Ruby's War Page 7

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ a small boy shouted.

  Con waved, pulled up his collar and shivered. The countryside was green and pretty, but it was also damp and cold. It had been a long day. They’d heard that the camp they were heading for was new and had been built especially for them. He rolled his head and stretched the muscles in his neck. He was ready for a shower, some hot food and then a good sleep between soft blankets in a warm, dry hut.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Once the convoy had left the village they made better progress. The light was fading, and the deepening twilight drained the colour from the surrounding farmland. Behind a stand of slender trees, Con could see the grey sky slashed with bitter orange. By the time the trucks reached a second village it was almost dark and the streets were empty. A line of Military Police in jeeps directed the Quartermaster Truck Company off the main road and into the camp. The convoy drew up in front of a US flag hanging disconsolately from a pole, and the men on the trucks gazed around in silence at the motley assortment of broken-down huts.

  Once inside their hut, Con could feel his buddies’ resentment crackle between the patched, water-stained walls. No one spoke as they unpacked their gear; they all knew that white soldiers would not have been housed in such a shabby collection of buildings. Con lay down on his bed. Wes was the only one of them that he knew well. He looked over, but Wes had his back to him. Wes was the nearest to him in age, and the only one who knew that he’d lied about his own age and enlisted using doctored papers. That was only a few months ago, but it could have been a lifetime away.

  Con rolled on to his side and curled up, putting his arm under his head to shield his nose from the reek of mildewed bedding. As a child, he’d been protected from racism. In his school there was a mix, black and white. The white kids were the children of the Jews, Syrians and Armenians who owned shops in Paradise Valley. Segregation was there. He knew about it; his grandma was from the South. But it didn’t touch his life, until he joined the army. In the US Army it wasn’t possible to ignore it. Where Con slept, where he ate, where he could go for recreation, were all regulated by his colour.

  He looked around the hut. On the ship over, he’d watched each of the guys deal with the humiliation in his own way. Bo Little, who was the eldest in their group, burned with a barely suppressed fury. He’d got a reputation for his quick temper, and Con had learnt to stay away from him when he was angry. Michael Holt, Bo’s closest buddy, shared his feelings, but Holt’s anger burned more slowly. Holt read a lot, he knew how to argue his corner, but he stayed out of the way of any trouble. The other guys were from the South and had plenty of practice hiding their resentment, but from their tight shoulder muscles and the way they avoided looking each other in the eye, Con knew they felt this slight as deeply as the other men.

  He looked out of the ill-fitting window. The cloud had come in low and was covering the stars. When he was unhappy and couldn’t sleep, Con recalled the poems his grandma had taught him when he was a small boy. He closed his eyes and drifted away to the gentle rhythm of her voice reciting one of her favourite bits of Shakespeare.

  That night Ruby lay in bed and wondered if Jenny might make Granddad send her back to Everdeane. For a moment, just before she fell asleep, she began to believe that it might happen and that Auntie Ethel would have no option but to agree. Ruby smiled, imagining walking down the prom to meet Mavis from school, but then Auntie Ethel’s face with its thin mouth floated into her mind.

  ‘It’s as likely as a seagull singing “Roll out the Barrel”,’ she told the empty room.

  Next morning Grandma Jenny looked very pale. She was standing by the cooker with a red headscarf over her hair. Underneath it, Ruby could see the row of steel clips holding the curls flat against her forehead. Jenny lit a cigarette. The outline of the lipstick she’d worn yesterday was still around her mouth. After inhaling a couple of times, she coughed and spat into the sink.

  As quietly as she could, Ruby took the plates from the kitchenette, set the table in the living room and poked the fire. Then she took the padded lids off the brass boxes on the corners of the fender. One contained old newspapers and the other had thin sticks inside for kindling. She blew on the ashes and fed the still-live coals with thin scraps of wood and knots of paper. Once the flames strengthened, she carefully built a pyramid from the precious nuggets of coal. When she heard Granddad’s clogs on the stairs, she picked up the kettle from the hearth and took it into the kitchen.

  Granddad was leaning against the meat safe. The buttons on his vest were open, and under the frost of white hairs, his mottled chest shuddered.

  ‘Give him a minute, love,’ Jenny said, taking the kettle from her. ‘He’ll be better when he’s had a drink. You take the bread through and I’ll get his medicine.’

  Ruby sat by the fire listening to each gasp, willing every breath to be easier than the last. Then Jenny bustled in carrying the teapot.

  ‘He’s going outside,’ she said. ‘He’ll not be long. Cut him two slices, and one for you.’

  About twenty minutes later Granddad came into the living room dressed in his railwayman’s waistcoat. His breathing was back to normal, but he moved unsteadily, as though he’d been walking all night. After one silent cup of tea, he picked up a slice of bread and smiled.

  ‘What Jenny says is right, Ruby, love,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in trailing to school every day, just to read a book.’

  ‘They’re taking on at the mill,’ Jenny said, pouring herself another cup of tea. ‘I’m going to see if I can get on. You’ll be better off staying here and helping out. Trailing backwards and forward, just for a bit of religion, is a daft idea. You can always read your catechism here.’

  ‘Helping out here,’ Granddad said, doing up the silver buttons on his waistcoat, ‘is better training for a lass than reading that stuff. You’ll pick up all sorts from Jenny. How to do the doctor’s shirts, and a bit of cooking. What do you say?’

  ‘I help Auntie at Everdeane,’ Ruby said. ‘When I go back I can—’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ he said, getting up and reaching for his white muffler. ‘You can start with the doctor’s washing.’

  Jenny laughed and shook her head. ‘How come things allus work out your way?’ she asked.

  Granddad put on his railwayman’s jacket and cap. ‘There’ll be a bit more all round,’ he said. ‘There’s Ruby’s ration book, and if she does the doctor’s shirts … I’m off, Ruby, love. Boiler’s lit and the water’s ready,’ he called, as he closed the door.

  ‘Is your dad as cheeky as him?’ Jenny asked, as they watched Granddad tip his cap on to the back of his head and set off down the path whistling.

  The washing was done in the small brick scullery off the kitchen. Jenny put the shirts into the tub and began pressing and twisting the handles of the posser, forcing the hot soapy water through the clothes, until it oozed, then squirted and finally poured squelching and glugging through the holes in the round copper plunger. When she was out of breath, she rested on the posser’s wooden handle.

  ‘It’s hard work,’ she said, wiping the steam from her face. ‘Here, you have a go, until I’ve washed up. Then we’ll see how you got on.’

  Ruby took the posser and pushed down.

  ‘Try not to splash and get it all over yourself,’ Jenny said. ‘The water’s supposed to stay in the tub.’

  When Jenny came back, she took the pair of wooden tongs from their hook on the wall and pulled a couple of shirts out of the tub. Her glasses were quickly covered in steam and she had to take them off to inspect the shirts.

  ‘Them’s clean enough,’ she said. ‘Now, use the tongs to get them out and put ’em in these buckets, and then rinse them in the kitchen sink. Then they come back in here to the mangle. Have you used one before?’

  Ruby nodded. ‘I’ve used Auntie’s. Me and Uncle Walt used to do it. I know how to starch as well, and how to do the Dolly Blue.’

  ‘Once you’ve got them out of t
he way, put the next lot in. That’s all our stuff, but there’s no use wasting hot water. I should be back by then. I’ve made up the starch, but you say you know how to do it, and how to use Dolly Blue?’

  Ruby nodded, and although Jenny had tried to hide it, she knew she was impressed.

  ‘Your dinner, some cold potatoes and pickled beetroot, is on the kitchenette,’ Jenny said, using Granddad’s shaving mirror to apply a layer of lipstick to the faded outline sketched around her mouth and pulling the clips from her row of stiff curls. ‘Keep your eye on that fire. I should be back soon.’

  As Ruby worked, carrying buckets of clean shirts through to the sink, the smell of warm soapy clothes gradually filled the kitchen. The dripping buckets made a dark path across the floor, from the dolly tub in the scullery to the sink and back again to the mangle.

  As she waited for the sink to fill with cold water, Ruby stretched up to look at herself in the shaving mirror hanging above it. Her face looked pink and tendrils of dark-red curls stuck to her cheeks. She didn’t look like her mother, who had brown eyes and pale blonde hair. Her dad once told her that she’d got her blue eyes and red curls from his mother, Lucy, who had died when he was seventeen.

  She looked out at the clear sunny morning. Monty was scratching in the yard, and the clattering and hooting from the engine sheds filled the air. The hawthorn hedge along the bottom of the garden sparkled with hoar frost, and the roofs of the houses in the distance glittered. She wondered if her father had stood here looking out of this window, thinking about his mother, and if he’d felt the same dull ache in his chest. She plunged her hands into the icy water, moving the dull ache briefly to her fingers.

  By ten o’clock she was dipping the little muslin bag of Dolly Blue into the water, swirling it by its wooden peg and lifting it out again, before cupping her hands, dipping and testing the colour, until the mixture had turned the water blue. As she was sinking the last of the shirts into the sky-blue water, she heard shrieking. Ruby put down the damp shirt and listened. It wasn’t the metallic howl of the rails that she’d heard on the bridges. She thought it might be Bess and hurried to the front door.

  Across the lane, Mrs Bland and a plump grey-haired postman were holding Mrs Lathom up by the arms. They were standing by her garden gate, and between each deep inhalation, Nellie Lathom threw back her head and wailed. Ruby hurried over to ask if she could help. Each explosive sound only ended when Nellie’s teeth slipped down, forcing her to gasp and close her mouth. Ruby thought of a difficult toddler whose tantrum was being controlled by its parents, but then she felt ashamed and looked away. There was a letter on the path. She picked it up.

  ‘She’s had a bit of bad news,’ the postman said, as Mrs Lathom gathered her strength again. ‘Her lad’s been taken prisoner. Sometimes folk are relieved, you know, missus,’ the postman said. ‘They’re feared that they’ve been killed.’

  This did not reassure poor Nellie, who groaned and sank to the ground with her head on her breast.

  ‘Can you walk, my dear?’ Mrs Bland asked, pulling the taller woman up. ‘Put your arm around me. That’s right. Now, my good man, if you’ll assist me to the door of my cottage, we won’t delay you further.’

  As they struggled to help the distraught woman down the lane to the end cottage, Mrs Bland turned to Ruby. ‘I wonder, my dear,’ she said. ‘Could you help? Would you check my neighbour’s house? Make sure the fireguard is up and check there’s nothing on the stove. Then if you would close the door. I’m going to take my neighbour into my house. She’s had rather a shock. So, if you would bring the door key there.’

  Inside the neat cottage, Ruby found Bess looking out from under the table. When she bent down to rub her chin, she felt the poor dog tremble.

  ‘It’s all right, Bess,’ she said, as the dog sniffed tentatively at her hands. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come back for you.’

  Mrs Bland’s tiny cottage was packed with boxes and trunks. Large pieces of furniture stood in a huddle in the centre of the room. Mrs Bland appeared between two large cupboards and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I thought tincture of valerian would be helpful,’ she said, waving a small brown bottle in her hand.

  Ruby squeezed between the furniture. Mrs Lathom was sitting in a chair wrapped in a cream blanket edged with frayed blue satin. A single bed was propped against the wall, and the room was very chilly. Ruby shivered. Her sleeves were wet, and the soapy water on the front of her gymslip had soaked through to her skin.

  ‘I’m going to make tea,’ Mrs Bland said, heading for the kitchen door. ‘I thought we might need smelling salts, but I think she’ll be all right. If she does feel faint, dear, put her head between her knees.’

  After a few minutes, Mrs Lathom noticed Ruby standing by the chair and began to groan.

  ‘Oh, poor Sadie. You’ll have to tell her my boy’s a prisoner of the Japs. Oh, my poor boy. Sadie, where is she? She’ll be heartbroken.’

  ‘She’s at work,’ Ruby said, hoping that Mrs Bland would come back quickly. ‘There’s no one in but me.’

  ‘Here we are,’ Mrs Bland said, carrying a silver tray with a matching silver teapot, milk jug and sugar basin. ‘Hot, sweet tea. Thank you, my dear,’ she said. ‘I think we can cope now.’

  ‘Shall I take Bess?’ Ruby asked. ‘She’s frightened.’

  After some reluctance, Mrs Lathom agreed that she could take the spaniel home with her, and Ruby found it easy to encourage the dog out from under the table.

  Once they were back at the cottage, Ruby left Bess sitting on the rug by the fire and went to peg the shirts on the line. When she came back, the dog was still trembling, and Ruby wondered if Bess should have a blanket as well. She built up the fire, putting on the tiniest pieces of coal from the scuttle, and shared out the cold potatoes between them. Bess ate her share greedily, but when Ruby offered her a small slice of beetroot, the vinegar made her sneeze. She would have liked to listen to Workers’ Playtime, but it didn’t seem right after such bad news. Instead, she filled the kettle and tried to think …

  When Jenny opened the front door half an hour later, she looked flushed and pleased with herself. Then she saw Bess sitting by the glowing fire and the edges of her red mouth fell. Ruby poured the water into the waiting teapot and explained about the letter.

  At the news of Jack’s imprisonment, Jenny crumpled on to a chair, and Bess slithered under the table.

  ‘Such a nice steady lad,’ Jenny said. ‘Such good prospects, his uncle having the garage and coach business.’

  When Jenny had finished her tea, she lit a cigarette and pulled a bottle of brandy from the dresser.

  ‘You’re sitting here and that water’s going cold,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the rest of our stuff to do yet. Then you’d best start tea. I’m going to see how Nellie is. There’s potatoes in the pantry. Do enough for three. Our Sadie’s at work. Then pull some carrots, and there’s cold ham in the meat safe. Slice it thin, mind.’

  At the end of their first day in the new camp, Bo suggested that they take the landlord of the Railway up on his offer of a free pint.

  ‘Do you think this landlord is for real?’ Wes asked, as he and Con followed Bo and Holt to the bus stop.

  Con shrugged. ‘Well, he sounded friendly. In fact, the whole lot of them looked real glad to see us.’

  He peered into the gloom. Bo and Holt were barely visible. The only things he could see clearly were the white markings that edged the sidewalk, and he wished the other guys would slow down.

  There was a crowd of men waiting at the bus stop. Their cigarettes bobbed as they spoke. He found the accent unfamiliar and had to listen carefully.

  ‘Where you off to, lads?’ one of them called.

  When Wes explained that they were going for a drink, there was laughter.

  ‘Lucky buggers,’ a voice said. ‘We’re on our way to a twelve-hour shift. That’s if the bloody bus ever comes.’

  In the light from their torches, the men shu
ffled and chatted. Under their flat caps their faces looked gaunt and they smelt strongly of a chemical; an acid, he thought.

  ‘Aye, twelve hours filling bombs to drop on Adolf,’ another one said. ‘Look out, here’s the bus.’

  The men clattered up the stairs. Con climbed on board and hesitated on the footplate. He wasn’t sure if he should follow the men in their long, greasy macs up the stairs, or if he was supposed to go downstairs. The inside of the bus was almost dark, lit only by an eerie blue glow. The white people in the seats nearest the door gazed at him.

  ‘Here, come and sit down, love,’ a large woman on the side bench seat called. ‘There’s room for all of you, if I move this basket.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am,’ he muttered, and sat down next to the woman.

  ‘Can I hold your basket for you, ma’am?’ Bo asked, taking the seat next to Con.

  ‘Oh, no thanks,’ the woman said. ‘It’s not heavy. I’ve been taking some things for my daughter. She’s in hospital.’

  The windows of the bus had been taped over, and Con was beginning to wonder how they would know when they’d arrived at the pub, when the conductress came down from the top deck.

  ‘Where you off to, lads?’ she asked.

  ‘We’d like to go to the pub called the Railway Inn, please, miss,’ Bo said.

  ‘You off for a drink?’ she asked. ‘That’s thrupp’nce each, lads, please.’