stopped dead, sounding as though he’d said too much.

She frowned and looked at him questioningly. He kept his head down. Billy was hiding something. It occurred to her that he might have a skeleton in the cupboard somewhere. Perhaps it was his own child he was talking about that some worried young girl had given away. But she didn’t think so. Well, she would find out. She was good at finding things out from blokes like Billy. Smiling in a way that she knew men found irresistible, she slipped her arm through his. He was the one pushing the pram.

Holding her head pertly to one side, she asked, ‘Is there something you need to tell me, Billy?’ Then her voice and expression changed. ‘If you’ve been cheating on me, Billy, if you’ve got some kid and some girl somewhere that you haven’t told me about, then I want to know now!’

He blustered at first. But Polly knew Billy wouldn’t risk losing her no matter what. Once she turned those blue eyes on him and smiled as if he were the most important bloke in the world, he’d tell her anything. And when she threatened not to see him any more if he didn’t own up … well … that would be suicide.

Polly could barely believe it of Edna. That mousy little creature! Fancy her having a baby. She looked such a little mouse. What glorious gossip! She couldn’t resist passing it around – furtively of course.

Aunt Meg had never met Edna so Polly thought there was no harm in telling her about the baby in the orphanage. She told her how Edna’s mother had sent her away so the neighbours wouldn’t know. She also told her about the
parcels
that kept coming from America full of baby clothes.

‘Poor girl,’ said Meg. ‘Sounds as if her mother’s a right dragon. I’m glad you kept Carol,’ she added.

‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Lucky for me you were a good dragon!’

In bed that night she stroked Carol’s curly fair hair. There had been times in the past when she wished Carol had never been born. Her birth and existence had curtailed her enjoyment for a while. But that time was all behind her. This was a new Polly and her dreams had changed. And tomorrow I’ll get a new job, she said to herself. But not cleaning other people’s places and not waiting on tables. I want something better. Something glamorous would be good.

There was a queue at the Labour Exchange the following day, mostly men in their demob suits or navy dungarees talking in loud voices but seeming slightly ill at ease. Some would be sent to factories or to ‘wait-on’ at the docks. Those most favoured might get in on the bonded ware houses down in the Cumberland Basin where casks of tobacco were already rolling in from Virginia, Rhodesia and Pakistan. A lot more would be sent to demolish buildings made dangerous by bomb damage or to clear sites ready for building – whenever that might be.

Polly queued outside the women’s entrance. She listened as they talked about their lives. The single women talked of going to dances, the pictures or a pub and whether they were courting. Those having lately left school stood trembling, fearful to speak and fearful to move; their first foray into the world of work. A few were
widowed
or married. Someone mentioned it was a headache having her man home and she wished he were still away fighting.

‘Yeah. I bet you ’ave headaches a lot now he’s been ’ome for a while. Bet you didn’t at first though, did ya?’

Raucous laughter followed.

Another said that hers was still out in Malaya receiving treatment in a hospital.

Polly kept silent. If anyone asked her about the man in her life she’d mention Billy. But her private business was her own and, in view of recent events, she preferred to keep things that way.

Eventually it was her turn to approach the clerk who sat in a small cubicle, a barrier between him and his job-seeking clients.

‘Name?’

She gave it.

‘Address?’

She gave that too.

‘Married?’

‘No.’

‘Experience?’

‘I have worked as a receptionist to a doctor …’

The clerk peered over his spectacles, which crept to the end of his nose.

‘Have you qualifications?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’ll have to make do with what you can get and be thankful for it!’

At one time he would have got a few choice words. As
it
was she was almost glad to be getting a job, re-joining the outside world no matter what the work was.

There were a few openings at the cotton factory in Barton Hill. It was within walking distance of York Street, but the thought of working in a building looking like a castle with turrets and stone blackened by war was somehow off-putting. The pay was reasonable but not outstanding.

Edwards & Ringers, a smaller cigarette factory than W. D. & H. O. Wills, were also taking on staff. It was a bit further to go than the cotton factory and was one of the few buildings left in Redcliffe Street, a main thoroughfare since medieval times and directly opposite St Mary Redcliffe Church.

She chose the latter. The clerk behind the counter gave her a card to take along on which was printed the name of the foreman she had to see.

The ugly brick building was only a little better than the cotton factory and had apparently replaced much older buildings in Victorian times. The fact that it was surrounded mostly by rubble did nothing to improve matters. Weeds, couch grass and swiftly growing buddleia were sprouting over what was left of the bombed-out buildings.

Inside was far worse than out. With each breath she inhaled tobacco dust. She could taste it on her tongue and smell it in her hair.

The man she had come to see was courteous and it seemed the job was hers. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he talked, telling her about the job, taking
her
to where she would be working, and explaining about bonuses and bank holidays.

At first she considered turning it down. She didn’t mind smoking the odd fag, but raw tobacco was something else and in this place they were almost eating it. Then she thought of Carol and told herself she was lucky. Anyone else would jump at the chance. The job was hers and she should take it. The foreman seemed delighted and so was she. Starting date was in one week.

But things didn’t go according to plan. The job would have been hers if one of the neighbours from York Street hadn’t seen her. Iris Trent had five kids and a husband who worked as a drayman for the brewery. He’d been reprimanded for being drunk in charge of his horses after being reported by a policeman. But it was Polly who’d given him the abuse that day and he hadn’t forgotten it.

Iris glared at her as if looks could kill. Polly just tilted her chin and looked the other way. They all had to work together. That was the way it was.

Two days later she received a letter stating that it had come to their notice that she had a child. It was not their policy to employ unmarried women with children.

‘That bloody Iris Trent!’

It was the first time she’d cried in a long time. Meg held her close. ‘Never you mind, Polly. Something’ll turn up. You see if it don’t. Now you dry your eyes and get yourself ready for Billy and the pictures tonight. I’ll take care of Carol.’

Polly felt sorry that she’d taken Meg so much for granted. What would she do without her? Now when she
looked
at her she saw the worry lines, the tiredness of old age creeping over her forehead and around her eyes, the grey hairs sprouting profusely on her chin.

She felt better that evening, sitting there near the back of the pictures with Billy’s arm around her. They went to the New Palace in Baldwin Street. It was in the middle of town and a real treat, despite having to pick their way carefully around the rubble that still littered the ground.

Since she’d been small, the picture house had been one of her favourite places. She remembered as a child being hypnotised by the shaft of blue-white light, the beam twisting and dancing with dust and cigarette smoke before it hit the screen. There was a liquid luminescence about it that had never failed to entrance her.

Of course she’d been to the pictures with plenty of Yanks during the war but couldn’t recall a single one of the films. No wonder, she thought to herself. I was too busy fending them off. Hands like an octopus some of them had and the air had been blue with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable twang of their accents.

The magic of the movies, as the Yanks had called them, had never really left her. And it wasn’t just about the film. The New Palace, like a lot of other picture houses, had a definite atmosphere. Everything to do with it was special. She realised while she was watching the film that the building itself had a special magic. Like a real palace it was, all red velvets, gold-painted plaster fancy bits around the walls and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Then there were the people around her, the girls selling ice cream, but especially the usherettes shining their
torches
as they escorted people to their seats. There was something so glamorous about it all.

Suddenly she sucked in her breath.

Billy noticed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered, his breath warm on her ear.

‘I’m going to be an usherette,’ she said decidedly.

‘Good idea,’ he whispered back, and they both went back to watching Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.

There were times when Edna could feel Colin’s eyes following her as she moved around the place. Getting home late from work had become something of an ordeal. He asked over and over again where she had been, why she was late. And again and again she told him that she’d worked late for a bit of overtime or that the bus was late.

Colin was causing her concern. The workshop wasn’t looking as neatly industrious as it had done. She badly wanted to ask him why, but was afraid of what he might say. She hated confrontation. Courage wasn’t something that came easily. It had always been easier to let others have their own way rather than attract an argument.