FEBRUARY 1943
Two of them came into the shop this morning. One tall one. One not so tall one, but he wasn’t short either. Far from it. They were both quite stocky, and both of them were polite. After all this time, they still seem surprised at how cheap things are. One woman told me I ought to put up the prices for them. She said Len would have. I said I know. But look where Len is now. I didn’t tell her this last bit, though. They both took their caps off. And then they asked me to a dance they’re having on Saturday. Asked me politely. Well, I can’t dance, I told them. You’ll learn, said the tall one. He smiled. We’ve got our own band, ma’am, said the other one. You hear us play, you can’t help but dance. He laughed. So I laughed too. Then we were all laughing. A dance, I said. On Saturday, said the tall one.
OCTOBER 1939
Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and thought to myself, bloody hell. What have I done? I’ve come back to this village with Len, after marriage, after Wales, after being lost. And I’m married now. For nearly a month. A wife. In this bleak and silly little village that’s filled with its own self-importance. The only relief I have from this place is when I travel down to see my mother, whose sole occupation in life seems to be to make me feel guilty. A guilt I’m determined to resist. I stare at her as she lies in bed. She’s taken to her bed as a permanent place of refuge. I stare at her and listen as she talks incessantly about the phony war. You’ve been listening to the wireless, haven’t you, Mother. She ignores me and continues in her own vein. About how she’ll not be digging for victory and growing cabbage and onions. About how, although nothing has happened as yet, they’ll soon be coming home in boxes like in the last war. It’ll happen, she keeps saying. She pauses, then starts up again. She can’t be bothered with her gas mask, she says. All that spitting on the mica window to stop it from steaming up. And it smells, of rubber and disinfectant. I don’t tell her that most people have stopped carrying them around. That the novelty has worn off. If you’d have stayed down here you’d have been in Air Raid Precautions, I suppose. WVS, for you. Do you have it up by you? I shake my head. I expect that’s why you went, isn’t it. Nothing much to do up there except knit socks for the troops. I don’t rise to her. Whenever I do she just snaps and tells me not to use Latin in front of her. So I don’t bother. She goes on. But meanwhile, they make us live in the dark like bloody bats. It’s ridiculous. Anderson shelter? Two bits of bent steel stuck in the mud, not fit for a pig to wallow in. And nobody’ll be hanging out any washing on the Siegfried Line, you mark my words. She knows I’m not really listening to her but she doesn’t care. She just likes to have somebody to talk to. Somebody whom she feels it will be all right to bore. She feels she has a right to bore me. I’m her daughter. And then she falls asleep and I have to make my way up the hill on that long, slow bus journey back, to the village. It is pretty. I have to give it that. The view from the road, just outside the village, carries all the way across the moors. Well, you’d have to be blind or stupid not to notice that in its own way it’s grand. Nothing but green fields and small villages for miles. But then entering our village is like coming into a tunnel. You can’t see anything except small houses dotted on either side of the road. And then a big church. A small pub. A nob’s hall. Our shop. Some more houses. And so this is my home now. God help me. Maybe I was better off in the warehouse. If I’ve thought this once I’ve thought it a million times. But then again, I always say to myself, it’s probably just the war. Nothing can look good to anyone in the war. Let’s be honest. It’s not a great time for anybody. They say that eventually there’ll be serious shortages. We’ll see.
DECEMBER 1939
I’ve made a friend. Sandra. She’s just had a kid. A boy, Tommy. I don’t know if she thought calling him Tommy was funny or something. I’ve never mentioned it. Her husband has already been called up and gone off. He lives in a photograph on the mantelpiece. There are two leaves to the frame. In the other leaf is a poem: To My Dear HusbandWhere’er you are my Husband true,In these war-troubled days,My loving thoughts go out to youIn countless kinds of ways.God keep you, Dear, where’er you roam,And bring you, one day, safely home.
That’s all that’s left of him at present. This picture and when she talks about him. Which she doesn’t do all that much. She invited me over for tea. I can see you’re a bit lost around here. And Len. Well, he’s not the type to go out of his way to introduce you around, now is he. She used to work for Len in the shop. But then she fell pregnant and got wed. I think it was in that order. She offered me a treat. Two Rich Tea biscuits. I expect you have plenty of these in the shop whenever you want them, but for me it’s a treat. It’s a big thing. Don’t get much sweet stuff these days. She sat me down. They say people are queuing in town, trying to beat the system. And that doctors and dentists are hard to come by. Not just panel ones, private too. And that some people are getting mail a week late. I looked at her and wondered if Len had only come after me because he needed somebody to replace her in the shop. Maybe I’m being a bit silly, I thought. Maybe I’m reading too much into everything. I don’t know. At least I’ve made a friend. Sod Len and his pencil-thin moustache. He’s happy now that he’s got some mug to work for him in the shop. He’s happy now that he’s able to leave me in the shop and go to the pub with his mates. Are you listening to me, love? Sandra stared at me. You do tend to dream a, little, don’t you. I’ve been wondering if I should grow my hair like Veronica Lake. Or if I should just stick to the normal two and sixpenny shampoo and set. I smiled at her. They censor my husband’s letters, can you believe that? The kid started to cry. Tommy. Tommy started to play up. She picked it up and held it in her arms. Then she rocked it back and forth until it began to gurgle like it was choking. Tommy’s laughing, she said. Here, do you want to hold him? I held up the Rich Tea biscuit. I’d love to, but I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Got any of your own, have you? Sandra’s not much past twenty or so. About my age. I could see that now. Don’t look like that, she said. I had to get married and get started. Women in my family go off early. But you’ve plenty of time yet. Nice of her to say it. Polite of her. She looked sad now. You don’t know what it’s like when the postman passes the door. The day is ruined. Absolutely ruined. She’s the only person I know in the village apart from Len. Long, thin, blonde hair. At first I thought I saw blackened roots, then I realized she was just in some shadow. Why do I have to be so bloody critical? So what if she bleaches her hair? What business is it of mine? I think I’m jealous of her looks. But I do want to be generous to her. Len is a quiet bloke, she says. In his own way he’s kind, but it’ll take you a while to get to know him properly. Now I resent her. I don’t like being told about my own husband. But she feels as though she’s helping me. Len hasn’t bothered to introduce me to anybody. After all, Sandra has taken it upon herself to come into the shop and find me. A lot of the other girls have gone, she says. There are not many of us left. ATS, munitions work, they’ve nearly all gone. But some Land Army Girls are due to come here. And then there’s us. Mothers. I’m not a mother, I say. Sandra smiles. But I suppose working in the shop is vital work, isn’t it? They won’t put you in the factories, will they? No, I say. I’ve been classified. Len’s disabled. He can’t manage by himself, so I’ll not be going in the factories. Well, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better, then. I’m glad there’s somebody around like you. I thought it’d only be me and a few others. And to be honest, most of them are just interested in your business. They’re not interested in you, just in what you’re up to. I don’t have much time for that. Neither do I, I said. Neither do I. She looked at me funny. My mind started to race. I’d been looking right at her. Perhaps she thought I meant her. I couldn’t think of anything to say which would convince her that I wasn’t talking about her. So I just smiled back. I looked at her with a stupid grin painted on my face. I’m sorry, I said to myself. I don’t know how to behave. I like you. I’ve never been much good with people. She handed Tommy to me. Then she went to fill the kettle again. I knew she was watching me from the kitchen, watching me holding her child, worried that I might do something daft with him. I held him awkwardly. And then I heard the water splashing against the enamel as she started to fill the kettle. But I knew that she was still watching me. I turned around and she beamed at me. Had enough of Tommy? she asked. No. I held Tommy close to me. I’ll be all right.