After the War is Over (9 page)

‘Are you all right, luv?’ A woman stopped and took hold of her arm. She wore a georgette headscarf over a head full of metal curlers. ‘Why, you’re Sheila O’Neill’s girl, aren’t you? How’s your mam these days? Last time we met she was having a bit of a hard time. It’s not good for a woman to be having a baby at her age. Mind you, me own mam had our Derek at forty-eight.’

‘She’s a bit run-down,’ Maggie gasped. ‘The doctor’s given her iron tablets.’

‘Iron? The trouble with iron is it can make a person constipated. I remember when . . .’

The woman looked set for a long jangle. Maggie broke in claiming an emergency, though it was nothing to do with her mother, she then had to explain. She and the woman went their separate ways, Maggie more sedately this time.

There was a small queue outside Iris’s house and the front door was open. Maggie didn’t know whether to join the queue or knock on the door. After a while, a woman came and waited behind her, a crying baby in her arms, and she realised she was in a queue to see the doctor. She went inside and shouted for Iris, who appeared out of the kitchen looking harassed.

‘Why, Maggie! How lovely to see you,’ she exclaimed. ‘As if Tom hadn’t got enough to do, he’s started a Saturday-morning surgery. Come in the kitchen and have some tea. Nell’s here. There’s an Easter carnival or something this afternoon at the school she went to, and we’re making cakes to go with the refreshments.’

As Maggie had gone to the same school as Nell, it must be St Joan of Arc’s carnival. It wasn’t Easter until next weekend. She entered the kitchen, where Nell was beating a bowl of cake mixture with a fork.

‘Carrot buns,’ she said when she saw Maggie. ‘They’re supposed to have currants in, but we haven’t got any. There’s rock cakes in the oven. We’re going to put jam in them.’

‘I think we might have some currants at home. Auntie Kath always gives us the rations she doesn’t use.’ Maggie could have sworn she’d seen some sort of dried fruit last time she’d looked in the larder.

‘It’d be best to leave little treats like that for your mam, Mags. How is she today, anyway?’

‘Not so bad.’ Maggie hadn’t realised that Mam was poorly enough to have attracted the attention of half of Bootle. Being Saturday, her father had been making tea and her mother was still in bed when she’d left the house.

Iris was attending to the queue outside the door, taking people’s names and putting them in the waiting room. She came into the kitchen and washed her hands. ‘That’s the last for now,’ she sighed. ‘The poor child had impetigo. Maggie, do sit down. I’ve got time till the next patient to make tea. I wouldn’t mind some myself and I’ve never known Nell turn down a cup. What brings you here anyway?’ She smiled and her eyes gleamed. ‘Have you got some really interesting news to impart?’

‘Well, no.’ Maggie sat down, feeling uncomfortable. Iris probably thought she’d come to invite them to her wedding or ask Nell to be a bridesmaid. ‘Chris has got a job in a picture house in Walton Vale,’ she told them, just for something to say.

‘That’s good,’ Iris said encouragingly. ‘And what with his mother letting you have that nice flat of hers in Scotland Road, there’s nothing stopping you from getting married, is there? You’re awfully lucky, Maggie. Isn’t she lucky, Nell?’

‘Dead lucky,’ Nell agreed. She began to put spoonfuls of the cake mixture into a metal tray, the sort that Maggie’s mother used to make fairy cakes. She looked searchingly at her friend. ‘You’re unhappy about something, aren’t you? I can tell. What’s wrong, Mags?’

As if Maggie could tell her there and then that she and Chris had made love the night before, that she thought she might be pregnant, that she wasn’t too sure if she wanted to marry Chris after all but would have to if she
was
pregnant. She couldn’t confide all those intimate things, not with Iris there, a room full patients close by, and the doctor in his surgery only a few feet away. The doctor, Tom, chose that moment to stick his head around the door and demand a packet of cotton wool.

‘There’s none in my drawer,’ he complained, completely ignoring or not noticing Maggie.

‘It never has been in your drawer,’ Iris told him patiently. ‘The cotton wool has always been in the cupboard on the wall behind you.’ She rolled her eyes, but didn’t appear to be annoyed. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘There’s something up, isn’t there?’ Nell said when Iris had gone.

‘It’s not important,’ Maggie assured her. She hadn’t realised how friendly Nell and Iris had become, how close they were. Nell’s
my
friend, she thought jealously, yet she knew in her heart she’d been neglecting her. It was weeks since they’d been to the pictures or the Grafton together.

‘Are you seeing Chris today?’ Nell enquired.

Maggie had no idea when she was seeing Chris again. ‘Not till tonight,’ she mumbled.

‘Then why don’t you come to the carnival with us this avvy?’ Nell suggested. ‘It’ll be dead busy, but we’re bound to have time to ourselves after all the cakes have gone.’

‘Will Iris be there?’

‘No, She’s going shopping with her mother-in-law, Adele, in Southport. Isn’t Adele a pretty name? She’s ever so nice. I’m only doing the baking here because it’s easier than in our house. Have you noticed the cooker’s got six rings and two ovens?’

Maggie hadn’t. She wasn’t interested in anything to do with kitchens, and hadn’t noticed either how big Iris’s kitchen was, or that the pine table could easily have seated ten.

There was something she
could
talk about, though. ‘Your mam and dad seemed to be getting on remarkably well when I called in on me way here.’

Nell grinned. ‘Apparently Rita the hairdresser’s got engaged to a ticket inspector on the trams, and me dad’s been shown the door. I think she must have been wearing him out, ’cos he seems perfectly happy at home, particularly with Mam smartening herself up a bit. Let’s hope it stays like that, eh?’ She chuckled. ‘Mind you, I think he’s already got his eye on some other woman.’

‘Do I know this other woman?

Nell’s grin grew even wider. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘It’s Iris. I can’t see him being lucky there, can you?’

Not wanting to bring on another stitch, Maggie walked home at a normal pace. She was feeling very much out of things. Nell had met Iris’s mother-in-law; Iris had met Nell’s father! Not that it was anyone’s fault but her own. She’d been wrapped up in Chris to the exclusion of everyone else in the world.

To her astonishment, Chris was there when she got home, Bridie sitting on one of his knees, Tinker purring madly on the other, and her mother looking infinitely better than she’d done recently. Maggie met his eyes across the room and felt no more certain about her feelings than she’d done the night before.

They’d been talking about pictures, Mam said. ‘Chris told me about this little British girl who’s become a Hollywood star, her name’s Elizabeth Taylor. She went to America as a refugee to avoid the air raids and has made this lovely picture called
National Velvet
about wanting her horse to run in the Grand National. I’d love to see it, Maggie. You know I love pictures about animals.’ Her face was pink and animated.

‘I’ve promised to take her,’ Chris put in. ‘We’ll sit in the best seats with the biggest box of chocolates I can buy.’

‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ Mam said.

‘I bet you are, Mam.’ Maggie knew there and then that she was going to marry Chris Conway, who had cheered her mother up no end. They would get a special licence – during the war it had been possible to marry at only a few hours’ notice, and she supposed the law still stood. Unfortunately, it would have to be in a registry office, not a church, but she had no choice.

If she announced it now, Mam would absolutely insist they wait until she’d had her baby and everyone would support her – dad and Ryan, Auntie Kath – but by then Maggie just knew she herself would have been pregnant for two or three months and her own baby would be born much too soon.

Maybe she and Chris could make a great big do out of their first anniversary, invite everyone as they would have done to their wedding. And although Mam wouldn’t approve of a registry office wedding, she wouldn’t mind too much if she was getting married to Chris, who she clearly thought was the gear. And if Mam came round, then so would Dad.

But, but, but . . . Maggie felt literally sick with confusion. There were too many buts. Too much that was wrong. For no particular reason, her mind went back to the day she, Nell and Iris had returned to Bootle from the camp in Plymouth. ‘From now on, nothing will be the same,’ she’d announced, or something like that, when they got off the train.

If only she could go back to that time, she thought wistfully, and follow a different path.

That afternoon, after most of the races were over and all the carrot cakes and rock cakes had been sold and eaten, Nell went outside and sat on the grass behind the marquee, where it was quiet. Maggie hadn’t come, so they couldn’t have the talk that she’d so obviously wanted. Something was seriously wrong. Later, on her way home, she’d call at the O’Neills’ and maybe they could go for a walk and have a talk then.

But when she went to the house later, she was told that Maggie was out. ‘With Chris,’ Mrs O’Neill said. ‘I’m not exactly sure where they’ve gone, only that they caught the tram into town about half an hour ago.’

It was a lovely sunny Wednesday afternoon a few days later. Maggie and Chris were getting married in Brome Terrace Registry Office in West Derby, rather than in Bootle where Maggie might be recognised. She wanted to break the news to Mam and Dad in her own time, and it wouldn’t be today. She’d told Iggy she was going to a friend’s wedding in Southport, and he’d given her the day off.

The place was crowded. This was where births and deaths were registered as well as where marriages took place. Sad-looking women – it was mainly women – queued clutching bits of paper, and babies cried.

She and Chris were due to get married at three o’clock. They were shown into a large, shabby room where two other couples already waited. Both had members of their families with them: mothers, fathers, possibly friends. Maggie wanted to cry, because she and Chris had no one. Two members of staff, both strangers, would act as their witnesses. It was all so different from how she’d imagined her wedding day would be.

A door opened, names were called, and one of the couples went through the door with their noisy entourage. The woman who seemed to be the bride wore a smart dress made out of parachute silk and an enormous cortege of artificial pink flowers. ‘Here comes the bride,’ a man sang. ‘Forty inches wide.’

‘Shurrup!’ someone hissed.

Another door opened, the one they’d come in by, and a man entered. To Maggie’s surprise, he laid his hand on Chris’s shoulder.

‘Will you come with me, please,’ he said curtly.

Chris had gone surprisingly pale. ‘But why?’ he asked.

The man’s hand tightened on his shoulder. ‘Just come with me,’ he repeated.

To Maggie’s further surprise, Chris got obediently to his feet and went without saying ‘I’ll be back in a minute’ or ‘Won’t be long’ as she would have expected.

In a while – it seemed like hours but was only about ten minutes – she heard the first wedding leave noisily and the second couple were called in.

Twice Maggie got up and looked into the corridor, but there was no sign of Chris and she had no idea where he’d gone. All she knew was that something serious was going on. Her head was buzzing, her stomach hurt and her legs were trembling.

Another couple had arrived; two couples, actually, one middle-aged, one young. Maggie might well have wondered which couple were getting married had she not been so worried about Chris.

A woman entered the room. She wore a badly creased black costume and a white blouse with a soiled collar. Her hair was cut like a man’s. She nodded at Maggie. ‘Miss O’Neill, will you come with me, please?’

‘What’s going on?’ Maggie asked. Her voice was shaking in a way it had never done before. ‘Where’s Chris – Mr Conway?’

‘Come in here and I’ll explain. I’m Mrs Slater, by the way.’

‘Explain what?’

Mrs Slater led her into a tiny, dusty room lined with shelves full of files. She sat behind a metal desk and indicated that Maggie should take the chair on the other side.

‘Were you aware that Christopher Conway already has a wife?’ she asked. She looked at Maggie closely, waiting for her reaction.

‘
No!
’ She wanted to be sick, to faint, to scream, to die. ‘No, I didn’t know.’ Her throat felt swollen and she could hardly speak.

‘Would you like some water?’ Mrs Slater asked. She was being quite kind and sympathetic.

‘No thank you – yes, yes, I would, please.’

‘Here we are.’ There was a tray with a jug of water and a glass on the desk. Mrs Slater filled the glass and put it within Maggie’s reach. She took a few sips; her mouth was completely dry. The woman continued. ‘He married Beryl Martha Cameron in Manchester on the fourth of October nineteen forty-two. It was during his time in the RAF. One of our officials recognised him, the reason being that his name is also Christopher Conway. He has since moved to Liverpool, the official, that is.’

Maggie had no idea what to say to that. ‘Can I see him?’ she asked after a while.

‘Not while he’s being interviewed by the police. I suggest you go home and talk to someone, your mother, perhaps, or a friend.’

‘Will he go to prison?’ After all, bigamy was a crime.

‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?’ Mrs Slater stood. ‘Although he was about to. Whether that’s a crime or not, I’ve no idea. Me, I’m just a clerk.’ She moved towards the door. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but I’m very busy today and I really must get on.’

Five minutes later Maggie was on the tram back to Bootle. She found it hard to believe that the last few hours had actually happened, that she hadn’t just lived through a desperately real nightmare. The sun had gone in, leaving a gunmetal sky that matched her mood.

She couldn’t go home, not yet. It was much too early. She’d lied to Mam, as well as Iggy, telling her that she was going straight into town after work to meet Chris. ‘We’re going to the pictures and it starts at half past six,’ she’d explained, anticipating spending the evening in Chris’s flat, which would have been
her
flat too, though this would have had to be kept a secret until she revealed that she and Chris were married.