East End Angel (37 page)

The living room was freezing. She put a match to the fire she had prepared last night and soon the coals began to glow red. Thanks to her dad’s five pounds, there was enough coal to see them through Christmas.

She stared into the flames. This year Christmas would be their first family Christmas. She had enough put by for a chicken or rabbit, plenty of gravy and roast potatoes. She would cook them until they were brown and crusty, just how he liked them. This caused her to think of Mrs Nesbitt, who she hadn’t seen lately. But now Jim was home perhaps things could be different and they could visit as a family.

Through a chink in the blackout curtains she saw it was still dark. Her mind was full of Jim as she returned to the kitchen and sat at the Morrison. Would he be able to climb up the stairs? How bad were his wounds? And when would Ruby come out of hospital? She hoped her mum would write and tell her all the news.

Restless again, she sat by the fire. Closing her eyes, she began to dream of the future and how it was going to be . . .

With a start, Pearl opened her eyes. The warmth of the fire had made her doze off. She rubbed her cheeks and blinked and thought she was dreaming as she looked up at the tall man in the army greatcoat leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. ‘J–Jim?’ she stammered, lifting her head from the cushion.

‘Don’t move. I want to look at you.’

Pearl felt a lump in her throat so big she couldn’t swallow. In the firelight she saw a stranger standing there, his face hollowed and gaunt, his body twisted at an unfamiliar angle. But then she looked into his eyes and at their deep colour, which hadn’t been tarnished by war. It was her Jim. It was!

They kissed long and hard, hungry kisses that drove everything from his mind – the war, the death, the suffering, the pain and the fear of more pain. Jim wasn’t even aware of his crutch slipping to the floor with a clatter, and the slight tremble running through his wife’s body as she gripped him, her lips burning on his and not a breath taken between them. For years he had imagined this moment; in the dust and filth and cries of the dying, he had imagined Pearl and her body and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He swayed slightly as his head throbbed, his muscles arched and contracted in need, and his gut turned over and seemed to sail from one side of his body to another. If he let her go, if she slipped out of his arms, if he woke up from this dream . . .

Jim, Jim . . . let me breathe! I ain’t gonna run away.’ She was half laughing and he groaned softly, embarrassed at his tight hold.

‘Sorry . . . sorry . . .’

‘Don’t be. Oh, Jim, I can’t believe it’s you.’

‘It’s me, all right.’ His laughter was awkward as he damped down the desire, the animal need of a man on the brink.

‘Come and sit down.’

He let himself be helped, but he was grateful to clutch the back of the couch and steady himself.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it, not the return of the victorious hero, straight-backed and gung ho, as the films had portrayed before the war. Now he was having to grit his teeth, torn by the want inside him and the knowledge that half of him was no man, a leg he dragged, that caused him to cuss and blind, and then be ashamed of himself when he saw others who were worse. He’d seen plenty of those – the crippled and maimed that still filled his thoughts – and, if given half a chance, he’d chisel out the part of his brain that threw up the unwelcome reminders.

He leaned painfully and eased himself down as he’d been taught by the nurses, an old man’s action that he hated with all his heart. When seated he stretched out the stiff limb, tore his eyes back to his wife.

‘Blimey, gel, so this is what the old place looks like.’ He glanced around the darkened room, lit only by the shadows of fire. ‘Christ knows there’ve been times I never thought I’d clock it again.’

‘I ain’t even put the light on. Or dressed. Or brushed me teeth.’

He took her in his arms, hiding the grimace that shadowed the pain. ‘Your pearlies are sparkling, sweetheart. And in the dark you ain’t gonna get a shock looking at your old man.’

‘Jim, what happened to your leg?’

‘Put it like this. I won’t be going for no long runs just yet.’ He nodded to the wooden crutch on the floor. Its top was covered by dirty old cloth that eased the discomfort as he leaned. ‘I gotta use that thing to get me along.’

‘Will it get better?’

‘Dunno. Gotta see the doc about that.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Too bloody right it does. Got stiff in the van that brought me home. There was two other blokes, all of us was in hospital together.’

‘Hospital? Where?’

‘Southampton. But they ran short of beds, so the VADs were brought in. Suited me, though. Didn’t matter what time of night it was when we left, as long as I got home. But listen, I’ll tell you me morbid ’istory later. Right now, I want to see our nipper.’

Pearl threw her arms round him. ‘Jim, she’s lovely! We’ve got a beautiful daughter!’ He smelled her hair, her body, her breath, and he kissed her again, so hard that it didn’t seem to matter for a moment that he wasn’t the man he used to be. Slowly he held her away. ‘I want you bad, Pearl, but let me see her first.’

This time, he accepted her assistance as she linked his arm round her shoulder. He kicked his crutch dismissively from their path as he hobbled to the hall, attempting to carry his weight on his good leg.

‘I’m a right old hop-along,’ he joked, inwardly squirming at his disability. ‘You’ll need to give me a good kick up the arse to get me going.’

She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Jim, you ain’t changed.’

He wanted to tell her he had. Oh God, he’d changed in a thousand ways on the battlefield. He’d killed rather than be killed. He’d slaughtered in anger and passion, and he’d ended the lives of men that he hadn’t even known. Men who were no more than boys, and others with wives and kids, just like he had Pearl and little Cynth. But instead, he took her face in his hands.

‘I love you, Pearly-girl.’

‘And I love you, Jim.’

‘Come on then, push open that door.’

He remembered it was the boxroom where they stored all the junk. But in the weak light that trickled down from the living-room fire, he saw a small bed sheltering a child’s shape, curled and still under the covers.

‘Is that her?’ His voice trembled.

‘It’s our Cynth.’

‘I must be dreaming,’ he rasped, too full of emotion to let himself cry. Though he wanted to. He wanted to shed the tears that for once were of joy and came from a life-giving source. ‘Can we go a bit closer?’

They shuffled in and his heart beat a tattoo on his ribs. He saw her in the dark, a tiny head, a hand outstretched, heard the soft, regular breathing and he swallowed the sob in his throat.

‘Do you want to sit on the chair, love?’

‘No, she’s asleep, ain’t she?’

‘I could wake her . . . slowly, like.’

‘That wouldn’t be fair.’ Jim stared in fascination, bittersweet joy and a deep knowing that he’d missed the best thing that God ever created: the birth of his first-born and her first two years of growing up.

*    *    *

Pearl lay in bed, her body bathed in a golden glow. She knew this feeling only came as a result of being truly loved. Before Jim had gone away, the physical side of their marriage had been passionate, with all their tiffs ending between the sheets. But now their lovemaking was something different. Despite Jim’s hip and thigh being covered by bandages – or, perhaps, because of it – and the fact that he’d been self-conscious of the way he’d had to get into bed, holding on to the headboard and dropping slowly down with his leg outstretched, they had laughed at their awkwardness.

But after the laughter, she’d seen the pain on his face as he tried to make love to her as he once had. But it wasn’t until she’d told him it didn’t matter, that she just wanted to be held, that his kisses had grown tender. Finally they had found a way and at last he’d wrapped her in his arms and exhaustion had taken them both.

Now he was in a deep sleep beside her. The dawn was showing through the chink in the blackout and she longed to see him. Slowly, she slipped from the bed, glancing back as he groaned in his sleep. She paused, waiting for him to settle, then reached the window and separated the curtains.

One muscled arm lay over his chest. A chest that she had kissed and caressed and that was now streaked with scars. She shivered at the thought of what had caused them and bent to lift her nightdress, abandoned so carelessly on the floor.

Her body tingled as she went to the jug and poured water into the bowl. Quietly she washed, not wanting to wake him. Taking her dressing gown, she left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

In the kitchen she looked out on the grey Saturday morning. The roofs of the houses were just the same as they always were: smoke-strewn and battered, with tiles missing and gutters blackened above the Anderson shelters. Not a green shoot existed, except on the piles of rubble and debris. There were no birds, only gulls, swooping and diving.

How was it possible to love this place so much? It was just as the old saying went: home is where the heart is. How true that was.

‘Blimey, it ain’t, is it?’ Gwen dropped the potatoes she was about to weigh on the scales and opened her arms to the man standing in the shop door. ‘Jim Nesbitt! You’re home!’

She ran round the counter and hugged him. ‘Oh, love, when did you get back?’

‘In the early hours,’ Jim told her, with the same grin on his face that she remembered. But his grin was about the only thing that was the same. One shoulder was higher than the other under his duffel coat. He was thin as a rake, and leaned on a crutch, the bags under his eyes so big they looked like bruises. His sandy hair had turned grey at the sides and was cut short, almost to his scalp. He’d been such a fine fellow of a man, with hair a woman would give her eyeteeth for. Gwen did her utmost to disguise her shock.

Fitz came in from the back of the shop. ‘Jim, you old son of a gun!’

‘Hello, mate.’

Gwen watched her husband take hold, grasping first the crutch, then seeing his mistake, hugging Jim with apologies.

‘Don’t take no notice of this,’ Jim joked. ‘It’s me new cricket bat.’

‘How are you?’ Gwen knew this was a daft question but it had to be asked.

‘I done all right, Gwen, compared to some.’

‘How you gonna manage them stairs?’

Jim chuckled. ‘On me bum, I reckon.’ He shuffled over to the counter. ‘No, it’s good practice. Strengthens me leg muscles. Now quick, before Pearl and Cynth come down, can you give me an ounce of liquorice or something? I want to surprise me daughter.’

Gwen nodded. ‘I’ll sort you out something. Jim, what do you think of your little girl?’

‘She’s a cracker. And didn’t mind this.’ He pointed to the crutch. ‘Thought she might be afraid when she first saw it. But Pearl’s been telling her all about her daddy; showed her me ugly mug enough times. She sat on me lap to eat her porridge, good as gold. Drew me a picture on the Morrison and gave me a blooming great kiss that brought tears to my eyes.’

‘Tell you what, Jim, she’s a bright kid,’ said Fitz, as Gwen tipped a few cough candies into a bag. They were pre-war, kept for emergencies, and this seemed to be one of them.

‘Don’t take after her old man, then,’ grinned Jim, and Gwen noticed he leaned heavily on the counter.

‘Go on with you.’ She gave him the bag. ‘Look out, they’re coming.’

Gwen watched as little Cynth ran in and caught hold of her daddy’s hand. If Jim still had his hair and his good looks, they’d be the spit of each other. There were smiles all round and a neighbour came in and slapped Jim on the back. Gwen saw the sparkle in Pearl’s eyes that had been missing for so long.

To her mind, it was a bloody good job that Ruby and her old man were out of the picture. Pearl fretted far too much over Ruby. And Gwen didn’t care at all for her stuck-up other half. He didn’t seem like Jim’s type, so with a bit of luck, this little family would have time to themselves. Though by the look of that leg it was going to be slow going. Still, they were young. And if anyone could laugh at himself and at life, it was Jim Nesbitt.

Pearl couldn’t have felt happier. They had all walked up to the corner of West Ferry Road, very slowly for Jim’s benefit. Stopping at the park, he’d given Cynth a push on the swings, then found a bench where he could sit and watch. He’d cheered his daughter on and even managed to grab her as she fell on the grass. His disability hadn’t affected his sense of humour. He was the same Jim, wisecracking and making his wife and daughter laugh. Cynthia loved her dad, sitting astride his crutch as though it was a hobbyhorse. Jim’s eyes had creased in laughter. And when they’d come home, Pearl had made pie and mash, and drowned it in gravy. Jim’s had stared in disbelief at the meal before him.

Now they were sitting in front of the fire, Cynth fast asleep and Jim’s arm around her shoulders. There was so much to be said, yet neither of them wanted to begin.

Pearl laid a gentle hand on her husband’s thigh. ‘Does it hurt when I touch there?’

‘I wouldn’t complain if it did,’ he grinned.

She snuggled up. ‘Can you tell me about it?’