JULY 1943
Yesterday they arrested Mussolini. The BBC announcer said that Hitler’s ‘utensil’ had fallen off the Axis shelf. I was sitting in the pub by myself when the news came through. The landlord got out the monthly ration of whisky to celebrate what he said looked like the end. He offered me some, but I said no. Then he said that the Yanks would probably have to go over to Italy to clean up. He said he’d miss them. I felt a door closing inside of me. I looked up at him. He asked me again if I wanted a whisky. I nodded. He knew what he’d said. At least I have to give him that. It was still bright out, so I walked home the long way round to give myself some time to think. As I passed the church hall it occurred to me just how difficult it is to come by cosmetics, nail files, hair grips and the like. I’d never had much reason to fret over them before. Such things had never mattered. But now I found myself thinking that I could kill for a bar of scented soap.
JULY 1943
There are some girls from the town who seem to have no shame. Some factory girls, some plain common tarts, mainly bottle-blondes, all of them with legs like Grecian columns. They’ve started to frequent the camp. Apparently, some of them even spend the night there, and they go far beyond furtive clutching. He told me that nylons, nail varnish, perfume and the like, all these things that they can get from the PX, this stuff is known to them as ‘shack-up’ material. He said this is why he’d never offered me any, but clearly his mates weren’t so fussy. It appears that some girls will do anything for goods or provisions. Since soap and sweets went on coupons, things must have got worse. I heard a woman in the shop today saying that there are some of them up there at the camp who’ll let loose for a fresh orange. She went on. After all, you can only eat so much Spam. She said, These days sex is about the only thing that isn’t rationed. She reckoned that this went some way towards accounting for the diseases that they say are going around.
DECEMBER 1943
Len came back today. He told me that he still loves me. He’d had time to think things over. I might not realize it yet, but the truth was that in spite of everything, he couldn’t help himself, he loved me. I liked that. In spite of everything. Bloody charming. That made me feel really wanted. But I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him standing in front of me, looking around his kingdom. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he felt about me being in his place. But I wasn’t going anywhere. He could look all he wanted to, but this was also my place now. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it. But he said nothing. So I spoke. Len, I said. I don’t want to live with you as man and wife. What do you mean? His look said that. Nothing else. Just, what do you mean? I mean, one of us will be sleeping on the settee in future. I don’t really mind who. I don’t care. Len sat down. In fact, he half sat, half collapsed. Then he began. I hear there’s talk about you and an American. I knew there would be talk. In fact — I shouldn’t say this — I had been hoping that Len might find out. I knew it was cruel. But what could I do? It’s how I felt. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to find some awkward way of telling him. Yes, I’ve got a friend, I said. Now it was my turn to sit. I faced him, and passed him the torch of conversation. He could say whatever he wanted to say. And so he did. I don’t think you should have friends like that. It makes a bloody fool out of me. I laughed. And getting put inside. Getting yourself carted off to jail doesn’t make me look like a bloody fool, is that it? Len stood up. He pushed his finger into my face. He jabbed at me to punctuate his sentences. You won’t see him, or any of ‘em. You won’t go to town, to the pub, have them in here, talk to them, nothing, as long as I’m here. I’d never have married you, or taken you out of that bloody slum, if I’d known you were going to behave like a slut. Now am I making myself clear? Yes, Len, I say. You’re making yourself perfectly clear. But I won’t have any of it. It’s not for me to say what you do, any more than it is for you to talk to me in this way. His poor jaw dropped. I’m your bloody husband. Yes, I said. You’re my bloody husband. In name only. His fist caught me across the left side of my face. I could feel the swelling right away. As though somebody was puffing up my face like a balloon. And then he kicked me in the stomach and I doubled up. I’m your bloody husband whether you like it or not. Not in name, you slut. In fact. In law and in fact. Now, like I told you. We’re leaving. I’ve got work north of here. We’re selling the shop. It’s half mine, I gasped. And we’re not selling. I didn’t see why I should have to bother with this conversation. So I said nothing further. We’re leaving, said Len. I remained silent. Do you hear? A piece of coal fell, and for a few seconds the fire blazed as the unburned coal caught. It made a crackling, definite noise. We both stared at the fire. For a moment we were caught by its performance. Then we looked at each other. I knew he wouldn’t touch me again. He’d made his point. And then there was the shame. I suspect there’s always a certain amount of shame involved for all men. After they’ve thrown the punch. They look and see you cowering. And the thought crosses their mind that perhaps they ought not to have done this. That perhaps this is not a proper way to hold a conversation. They’re sorry. It’s pitiful. I looked at him and dared him to continue to talk to me. I dared him to hit me again. But he wouldn’t. I knew this, but I taunted him with my silence until he left for the pub.
DECEMBER 1943
Half an hour after he left, it became clear to me what I should do. I pulled on my coat. I was in a hurry. I closed in the door behind me and began to walk briskly towards the pub. I looked up. The moon was wrapped in a thick and heavy fog, and I was cold so I started to run. It was Friday night and I was sure that they would all be there. I was sure of it. I opened the door to the pub and all eyes were on me. I walked in and stopped. The place was full. My heart was pounding away and I couldn’t catch my breath. Len saw me. He frowned. He might as well just look on, I thought, because I’m in the pub and I’m not going anywhere. He was sitting in the corner with his friends. So I went over and sat next to him. I think he must have already realized that the strange man in the pub was my husband. But he didn’t do anything. Except reach up and touch my face. What happened? I didn’t say anything. I just looked across at Len. Why? Now I looked back at Travis. His friends fired questions. Her old man beat her up? Because of you, man? They tried to ask without making things uncomfortable for me. Then they remembered. One of them asked me if I’d like a drink. Like a drink, Joyce? I don’t think I do. This is what I said. That I didn’t think I did, thank you. And so I waited for a while. But I could see that I was making them uneasy. I got up and decided to go. Travis stood and said that he would walk with me. No, I said. Again I glanced purposefully at the husband. Then I left. Before I did so, I touched his hand. I just wanted you to know. These were my parting words. But know what? I thought.