Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
London, September 1945
An ancient alleyway two
doors away from the house led to the bridge across the fetid canal and to the station.
They’d made their way here early, not wishing to be late. From the platform, holding
Penny’s hand close beside her, Isabel could see into the back garden of her home.
From that angle it appeared eerily alien; a place where a stranger lived. But this
had been her home for most of the war. They had been evacuated for a few months
in 1941, with Penny still a baby. They’d been billeted in the country somewhere
in Yorkshire, but Isabel, a city girl at heart, hated it. Homesickness struck her
and she missed her family. Her dour hosts had considered their guest flighty and
much too concerned with her appearance even though she made herself useful around
the farm; milking and mucking out the cows, and looking after the hens. A minor
dispute ended in bitter recriminations and after a mere six weeks in the country
Isabel returned to London. She would rather take her chances against the bombs than
stay where she was not appreciated.
‘A couple of old skinflints,’
she told Doris. ‘Wouldn’t let us have any butter, insisted we used that horrible
marge, even though I was milking the bloody cows for them!’
The housing shortage, due
to the bombing, meant that there was little choice of homes for a mother of one.
Bill was outraged at the ordinariness of the little house she ended up with; not
at all what he was accustomed to.
‘I can’t have a wife of
mine living in a place like this!’ he’d said when he first saw it, during his brief
leave shortly after Penny’s first birthday.
‘A wife of mine,’ mimicked
Isabel. ‘How many wives have you got? Anyway, don’t be silly; we were lucky to get
it. And that was only because George knows someone on the housing committee. I’m
very lucky that I didn’t have to go back to live with Mum. It’s perfect for us,
near the family. I’ll soon make it nicer. I think we’re lucky, we could have ended
up in a Bump-your-Head.’
Many homeless families
were billeted in these pre-fabricated buildings – constructed mainly of asbestos
sheeting and corrugated iron, whose curved ceilings seemed so low that they were
given this descriptive name. They were only supposed to be a temporary measure until
better accommodation became available, but Isabel knew people who had already lived
in one for years. Some people ended up in converted railway carriages, marooned
in sidings, like long caravans, and they seemed to enjoy this bizarre way of life.
‘You can make them quite
cosy,’ someone assured her.
Isabel and Penny had survived,
which was more than could be said of many people. Isobel shuddered at the memory
of the relentless bombing, the lives that had been lost. A neighbour, Mrs Stephens,
and all four of her children died one night in a devastating, random act of violence
that had hardly affected anyone else in the street except for a few broken windows
and cracked plaster. It seemed completely arbitrary; it could have been any one
of the houses in the road. How sorry they felt for her husband, still serving somewhere
on the Eastern Front and not aware of the tragedy.
For Isabel it was just a matter of waiting; waiting
for the War to end and for Bill to come home. At least she had known that he was
safe. As an intelligence officer he never served at the front line, in the way of
indiscriminate death. She had never been forced to experience that paralyzing fear,
like an intractable pain, that she witnessed afflicting other wives terrified that
their husbands would never return, that the telegram changing their lives forever
would one day be thrust into their hands by the embarrassed telegraph boy.
She travelled up to Kensington
on the train to do her shopping, leaving Penny with Doris for the day. She visited
Barkers
, the genteel department store
patronised by her mother-in-law when she wasn’t in
Harrods
. Not without a pang of remorse at the expense, four guineas
altogether, as well as over two hundred clothes coupons, Isabel bought a suit, in
lovely cornflower-blue wool; skirt and jacket and a saucy hat, fine black straw
with a pretty curved brim and a red ostrich feather that curved vivaciously over
one eyebrow. How lucky to have such a generous family, thought Isabel as she stroked
the fabric of the skirt down over her slim hips.
'Give over, Bella,’ they
said before she went, 'we're not going anywhere in particular. No need for us to
dress up. You buy yourself something nice. You deserve it. '
The preparations for Bill’s
return nearly wore them out. But the little rented house sparkled, the larder bulged
with festive food and Isabel knew she looked as well turned out as she could in
the circumstances. I don’t want him to think I’ve been letting myself go whilst
he’s been away, she thought.
All prepared; at last the
day arrived. Isabel and Penny bathed and preened, preparing themselves for the reunion.
Anticipation and euphoria almost took their breath away. Penny was caught up in
the whirlwind of her mother’s energy, her small frame so taut with excitement that
she tended to burst into fits of giggles for no reason at all and dance around in
circles with her waving arms outstretched like a frenzied bird.
‘You’re daft as a brush,
you are,’ Isabel laughed.
In a flurry they caught
the sooty train to Victoria. They had a compartment to themselves, insulated from
the world. Isabel chatted to Penny all the way, happier and more vital than she
had been in ages. Her eyes sparkled and her fair, clear skin glowed under a thin
layer of Coty powder.
‘You’re looking lovely,
Bella,’ shouted Jim, the stationmaster, an old friend. ‘Going to meet the old man?’
‘Yes,’ Isabel called back.
‘He’s coming into Victoria.’
The wooden doors of the
train carriage banged closed behind them and they attempted to relax on the itchy
seats. The compartment had a door at each end from which you could step directly
onto the platform at your destination; no corridor ran from end to end of the carriage.
Black and white photographs of English seaside resorts in earlier times decorated
the walls of the compartment, between the seats and the luggage racks, whose twine
mesh hung down resembling an abandoned collection of string bags. The ladies in
the photos wore long dresses with bustles and large feathered hats. On the beaches
stood wooden wheeled bathing machines to protect the modesty of the lady bathers.
The feather on her own
hat bobbed and waved as Isobel told Penny all about the times before the War. How
she had met her father; their life together. Penny had heard it all before but never
tired of listening to the stories.
‘London was such a thrilling place then, Penny,
beautiful, before the bombs. Glamorous and gay. Nightclubs, restaurants, dancing.
We’d go to the theatre and out to dinner with friends. The Trocadero, Quaglinos,
Simpsons, even the Savoy sometimes if we were feeling flush. Daddy and I had some
wonderful times.’
Her face glowed with the memory of their unforeseen
happiness. A bubble of elation built in her stomach, almost making her feel nauseated.
She could hardly contain her excitement. Soon she would be reunited with Bill, after
all this time. Everything would be all right again. The journey flew by and
they soon reached Victoria station.
The smoky terminus swarmed
with humanity. Demobilisation from Europe began sluggishly in July and soldiers
in the first groups were arriving home; those who had been in the forces for the
longest; often those who volunteered in the early days of the War. Bill was not
one of those being demobbed, however; he had to return to his new posting after
this leave.
How on earth are we going to find Bill in this
crush? Isabel thought. Crowds of soldiers began to alight from trains, bent with
tiredness and burdened with heavy kit like punch bags balanced on their shoulders
as well as back-packs and other baggage. They all looked very similar in their uniforms,
how could you pick out an individual in this crowd? The waiting families surged
forward in a great wave. Many of them quickly found their loved ones and drew them
into their embraces.
Cries of joy, kisses and hugs; laughter and tears.
Safe home from the War! Men, relief and joy written on their features, jumped onto
the platforms and swarmed around the station, searching for familiar faces. When
they found their families they swung the pretty ladies in their new clothes off
their feet; clasped the children in their arms; greeted their siblings with embarrassed
kisses. They kept coming in joyous waves. But Bill wasn’t amongst them.
At one point Isabel saw
a man in a Captain’s uniform that resembled him and she ran up. ‘Bill, Bill…’ she
called, her hand outstretched to touch him, but when the man turned around it was
a stranger, smiling apologetically. She dropped her arm and moved away, disappointment
a deadening weight on her heart.
They waited until the last
wooden doors slammed, the heavy latches clicked into place and the trains began
to shunt away. They were not the only disappointed ones, the ones who slowly and
reluctantly turned to go home without their sweethearts and husbands, not quite
believing that there was no-one there for them to greet.
The journey home seemed longer and much, much slower.
Isabel sat in a dejected huddle gazing blindly out of the sooty window. Penny found
nothing to say but huddled up against her mother on the seat whose rough surface
irritated her bare legs. Isabel stared out of the window, her face drawn. The ugly
rear walls of the suburban houses, stained with railway soot, stared back. Occasionally
there yawned a great gap where a bomb had demolished a few, the edges of torn wallpaper
poignant against the shattered brick. Broken shards of abandoned furniture, banisters
wrenched from their moorings, staircases hanging precariously in open space. Empty
gaping fireplaces that would never see a comforting blaze again; the remnants of
a human tragedy.
Gazing at this scene, Isabel
remembered how it had ended. The killing and terrifying bombing had continued almost
to the end of the war. Towards the end ‘doodle-bugs’, as they called them, the dreaded
V2 rockets, terrified them more than anything. They whizzed silently out of the
skies until they emitted a high-pitched whistle before they hit their target. It
all finished in March when a rocket hit a block of flats in the East End. About
nine hours later another burst harmlessly in Kent. That was the end of them, to
everyone’s extreme relief.
For four more days Isabel
and Penny dressed up and travelled to Victoria to meet the troop trains. Disappointment
met them every time. No sign of Bill. No one could help them. They could get no
news, no information. It was impossible to contact anyone still abroad. The co-ordinator
always said the same thing after the futile scanning of his list.
‘Come again tomorrow, ducks.
Maybe he’ll be with the next lot,’ he dismissed them gently.
But amongst the thousands
of men returning from the War, Bill never arrived. Isabel began to despair, frantically
trying to think why this was happening. Oh, God, perhaps he’s not coming back after
all. Perhaps he had to stay on in Italy. Maybe he wanted to. Perhaps he doesn’t
want us anymore. Her worries became more and more irrational.
He’s found another woman;
those Italian women are so glamorous. But then why did he write to say he was coming
home? Her thoughts went round and round in an agonising loop. She hardly slept and
as a consequence she felt exhausted, her limbs weak and trembling, her eyes dry
and prickling, with dark rings beneath them.
The next day they decided not to go up to London.
‘I couldn’t bear that awful journey again; all
that way for nothing. Come on, Pen, let’s treat ourselves. We’ll go to the pictures
in Wembley and then have tea at Fullers.’
They had grown weary of the futile pilgrimage into
town; the sad trek home. Isabel knew Penny loved the cinema and especially relished
the thought of the teashop’s iced coffee cake, which, if you were lucky with your
slice, might have a walnut on top. That seemed a much more interesting proposition.
‘Oh yes, let’s, Mummy.’
They left a key with their neighbour, ‘just in
case,’ and set out.
They saw “Lassie Come Home” at the Odeon. Tears
streamed down their faces in the sad bits. Penny loved the dog and the poignancy
of the story.
‘Couldn’t we have a dog
Mummy, please?’ she wheedled.
She was chattering, full
of the film and coffee cake, when they arrived home. Isabel put her key in the front
door, preparing a negative reply – a dog, oh horror!
‘Wasn’t it awful, Mummy, when they thought Lassie
was lost?’
Penny’s dark eyes popped wide open - for a man
sat on the bottom step - a man with no shoes on and his shirt unbuttoned. She glared
at him disapprovingly from behind her mother’s skirt, shyness, disgust and burning
curiosity battling within her. Penny had hardly ever seen a man up close before,
except for Granddad, and he was old and sick, and Uncle George. This man wasn’t
old and bent, but tall and strong, tanned and healthy. Penny shrank further behind
Isabel’s skirt.