Ruby's War Page 9

  ‘I said quit that,’ the furious MP bellowed. ‘You ignoring me, boy?’

  Bo stopped, balled his hands into fists and headed towards the jeep. The others fell silent. Then the bedroom window of one of the terrace houses across the street suddenly rattled and snapped open. A large woman stuck her head out.

  ‘Who you tellin’ to shut up? It’s you that wants to stop yellin’. You’re in England now, love. You carry on. It sounds lovely. It’s him as wants to shut up.’

  ‘Aye,’ called a small man, whose shiny head was just visible around the side of his wife’s heavy body, ‘you ’ave a sing if you want, lad. It’s very nice.’

  ‘And you in the white hat,’ the woman shouted, ‘can keep the bloody noise down.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Here, put this in your purse,’ Jenny said, opening the chest of drawers and taking a half-crown from an old tin. ‘If you see a queue, doesn’t matter what shop, or what’s being sold, just join it. Just get what you can. I can allus swap it.’

  Ruby blushed, guiltily pushing the silver coin down beside the ten-shilling note her Uncle Walt had given her.

  ‘I’ll write down my Co-op number for you. They’ll not serve you without it. Oh, and I’m registered at the butcher’s near the Co-op, so if you see a queue outside the other one, Bamford’s, don’t bother. They’ll not serve you there.’

  Jenny took a piece of brown paper from the drawer, unfolded it carefully and began to parcel up the doctor’s freshly laundered washing. As she did, the afternoon sunlight caught the smooth contours of the newly pressed cloth and the runnels of sweat webbing her tired face. She’d spent the whole morning testing each flat iron Ruby had brought from the fire, judging the heat needed to press the dampened fabric and bending every muscle to ease each pleat on the doctor’s dress shirts. Now she unfastened a loop of twine, tugged it out across her apron front and measured the length against the parcel. When it was neatly fastened, she patted it.

  ‘Now, that’s ready,’ she said, and stood back to admire her handiwork.

  The parcel’s bulk made it difficult to carry. Ruby tried holding it by the loop in the string but the sides puckered, so she carried it in front of her, balanced on her outstretched forearms. She decided to take the main road. The air was clear and the cloudless sky a deep, pure blue. A light breeze ruffled the fading leaves, and the late-autumn sunlight made them shimmer.

  At the gate of the doctor’s house she met an elderly man carrying a bunch of orange flowers.

  ‘Now, young lady,’ he said. ‘Is that parcel for the doctor?’

  The man’s moss-green cap shaded his eyes and his windowpane check shirt was held up around the elbows by two broad elastic bands.

  ‘I’ve brought the doctor’s laundry,’ she said. ‘I was told to go around to the kitchen door and ask for Mrs Alice Watts.’

  ‘Well, I can help you there,’ the man said. ‘I know the lady well.’

  She followed him through the gate, their feet crunching out of time on the white gravel. The drive was edged with slick-leafed rhododendrons and shielded from the road by tall trees, whose thick foliage made the house appear gloomy.

  ‘I know you were told to go round to the kitchen door,’ the man said, ‘but on this occasion you can follow me through the front. I’m Dick Watts, by the way. Alice is my wife, and I know for a fact that there’s no one at home.’

  The house was made of the same red brick as the smaller ones along the main road. Ivy clung to the walls and climbed on top of the porch, softening the building’s sharp angles. Inside the narrow entrance hall the lower part of the walls were covered with plain green tiles, interspersed with some depicting exotic flowers, each labelled with its botanical name. Above the tiling, the walls were papered in an equally dull green stripe. A large wooden hatstand took up almost half of the space, and on the wall opposite, there was an enormous barometer in a similar type of shiny, dark wood.

  Mr Watts tapped the glass. ‘Ah, the pressure is rising,’ he said. ‘Now, I’ve got to take these flowers into the sitting room and then I’ll show you where you leave your parcel. I shouldn’t be a minute.’

  The vestibule opened into a spacious hall. Facing the door, a broad staircase twisted and then climbed out of sight. Behind it, a wall made of individual panes of pale green and yellow glass rose up as far as she could see. The effect was to flood the building with light; even the crosses of tape on each pane didn’t spoil the feeling of space. The dappled light from the window fell on to the stairs, making the pattern of tangled roots and leaves in the carpet appear to move, as though the trees behind the windows were creeping indoors.

  ‘Wait here,’ Mr Watts said, heading towards a set of double doors on her right.

  When he slipped silently behind the doors, Ruby felt the house settle around her. Somewhere deep inside the building she heard a clock’s pulse. A bowl of white roses stood on a table in the centre of the room. Their perfume, mingled with the tang of sun-heated old varnish and floor polish, filled the hall. Every wall was hung with pictures, but it was the portrait next to the sitting-room door that caught her attention. Ruby crept closer. The subject, a beautiful woman in a pale-blue suit and matching cloche hat, gazed down at her. She was admiring the delicate fingers resting on the rim of a small table, when a door behind her opened. Ruby felt something thud into her, pushing her forwards with such force that the parcel left her hands. As it skittered across the red-tiled floor, a large dog bounded after it.

  ‘No!’ Ruby yelled, grabbing the parcel and holding it out of the dog’s reach.

  When she held the package higher, the dog, pleased with the game, danced around and yapped excitedly, jumping and snapping at the prize. She was rescued by a stout, white-haired woman in an apron.

  ‘Get down, Rover,’ she said, dragging the young dog away by his collar.

  Then the sitting-room door opened, and the lady in the portrait walked out, followed by Mr Watts.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ the woman from the picture asked. ‘You’re a naughty boy, Rover. He’s just a puppy, you see, and rather too playful.’

  At the sound of his name, Rover leapt towards his mistress, scattering the papers she was carrying.

  ‘I’ll take him, madam,’ the plump lady said.

  ‘Would you, Alice?’ she replied. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you bad dog. I’ll never get these in order again.’

  Once the dog had been dragged away, Ruby put her parcel on the first step of the staircase and began to help Mr Watts and the lady to pick up the papers. Some of them were covered in neat, italic handwriting and the rest of it was sheet music.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the lady said, ‘I’ll never get them sorted out. I don’t know anything about notation. Do either of you have any ideas? Mr Watts?’

  ‘The writing has little numbers in the corner of the pages,’ Ruby said. ‘I think they follow on, and the music … it has words … I know the songs.’

  ‘She’s right,’ the lady laughed. ‘Clever girl. How stupid of me not to see. I’m glad you were here,’ she smiled, as Ruby put the sheets in order. ‘I’d have been lost without you. Goodness, did that naughty dog scratch your face? Mr Watts will take you to the kitchen and get Alice to put something on it. Then you must come back and see me before you go.’

  ‘Missus says to put something on her face,’ Mr Watts said, dropping the parcel on the table. ‘She’s brought the doctor’s laundry.’

  Mrs Watts rinsed her hands and dried them on her apron.

  ‘And whose idea was it to come in by the front door?’

  ‘I didn’t know the missus was in, and you said you’d gone to Bamford’s for the meat.’

  ‘That was hours ago,’ his wife said, and smiled at Ruby. ‘Sit down, pet,’ she said. ‘Let’s look what that stupid dog has done.’

  When Mrs Watts lifted her chin, Ruby could smell fresh herbs and washing soap on her hands.

  ‘It doesn’t look like much harm has been done. We’ll just
bathe it with soap and water, and I’ve some cream as will soothe it.’

  ‘There’s iodine in the cupboard,’ Mr Watts offered.

  ‘What, and make her face smart? No. Delicate skin shouldn’t have iodine on it,’ Mrs Watts said, filling a bowl with soap and water. ‘Make yourself useful and put the kettle on,’ she said to her husband. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, when I’ve done this.’

  Mr Watts took the kettle and filled it. ‘Missus wants to see her again before she goes,’ he said. ‘I took her the chrysanths. She doesn’t want ’em. Says they’re too hot, or something. Says to take ’em for the altar at the church.’

  ‘Too hot, indeed. Whatever next,’ his wife tutted. ‘When you’ve put that kettle on, you can unpack that washing, or they’ll be creased again.’

  Once Ruby’s cheek was bathed, Mrs Watts poured the tea and offered her a biscuit.

  ‘They’re my own recipe,’ she said, ‘oats and butter I call them, but it’s a while since there was any butter in them. What’s your name, dear?’

  ‘My granddad’s …’

  ‘Oh, I know who you are, dear. You’re the picture of Lucy, your grandma. Same lovely eyes and the same hair.’ Mrs Watts smiled and took a sip of her tea. ‘She was older than me, but I can remember her. She must have been about twenty at the time. Such a beauty. Ask Dick, here. He’ll tell you.’

  ‘Oh, she was indeed,’ Dick Watts said. ‘Tall, like you. I knew who you were, when I saw you at the gate. Are you visiting?’

  ‘I’ve come to stay with my granddad. I’ve never seen a picture of her.’

  ‘Well you could be twins,’ he said.

  ‘You still haven’t said what your name is,’ Alice Watts said, offering her another biscuit.

  ‘I’m Ruby. My dad picked it because my mum is … was called Pearl.’

  ‘Well, it’s very pretty. I’m Alice and this is Dick. If you’re coming regular for the washing, use the back door.’

  ‘I’m to ask if there’s any more shirts to go back,’ Ruby said.

  ‘Well there’s a problem there. Some of the doctor’s collars want turning, and I haven’t got time, us being short-staffed, and the missus, bless her heart, is no needlewoman.’

  ‘I know how,’ Ruby said. ‘I’ve done my uncle’s.’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re good shirts and hard to come by. Tell you what, you can do one of Dick’s old ones, and if it’s suitable, I’ll consider it. Now, I’ll take you through to see Mrs Grey, and remember next time, come to the back door.’

  Mrs Grey was sitting in an easy chair reading a magazine. She looked older than her portrait, but no less beautiful. Her hair was pale, almost white, and brushed back from her high forehead. She had finely shaped eyebrows arched above her generous, velvety lashes and brilliant blue eyes. When she smiled, Ruby felt as if it was just for her.

  ‘You look better already, dear,’ she said, perching her cigarette on the edge of a scalloped glass ashtray. ‘Tell me, do you play?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Ruby said, glancing at Mrs Watts to check if this form of address was appropriate. ‘My father arranged music for my mother to sing, and I played for her when she worked on new pieces. She was working on that song.’

  ‘So you can play popular songs? How wonderful. What a find,’ Mrs Grey said, getting up from her seat.

  The large room had two enormous windows overlooking the lawns at the back of the house. Under the largest one was a baby grand piano with a dark-red shawl spread across the top. Mrs Grey opened the lid.

  ‘Could you play something for me?’ she asked. ‘Something from memory?’

  Ruby took off her mac and sat down at the piano. Mrs Grey returned to her seat and motioned to Mrs Watts to join her. Ruby didn’t feel nervous; she loved to play. When her hands touched the keys, she always felt at home. She played ‘The Last Rose of Summer’, a song that she knew just fitted the lovely room. The instrument was tuned perfectly and at the end of the piece, her audience applauded.

  ‘My, how wonderful,’ Mrs Grey smiled. ‘She’s very good, isn’t she, Alice?’

  ‘She is indeed, madam, and she’s a handy girl as well. She’s going to turn a collar for me, and if it’s satisfactory, she’ll do Doctor Grey’s shirts.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Doctor Grey’s shirts are getting so worn, and they’re impossible to replace. Now …’

  ‘Ruby,’ Mrs Watts supplied.

  ‘Now, Ruby, do you think you could play for my guests? I’ve invited some people … Oh Alice, I haven’t told you, have I? I met Mrs Prendergast in town and … well, I just felt we all needed cheering up.’

  ‘The help, madam … Mabel finishes at the end of the week.’

  ‘Yes, yes she does. Ruby, do you think you could help? If you could …’

  ‘She’s not trained, madam,’ Mrs Watts said, getting to her feet and straightening her apron.

  ‘We’ll keep it simple. Just simple food. Mr Watts can help to serve. Ruby can help you, and then play for us. When you come next week, dear, bring your music. We’ll choose something for you to play before dinner, and then you can help in the kitchen.’

  When Ruby left the house, the shadows were lengthening. She hugged the old shirt to her as she walked back to the cottage. On her way to Doctor Grey’s, she’d taken the long way round through the village, hoping to see the girl from the swings. Now, instead of walking home the short way by the lane, Ruby took the long way back to the cottage again. This time, with her mind full of the lovely room and its piano, she imagined herself sitting at the baby grand, with the Greys’ guests, handsome men and their elegant wives, standing by the window, listening to her play.

  Con took Sadie into his arms. As they danced, he felt her hair brushing against his chin. The music was soft, romantic and yet oddly distant; it was as though he and Sadie had left the church hall and the rest of the dancers behind them. He looked down at the curve of her smooth, apple-pink cheek, and she lifted her face for him to kiss. Her mouth tasted sweet, and he drew her closer. She looked up at him, smiled her pretty smile, and slipped her arms around his neck. Con couldn’t believe that this beautiful white girl had chosen to dance with him. He wasn’t much used to girls, and the only time he’d danced before was at his school dance, but his feet knew the steps and were moving perfectly in time to the music. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He hoped she’d lift her head again and invite him to kiss her. For now, he was happy just to have her in his arms. Every other guy he knew would be jealous. He smiled and dipped his chin, hoping to catch the feel of her soft hair and inhale its perfume. Instead, her hair felt scratchy and the smell of it made him squirm. Con put out his hand to push her away and heard a yell.

  ‘Will you let go of my foot,’ Wes shouted.

  Con sat up. It was dark and cold, and he could hear a rustly sound that he knew he should recognise.

  ‘What you doing?’ Wes asked.

  Con gazed around, his eyes gradually growing accustomed to the blackness.

  ‘I thought we were at a dance,’ he said.

  ‘Well, we ain’t. We’re in the back of a truck. It’s dark and I’m tired. Now, settle down. The guy on the dock gate said they’ll start loading again as soon as it gets light.’

  Earlier that evening, along with the rest of the disappointed drivers, they’d wandered into the streets around Liverpool’s docks looking for a meal and a bed for the night. They’d found a pub near the dockside selling bowls of stew that Wes identified as mutton. After a drink of brown ale to wash away the taste of the grease from his mouth, Con had headed back to the truck. His body was too long to stretch out comfortably in the cab, so he’d climbed into the back, using his jacket as a pillow.

  Con shuddered as a chill mist coming in from the Irish Sea slithered over the cobbled wharves. He wanted a warm drink, but all the bars around the port were silent. He wanted a cigarette, but the blackout around the harbour was total and any breach would bring the patrol running. Somewhere in the streets around the docks
a dog barked, a cab door slammed and footsteps rang in the silence. Above him there was a clear sky; one bright star was shining over the sea. Moonlight glinted, silvering the sides of the anchored ships.

  As he listened to the suck and slap of the water against the quay, Con recalled the day he’d gone with his father to the river to watch the Liberty ships carrying iron and coal to the factories and sailing back out again loaded with jeeps, trucks and tanks. To comfort his nagging homesickness he curled his long legs into his chest, holding on to his body’s warmth. He wondered if the stuff they’d be loading in the morning might be parts for B-24 Liberator bombers made at the plant at Willow Run. Then he closed his eyes, and for a few hours he was back home in Detroit.

  It was almost mid morning by the time the trucks were loaded. Once their papers were checked, they drove out from the docks and bought hot pies and bottles of cold tea from a woman outside the gates. The damp mist had lifted and above the city the sky was cloudless. The bright autumn sunshine lasted all day. Con enjoyed the journey through the miles of changing countryside, marvelling at the tiny houses hunched against the broad sky. Wes was in a good mood as well: he’d spent most of the night playing cards with the other guys in the waiting convoy, and most of the time on their way from the port to the airbase working out different ways to spend his winnings. It was late afternoon before the trucks were unloaded and cleared to leave the airbase, but as they headed back towards the camp, his mood darkened.

  ‘Not that we’ll get to spend much any time soon,’ he said.

  The week before, after the MPs reported them for swearing, lewd singing and waking civilians, Bo had insisted that they went to see Captain O’Donal together. It hadn’t done any good. All they’d got from the captain was a lecture on them being visitors in someone else’s country, while the MP smirked at them over his shoulder.

  The trouble was that, although Captain O’Donal was a decent guy, he was weak. If he’d been alone there wouldn’t have been a problem, and they would have got their passes, but Captain O’Donal always buckled if the MPs got involved. So instead of going to the dance they’d been invited to, the four of them had been confined to the camp.