AUGUST 1939
When she realized that I was serious about getting wed to Len she stopped talking to me. I stood before her, but she wouldn’t look up. She toyed with her embroidery, passing the antimacassar between her clammy hands, pulling it first one way and then the next. I told her that she would stretch it out of shape, but she wasn’t listening to me. She sat impassively, and digested the information that I would soon be gone. She was trying to comprehend the fact that somebody actually wanted me. That in spite of my history I might actually be interesting, if not exactly exciting, to somebody. She’d told me many times that she didn’t trust men. They’ll just abandon you in the most callous fashion. And hadn’t she been right? They’re here, and then they’re gone. Jesus. Now there was somebody you could trust. When the Lord said come unto me, He didn’t mean until the pubs were open, or until He found some other woman. The Lord accepted you with open arms and embraced you. She beckoned me to sit. This house, I thought. I wanted to scream. At least I can get out of this two-up, two-down dump. She put aside her embroidery. Are you sure about this man? Of course I wasn’t sure. I’d only known him seven weeks. She looked at me, as though trying to warn me about something. But then, having lost a husband in the Great War, she probably had the right to warn me. I assured her, if there’s a war, he’ll not be going away. He’s got a black lung from being down the pit. If there’s a war he’s going nowhere. She stared at me. I looked across at my father’s picture, which sat on top of the wooden mantelpiece. I had no memory of him, being just a baby when he died. She had never explained anything to me about this man in a silly felt hat, standing beneath a chestnut tree and staring directly into the lens of the camera. A confident, happy man. A man I feel sure would never have tolerated a woman such as my mother. But perhaps she was different then. Occasionally I’ve found my dad on a bronze plaque, near the Town Hall, but his name is scattered among the names of hundreds of others. This is merely a place to find him, but not to discover him. When she dies, I’ll take it. The photograph might help me to discover him. This is what I think. And then I hear her voice. If you must leave, then do so. I assume that this is her blessing. But she goes on. At least you’re not getting wed to a soldier. You should never do that. You’ll be left on your own. Then again she’s quiet. Just when I’m thinking, that wasn’t too bad, she nettles me. Men are at their best in pursuit. I thought I should tell you. But I expect you’ve found that out already.
JUNE 1942
Apparently we were unlucky to get them in our village. It’s all over the papers. We’re having an invasion all right, but it’s not Jerry. We’ve been invaded by bloody Yanks. Nobody wants them, but the Hall is large and has plenty of grounds for their tents and things. Everybody expects trouble. People keep talking about their Yank arrogance. Saying that they think that all they have to do is to blow their own trumpets and the walls of Germany will fall down. But our lot are quiet. They keep themselves to themselves, and when they meet us they seem polite. I see them going about their business. And a lot of them like to go to church. They dress so smartly it puts us to shame. The military police are easy to spot with their white helmets and gloves. The truth is, they don’t have to mix much with us for they have their own newspapers, films, radio, everything. To most folks’ relief, they appear willing to keep themselves to themselves. I met one of them this morning. He was whistling and chewing gum at the same time, which made him look like a fish. When he saw me he lowered his eyes. I could see he was slightly frightened. I said good morning as I passed by, but he shrank a little and pretended not to hear. And then, almost as an afterthought, I heard him whisper, morning ma’am.
JULY 1942
They stand in the shop and talk. Usually two of them. Sometimes there are three. There is no room for any more. They tear out their coupons and drop them on to the counter. I don’t care. I’ve got to ask for them. It’s the law. I’m not playing games. If I go too, who’ll look after the shop? They stand in the shop and talk about the Yanks. They’re still shocked. Upset, even. And then they realize that I’m present, and that I can hear what they’re saying. And so they leave. But not before they bestow their cigarette-tar smiles upon me. I heard one of them say, she’s missing Len, and I know that I was meant to hear it.
AUGUST 1942
I’m enjoying the long summer days. I like to watch the sunset through the pub window. I have my own corner. Well, it’s not my corner, it’s just a corner that nobody else seems to sit in. Maybe nobody else sits in it because they know that I sit in it. They probably think they might catch something off a commoner like me. They should be so lucky. Cheeky monkeys. I don’t trouble anybody. I just sit in my corner and drink my half of bitter and watch the sun set. I didn’t used to do this when he was around. The pub was his place. Mine was above the shop, waiting for him to come back. The braggart. I don’t think they ever expected to see me lower myself and come into the pub. I expect they think I’m lonely or something. Well, they can think what they like. I’m not looking for anybody. I’m just having a drink. His best mate is at the bar. He’s a crafty bugger. Always quick to come over, touch his cap, and ask me if I’m all right. Hardly gives me time to get the words out of my mouth (I’m all right, Stan, thanks) and he’s back at the bar, foot up, head occasionally swivelling around to look at me (smile, nod, wink) before he turns back around and starts talking about me with the rest. I could bloody crown him. The hypocrite. It’s Home Guard this evening. In their bloody silly uniforms. One gun between them. Whose turn is it tonight to carry the gun? God help us if this is the best they can muster up to defeat the Hun. A butcher, a baker, a bleeding candlestick-maker. Half a dozen farmers and labourers, a couple of toffs, and a bobby who thinks he’s better than the rest because he’s got a proper uniform. He calls the meeting to order. They look at me as though I’m in the way. I stare back at them. We’ve got to prevent anything from landing in the fields hereabouts. The same conversation as last week. Planes, gliders, airships, ‘owt. Airships? I said Airships, all right. Hazards. We’ve got to put hazards out. Timber, bedsteads, old cars, ranges, anything you can lay your hands on. But that doesn’t include the cricket pitch, does it? We don’t have to put ‘owt on the cricket pitch, do we? It includes the bloody cricket pitch an’ all. But that’s not right. Bugger what’s right, it’s what’s got to be done. I get up, walk to the bar, and order another glass of beer. Some of them stop listening to the bobby and watch me. The bobby pretends nothing is happening. He continues to talk. It doesn’t make any difference that we’ve got Yanks here now. We’ve still got our job of work to do, is that clear? They nod. Dogs. He pulls out a piece of paper from his breast pocket. Latest orders for this branch of the Local Defence Volunteers. A chorus of dissent. Home Guard. We’ve been Home Guard for two bloody years now. Tank traps. We’ve got to prepare barricades on all roads leading into the village. Broken-down carts, tyres, junk of all kind is to be stationed by the side of the road, ready to be shifted into place. We’ll have ditches to dig and we’re to stuff them with barbed wire. I’m to carry a gun in case of parachutists. Also, those of you who own motor vehicles, you’re to immobilize them when parked. Remove the rotor arm or pull out the ignition leads. There’s no chances to be taken, understand? He pauses for a moment, and then scratches his head as though puzzled. I hand the barman elevenpence. Doesn’t seem any point to me, says the bobby. Pleasure motoring’s forbidden anyhow. Nobody’s going anywhere. This is all stuff that they’ve been doing in the south and other parts for a while now. Seems like they forgot about us. He blinks, takes a swig of beer, and then continues in a more formal voice. But now we’ve been told, we’ll act upon it. Any questions? I laugh as I walk back to my seat, but I manage to get a hand to my mouth. I catch it. Any questions? Sensible questions from this bunch I couldn’t imagine. One by one they troop out of the pub. Defeated by their own lack of imagination. I watch the sun go down. And think about Len. Sitting all alone in his cell. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. Then I realize that I don’t really care. Soon there is only myself, the barman, and two of the men in the pub. I close my eyes. Later, I realize that I must have fallen asleep, but they’d chosen to ignore me. I hear one of them whisper, She can’t take her drink. If I had twenty-three shillings I’d buy a bottle of whisky. Just to show them. But I don’t have it. And then I hear their joke. About the new utility knickers. One Yank and they’re off. Their language goes right through me. I pull myself to my feet. Goodnight. Goodnight, I call back.