The Women of Waterloo Bridge Read online

  ‘She had a scare when she read something about Ray’s battalion.’

  ‘But he’s…’

  Betty raised her hands then let them drop. ‘Hope so,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say that, Betty.’

  They looked away from each other, both of them determined not to set the other off.

  ‘Let me cut some bread,’ Betty said. ‘I’ll have a bit with you. By the way, before I forget, someone named Evelyn called round for you. Lovely girl.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Not sure, really. To see when you were going back to work, I think.’

  ‘I’d spoken to the gaffer about the time off.’

  ‘Anyway, we had a good chat.’

  ‘She stopped for a while?’

  ‘Well, she’d come quite a way.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Usual things. The war, the weather. She talked about dancing. I showed her photos of the kids. She feels for you. You’re lucky to work with someone so nice.’

  Gwen nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I am.’ Now she would have to tell Evelyn the whole story, something she’d been avoiding. She put her fingers in her mouth and started to nibble, something she hadn’t done the whole time she was in Wales.

  6

  December 1941 – March 1942

  Joan

  For ages Alice had been promising Joan a place in the large, end-of-terrace house where she roomed. Hazel’s Hostel, Alice called it. Alice had taken Joan to meet Hazel, who let her spare bedrooms out to single girls working in London. After a couple of wedding dates were cancelled due to suspension of all leave, one of the girls was at last able to get married and vacated her musty but clean and polished room, in which Joan now stood, suitcase in hand.

  The life had been beaten out of the square of fringed rug, diminishing rather than reviving its pattern; the floorboards around the faded carpet buffed with a good inch of beeswax. There was a funny, old-fashioned tallboy in one corner freshly painted in a muddy shade of green, the leftover paint used on the frame of the mirror that stood on top. Extra blankets were doubled over on the bottom of the bed, the turned and stitched bed sheet folded across plump pillows. On the wall, a group of smartly dressed picnickers, framed in dark wood, smiled out from their mat on the sand.

  Joan opened the embossed doors of the heavy wardrobe that dominated the room and hung the few things she’d brought with her. A navy coat, a black skirt, one white and one fawn blouse, a black jacket, two work shirts, dungarees. In the bottom of the wardrobe she lined up her work boots, lace-ups and black heels. Undergarments and nightclothes went in the drawers that didn’t stick. Book, notepad, pencil on the bedside table; soap, hairpins, lipstick, powder on the tallboy.

  It was a miserable day, cold and dreary. No sign of snow yet and not much rain, unlike this time last year. Joan unlatched the window and pushed up the sash. The garden was as well organised as the house. Stepping stones led to a vegetable plot along the back wall, resting and waiting for spring; a patch of grass was marked out on both sides of the path, brown shrubs and trees with bare branches around the perimeter. Surveying the room once more, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. Relief overwhelmed her; she had managed to get out three weeks before Mother could mark the year since that frightful episode with her sighing, her frequent hurt looks, and her nagging about Joan wasting time and talent on that horrid bridge.

  Turning on her side, she drew up her knees to her chest. An image of Ralph came into her mind, as it did many times every day. She missed him. It was almost unbearable at times, her yearning for his animal warmth and smell. The feel of his hands skimming over her, grabbing on to her hips, her breasts and thighs, each grasp tighter and firmer than the last. Opening herself to his thrusts and grunts. She had persisted in telling herself that she didn’t long for him and tried to make herself admit that she hadn’t really known him at all; but none of those ploys worked.

  She turned on her back and stared at the papered ceiling. So what was it, she wondered for the umpteenth time, that she had found attractive about Ralph, other than the idea that he wanted her which, she had to admit, was not a force easy to dismiss. She imagined Colin or Edward’s eyes looking at her, heavy with lust; their hands roaming her flesh, and she laughed out loud. They could not have ignited the same reactions in her by very dint of their lack of bearing and authority.

  Those were some of the qualities that had attracted her to Ralph along with the way he walked, talked, conducted himself, helped her on with her coat and off with her petticoat. His knowledge of politics, food and good wines, the habits he cultivated like coffee and the Financial Times at eleven, his deep-seated love of culture and all things cultured, the ardent way he had once or twice corrected the position of her elbow or the slant of her bow. And, she told herself, above everything else, it had been the knowledge that Mother would have found him the epitome of unsuitability.

  Climbing out of bed, Joan closed the window then slipped in between the cold sheet and eiderdown. She pressed her hands between her knees to warm them. She had longed for the time and quiet to think and consider, but now that she had it, she was working hard at keeping her most troublesome thoughts at bay. Waves of heat followed the cold. But the truth was she had derived a huge amount of pleasure and satisfaction from knowing that Mother would be disgusted with her choice of man and what she was doing with him. She wondered if spite was a recognised catalyst for passion.

  There was also the lightheaded, nascent hopefulness that short period of time had embodied as a possible escape route from Mother, who had been the reason for her wanton behaviour and the cause of all the heartache she had experienced.

  Had it been worth the pain, the loneliness, the rejection and humiliation she felt? ‘Yes,’ she whispered to the happy, innocent young people sipping wine and eating sandwiches in the picture above the chest of drawers, ‘it’s very sad but the answer is yes.’ She flared her nostrils and took in the chilly air of the simple, unheated room. And, she thought, I would do it again if it meant I could make Mother understand that I would no longer allow her to have control over me. And if it meant I could have Ralph back again.

  Then she sank into her pillow and felt a familiar sense of defeat. Whenever she thought she had stoked her determination to the point of iron fortitude, the tiniest bit of compassion, or perhaps it was tenderness for Mother, crept into her thoughts and unnerved her. That was the dilemma, and back and forth it went in a repetitive pattern. It had to be stopped – and to do that, Joan knew she had to be strong-willed and rigid in her approach.

  She reminded herself of the scene with Mother when she said she was leaving, and recalling it, Joan felt she was justified. ‘Moving, then.’ Leaving sounded so final. ‘It will be easier for work.’

  Mother’s jaw fell. ‘You couldn’t have an easier journey to Waterloo.’

  ‘It gets messy sometimes with shifts.’

  ‘You’re being pernicious and it doesn’t suit you.’ Mother looked around the house in astonishment. ‘How could you leave this for a shabby little room somewhere?’

  ‘It isn’t shabby, Mother,’ Joan said, collecting together what she could carry.

  Mother followed her around, whimpering and pleading. ‘At least wait until Christmas.’

  Joan shook her head. ‘I don’t want to lose the place.’

  ‘After everything you’ve lost, you’re worried about a bedsit.’

  Joan made it to the door without saying anything she would regret.

  Grabbing a pencil and notepad, Mother said, ‘Leave me your address, Joan dear. Please.’

  Joan hesitated; she didn’t want to be cruel. She scribbled on the paper. ‘The street isn’t difficult to find, but the house is tucked right up in the corner. A bit isolated even though it’s just off Streatham High Road.’

  Mother looked as though she was in shock. When Joan kissed her cheek and turned away, she was taken aback to feel tears on her own face. She wiped at t
hem hard with the heel of her hand; she couldn’t, after all, have stood it for a day longer.

  There was a light rap on the door, the nervous clearing of a throat. ‘Have you settled in, sweetheart?’

  Joan stood up, straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair. ‘Come in, Miss Talbot.’

  A woman of about fifty took a couple of steps into the room, as if she thought her presence might cause offence. She was very fair although there was a good scattering of white amongst the pale gold hair that was caught up in a low twist at the nape of her neck. Her skin was almost translucent and every part of it on show – hands, wrists, face, neck – was covered in a faint wash of freckles as if she’d been spattered with tan-coloured paint. She was heavy but moved with light, determined steps; always occupied, always busy. Feathery lines surrounded her mouth and grey eyes, especially when she smiled, like she did now. Joan thought she must have been lovely when she was younger. ‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’ Her voice sounded forced and formal.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not. But I’m glad it suits for now. You’ll let me know if you need anything?’

  Joan nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t forget. You can help yourself to tea and biscuits, if rations allow.’

  ‘What shall I do about my own rations?’ Joan looked around and encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. ‘I don’t want to keep food up here.’

  ‘Oh no, sweetheart. I’ll give you a cupboard in the kitchen, then you must feel free to do for yourself.’ She waved for Joan to follow her. ‘Or I’ll cook for you along with the others if you leave out the rations you want me to use. I’ll show you.’

  The kitchen was another room as worn by time and vigorous cleaning as the rest of the house. The last glimmer of watery winter sun shone through the spotless windows and fell on the scrubbed wooden table. Joan had thought Mother was house-proud, but not even she could have faulted Hazel’s housekeeping, although she would no doubt criticise the lack of ornament. Mother was much prissier in her tastes than Hazel. ‘This is your cupboard.’ Hazel stretched on her toes to reach above the sink. ‘I’ve washed it out, not that Mary left it dirty, you understand.’

  ‘I could have done that, Miss Talbot. But, thank you. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘You must call me Hazel, everyone does. And this—’ she indicated a small pile of food on the end of the sideboard ‘—is where you can leave the things you can’t use. I’ll make a jam tart with the flour and egg and mix the bully beef with some mash and a bit of onion. Then I’ll leave it for any of you who’s passing and hungry.’

  ‘That’s awfully nice of you.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have food going to waste, can we?’ Hazel said, sounding less diffident now. ‘That wouldn’t do.’

  Furrows appeared in Hazel’s forehead as she studied Joan for a moment. She felt sure Hazel wanted to say something more to her, enquire about some aspect of her demeanour. Probably the way she spoke or held herself; she was out of place on the bridge or in this type of accommodation. Whatever is a girl like her doing here, why ever is she working there? Joan knew that was what people were wondering. She also knew that the war made it difficult to ask too many questions. Anything was possible now, but people were still fascinated by the improbable. Thank goodness for Alice and her Bristolian dialect, much more puzzling and comment-provoking than her own plummy diction.

  Hazel looked away, as if aware she’d been caught staring, and started to fill the kettle. ‘Would you like a nice cuppa?’ she said. ‘Have it with me and Mummy in the parlour. There’s to be a special announcement on the wireless from Churchill.’

  During her initial visit, Joan had been introduced to Hazel’s mother, Ivy, who had been propped up in an overstuffed chair, blankets around her legs, dribbling from her drooping mouth onto a muslin cloth tucked under her chin. The sight had appalled her. Hazel was the last word in patience with her, so kind and thoughtful. If it ever came to it, Joan knew she couldn’t care for Mother in the same way, if at all. ‘Perhaps I’ll go back upstairs. Tidy my things. Alice shouldn’t be long, then we might go to the pictures.’

  Hazel looked let down. ‘Of course, sweetheart. Come and go as you please. But you’d be very welcome. Mummy loves company.’

  ‘Alright then, thank you.’ Joan thought she ought to try to get used to Ivy. ‘If you’re sure it’s not any trouble.’

  Averting her eyes, Joan threaded her way between the sideboard and footstool and around Ivy’s bed to place the tray she carried on a small table next to Ivy’s chair. Then she made for a seat out of Ivy’s line of vision.

  ‘Look, Mummy.’ Hazel pronounced every word with precision. ‘It’s Joan. Our new girl. She’s come to have tea with us. Isn’t that lovely?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Talbot. I’m very pleased to see you again.’

  Hazel beckoned for Joan to move closer. ‘Bring your chair up here, so Mummy can see and hear you,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s very taken with you.’

  Joan wondered how Hazel knew that, as there had been no reaction from Ivy. Not a flutter of a finger in greeting or the slightest inclination of her head. Joan did as she was asked, though, and drew alongside Ivy, slight and squashed in the folds of the huge chair. Hazel perched in front of her mother, daintily putting the teacup to the tremulous lips, breaking off minute pieces of eggless, fatless sultana cake for Ivy to savour.

  A scuffed wicker basket overflowing with knitting pins and wool nestled next to the fireplace. When Joan first met her, Hazel had been wearing a lemon cardigan with a yellow brooch pinned to it; today the combination was baby pink. Alice said that Hazel spent every evening sitting with her mother, knitting, and had a whole wardrobe of pastel knitwear. ‘She gives one to me,’ Alice had said. ‘But it were too tight so I gives it back.’ Joan supposed that having someone else to talk to was a change for both of them. Not that she was doing much of that.

  ‘This is Mummy’s favourite,’ Hazel said. ‘Isn’t it, Mummy? Mind you, she was always partial to a bit of cake, never mind what was or wasn’t in it. Isn’t that right, Mummy?’

  Joan was amazed at how Hazel kept up the banter, as if Ivy was aware of what was being said and was able to join in the conversation. Although when Hazel moved or turned to Joan, Ivy’s dull eyes followed her daughter around the room, like the eyes of the Mona Lisa she’d read about in an art journal.

  ‘Another cup, Joan?’ Hazel asked, wiping Ivy’s mouth.

  ‘One’s plenty. Thank you.’

  ‘And one’s enough for you, this late in the afternoon.’ Hazel addressed her mother. ‘Is that the time? Let’s tune the wireless. I’m afraid we’ve missed it today, Mummy. She does so like It’s that Man Again. Well, we both do. Do you listen to it?’

  Joan had heard it once or twice when Mother was out as she’d never allow it, but she’d found the humour difficult to follow. It was very popular; everyone on the bridge talked about it, so she was able to offer a catchphrase. She lowered her voice to sound like Jack Train. ‘“Don’t mind if I do.”’

  Hazel laughed. ‘She’s got it off pat, hasn’t she, Mummy?’

  ‘I should have said that when you asked if I wanted a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that other one I love? Oh yes.’ Hazel’s face twitched with mischief. ‘“Can I do you now, sir?”’

  Joan knew the character who said that: Mrs Mopp – and she speculated on how apt the idiom was for Hazel.

  Hazel played with the tuner until they heard the chimes of Big Ben. A grave voice announced the prime minister and Joan sat forward on her chair, her hands folded in her lap. She imagined the entire nation, like her, still and waiting. Churchill’s comforting voice broke through the crepitations. He told them about Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbour and the emergency summoning of Parliament. Joan took solace in the fact that Churchill said Parliament had responded quickly to attend to their duties, even though they were given short notice. She looked at Hazel from the corner of h
er eye and hoped she was thinking the same thing.

  A few of Mother’s friends had commented, after he was appointed, that Churchill spoke as if he were reciting poetry. Joan could see their point, but said his speeches were more musical than anything and Mother had agreed. During one of their white-flag moments, they had listened together for the staccato breaks, the cadences, the musical phrases, and congratulated themselves on their observations. She took note of them now, seeing before her the oration transposed into a musical score. And wondered if Mother was doing the same.

  Churchill was now reminding them of Britain’s pledge that, if the United States were to declare war on Japan, a British declaration to the same effect would follow promptly.

  ‘I don’t remember that, Mummy. Do you?’ Hazel looked puzzled. ‘When was that? Joan?’

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t a clue,’ said Joan. Hazel was solemn and, out of respect, Joan was loath to do anything but mirror the look on her face. Then as if by agreement, they both started to giggle.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I can’t keep up sometimes.’

  ‘It’s all terribly complicated.’

  ‘The War was enough for us. Who’d ever have thought it would all start up again so soon.’ She sighed and her face became sombre again. Alice had told her that Hazel often talked about the War, meaning the Great War and that sometimes it was difficult to get away from her once she started reminiscing.

  Together, they once again gave their full attention to Churchill. He had made a transatlantic telephone call to President Roosevelt to discuss the timing of their respective declarations, but had learned soon after that the Japanese had also attacked British territory in Malaya. Then he went on in detail about something complicated to do with the Japanese High Command and the Imperial Japanese Government. The gist of which seemed to be that the United States and Britain were now at war with Japan. In fact, the Cabinet had not waited for the American Congress and had decided to declare war on Japan immediately.