FEBRUARY 1944
Len was drunk. That’s not something I have to remember. Len was usually drunk. His arms and legs were moving at the same time. Like a machine. He made big circles and small circles. And like a machine Len struck every time. And then suddenly he was there, pulling Len away. He knocked him down with a punch. I watched Len’s mouth open and close, and these words. These ugly words coming from my husband. Len climbed to his feet, but again he was knocked to the ground. And then two more soldiers. His friends. They were trying to hold back the man who had rescued me. They were saying, no. Enough. Travis was holding Len by the throat. Len had fear in his eyes. Travis told him that if he ever laid a finger on me again, then he would be found somewhere in a ditch with an American bullet in him. Len had to be brave, so he continued to spit out his ugly words. But it was not really bravery. He just wanted to look brave. That was Len. But he wouldn’t say anything to me. He didn’t care enough about me to actually say anything to me. My friend. He is my friend. Maybe he cares too much. I didn’t feel I deserved this. To be rescued like this. Truly. To me it seemed strange.
MARCH 1944
Len has gone to his new job in the north. He’s said I can have the divorce. No point in squabbling about it. He reckons we should be able to get a special quick one, what with him having a record and everything. In the meantime, I’m to run the shop. He asked me if I would. I said yes. After the war he says he’ll come back. If I decide to leave before the war’s over, I’m to let him know. He’ll sell the shop. But meanwhile he gets a share of the profits. That’s Len’s way. There’s always something in it for him. Before he left he told me that I’m a traitor to my own kind. That as far as he’s concerned I’m no better than a common slut. And everybody in the village agrees with him.
JULY 1944
Today I checked to make sure. I was right. Pregnant women get extra concentrated orange juice. An extra pint of milk a day. An extra half-ration of meat a week. An extra egg (up to three a week). Free cod-liver oil. Free chocolate-covered vitamin tablets. And a baby.
8 MAY 1945
Today’s the day that everyone’s been waiting for, but it’s all confused. It’s over, but it’s not official. We know now that there will be no more sirens, searchlights, or blackouts. But somebody has to make it official. I spent the whole evening looking out of the window. At about ten o’clock, people began to give up and drift back inside. The street party will have to wait. Greer slept through all the excitement. Up above, the light, damp clouds have now begun to swell. It will bucket down all night.
9 MAY 1945
Churchill spoke at three p.m. He called it the people’s victory, but we all knew it was his. Churchill’s. At the end of his speech, there was loud cheering. Everybody spilled out into the street to enjoy the two days of holiday. The bunting meant something now, as did the Union Jacks and the portraits of Winnie. We had won the war. I put my hair up in a wrap and stepped out to join them. I held Greer and watched as they put on hats and sang. Then they danced the hokey-cokey and swilled down dandelion and burdock and ginger beer. I’d done my bit. I’d supplied them with their food. Some went off to church. The bells were ringing again. I hoped that at least one of them might remember Sandra. Others lit a bonfire, and on to it went army forms, and ration books; anything to do with the war. And there was a crude effigy of Hitler. That burned quickly. At nine p.m., the King made a speech in his usual stammer. I’d never had much time for these people, but it was moving. Some of them even spoke to me and smiled at Greer. Just before midnight, I took him inside, out of the evening chill.
1963
It was nearly four o’clock. I stared at Greer and longed for him to stay as dearly as I longed for him to leave. I’d explained that I thought he should go before the children came back. He said he understood. The silences had become more awkward, but at least they remained free of accusation. A handsome man. Yes, a man. No longer a baby. Or a boy. He got to his feet. I knew he would never call me mother. He could go, but would he come back? It wasn’t for me to ask him. I hadn’t asked him here in the first place. For eighteen years I hadn’t invited him to do anything. Not since the lady with the blue coat and maroon scarf. With her tiny dog named Monty. She was so wet you could pour her into a jug. My GI baby. No father, no mother, no Uncle Sam. It must go into the care of the County Council as an orphan, love. If you’re lucky, it might be legally adopted into a well-to-do family. Some are, you know. For weeks afterwards I wandered around the park looking at women pushing their prams. Their awkward babies screamed as though they’d tumbled straight from the womb and into these contraptions. For eighteen years I hadn’t invited Greer to do anything. Your father and I, Greer. We couldn’t show off. We had to be careful. And bold. We started a dance once. My God, I remember that. And for weeks afterwards, every time I thought of him I was sure my knees were going to give way. Then, later, they took him away from me, to Italy. I’d go to the cinema in the hope of seeing him. But they just showed the Tommies. Never the Yanks. And if they did, never the Coloureds. I once got two letters from him on the same day, and I didn’t know which one to open first. And then he came back on New Year’s Day, 1945. For the wedding. And now, I don’t even have a picture of him. I’m sorry, love. I destroyed everything. Letters, pictures, everything. When I met Alan. It seemed the right thing to do, but I was stupid. He spoke again. I’d better go now, he said. My God, I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to know that I did have feelings for him. Both then and now. He was my son. Our son.
NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1945
He came back on compassionate leave. The doctor had said I was having a breakdown and a baby. Just seventy-two hours, that’s all they’d given him, then he’d have to go back. I went down to town to meet him, but I nearly wept when I saw him getting off the train. He looked as thin as a door, and so tired. He didn’t have that bounce in his step. He didn’t have any joy in his face. Everybody stared at him. I think they must have felt sorry for him, bending under the weight of that bag on his back. He looked like the saddest man in the world. Even before I’d fallen pregnant, he’d asked me if we could get wed. At first I thought it was only the war talking, but eventually I told him yes, as soon as I was rid of Len. Maybe I was a bit worried that he’d leave me behind after the war. He’d already told me that we couldn’t live together in America. It wouldn’t be allowed. I thought getting wed would be a way of keeping him here. In England. As he walked towards me along the black length of the platform, with that slow stride and those hunched shoulders, I could see just how shattered he was. He had huge bags under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved for days. And then he saw me, and the child pushing at my coat. He stopped and stared. I could feel myself colouring over. And then he came right up to me, and I started to cry. The doctor was right, my nerves wanted building up. He let his bag fall to the platform. Joyce. That was all he said. Just, Joyce. I could see now, the gap in the middle of his teeth. At the bottom. And then he reached out and pulled me towards him. I couldn’t believe it. He’d come back to me. He really wanted me. That day, crying on the platform, safe in Travis’s arms.