Maggie Ford was born in the East End of London but at the age of six she moved to Essex, where she has lived ever since. After the death of her first husband, when she was only twenty-six, she went to work as a legal secretary until she remarried in 1968. She has a son and two daughters, all married; her second husband died in 1984.
She has been writing short stories since the early 1970s.
In his absence, she will find her strength…
After a childhood in poverty and leaving school to work at the age of thirteen, life is beginning to look up for Brenda Wilson. Freshly married to her handsome soldier husband, she finds her true vocation in hairdressing.
However, Brenda is forced to give up her dreams of owning her own salon as Harry is called into service, leaving her to bring up their daughter all by herself…
A warm-hearted and gripping saga, from the author of The Factory Girl and A Girl in Wartime
The Soldier’s Bride
A Mother’s Love
Call Nurse Jenny
A Woman’s Place
The Factory Girl
A Girl in Wartime
For my children, Janet, John and Clare
Balanced on a wooden chair brought up from the kitchen for better stability, Brenda Wilson stared down at the hem of the long white dress she had on.
‘It’s not right, Mum. It’s dipping all to one side.’
Her mother did not look up from inserting pins around the fine hem ready for handstitching. ‘Well, if yer keep leaning over like that, then it will, won’t it? Stand up straight.’
Obediently Brenda lifted her head, pulled back her shoulders and stretched her slender waist, returning to her true height of five foot four inches. Even so, looking at herself in the long mirror of the wardrobe, she saw not the light brown hair that hung in loose waves about her shoulders, nor the oval face with its blue eyes, but the still-offending hemline.
‘It’s still dipping,’ she accused.
Her mother looked up at her briefly, then sat back on her heels to survey her work. ‘Where?’
‘On the left.’
‘It’s because yer still looking down. It’s the way yer standing. Yer’ll ’ave ter stand up straight in church next week.’
‘I am up straight.’
‘You ain’t. Yer all one-sided, Bren. Yer keep going all saggy. Pull yer left shoulder up a bit.’ Brenda obliged.
‘That’s better. See, it’s level now.’
Brenda frowned. ‘Stand like this in church and people will think I’m deformed.’
‘Course they won’t. And stop frowning. Yer supposed to be ’appy on yer special day.’
‘I will be,’ retorted Brenda. ‘On my day. But not with one shoulder stuck higher than the other.’
‘Not if yer walk properly.’
Before her daughter could make any further protests, the door of the poky little bedroom she shared with her sister, Vera, burst open, admitting the girl, two years younger than she and very like her in looks except that at this moment her lips were a tight line of pique.
‘Bren! Take a look at this blinking ’eaddress.’
She’d been downstairs trying the thing on over and over again, all the time moaning and exclaiming. They could hear the infuriated squeaks through the thin walls of the house in a series of high-pitched oh’s and ow’s. Mum had grinned several times at the sounds but had said nothing, knowing how tense her older daughter was three days before her wedding.
From her elevated position on the chair, Brenda glared down at the intruder. She had her own problems with this blessed hemline Mum kept insisting was all right. The bridal gown, in a sleek white satin, had been bought cheap in Roman Road market two Saturdays ago. Mum had altered it to fit, and now it looked a picture but for the blessed dip to the left side of the hem.
‘What’s wrong with the headdress?’ she demanded and saw Vera’s pretty little nose wrinkle in disgust.
‘I hate it, that’s what’s wrong. It looks daft, pink flowers, I look like a bloomin’ village maiden. And pink don’t go with me fair hair at all.’
‘You said you was happy with pink when we was in the shop. I did say blue, but you wouldn’t listen.’ They’d gone there again last Saturday to get her veil and tiara of wax orange blossom as well as the bridesmaids’ dresses and headdresses, circlets of artificial pink flowers. Posies to match would be coming on the morning of the wedding. ‘We can’t start changing it all now. It’s too late.’
‘It looked all right in the shop,’ Vera complained. ‘Under their electric light it looked lovely. But in daylight it looks awful, me with me fair hair. All right for you – all in yer white, yer bouquet all cream carnations an’ lilies an’ fern. But me . . .’ Running out of steam, she broke off and yanked the headdress from her head, probably for the sixth time, to glare down at it.
Had Vera’s hair been a touch darker, as Brenda’s was, there’d have been no cause for complaint, but she seemed to have forgotten it was she who had gone overboard for the pretty shade, gazing in rapture at the other bridesmaid, their cousin Sheila, on whom pink looked quite stunning against all that dark brown hair. Seeing herself in Sheila she had forgotten how much lighter her own hair was.
Trust Vera to be awkward. She had been so adamant in the shop that this was what she’d wanted. And to come over all prima donna at the eleventh hour, or almost, was exasperating. If they’d been well off, it might have been possible to go back and get something else. But they weren’t well off, none of them, and she and Harry were getting married on a shoestring as most everyone did in Bow or anywhere else in the East End of London. All right, Deacons in Roman Road was no Harrods, but he stocked stuff just as nice as any posh shop, and certainly far cheaper. But even he wouldn’t go changing purchases after they’d been bought and paid for. At shops like that you paid up and took pot luck which was why Mum had had to alter it slightly, taking it in at the waist and lifting it at the shoulders, just as she’d had to take in both bridesmaids’ dresses at the waist.
Brenda’s solution to her sister’s dilemma was brief and impatient. ‘You could dye yer hair a bit darker.’
‘What?’ the reply was flung back at her. ‘I don’t want to go darker.’
‘It’s just for the day. You can use the stuff what washes out.’
Brenda worked at Alfio’s, an Italian hairstylist’s in Bishopsgate. She had been there six years, since she was fifteen. Before that, leaving school at not quite fourteen, she had worked in a cake factory, which she had hated. Her life, she had felt, was worth more than sitting at a bench slopping cream on the lower half of an endlessly moving belt of Victoria sandwiches or packing almond slices into boxes. Her fingers were dexterous, her mind lively; her leanings inclined towards the creative. She’d ambitiously and innocently enquired after any possible vacancies for a starter at Alfio’s, which she had been passing at the time, to be told in very good English with only the slightest Italian accent that he was taking on no one. However, seeing potential in her presentable appearance and eager expression, he had said he’d be willing to train her.
His next words, ‘For which I will require a fee for two years of training,’ had swept excitement right out of her system.
Hiding shock and disappointment she had asked how much this fee would be and if she would get paid. He had beamed at her naivety (she was to find out that he was a man who beamed at everything even as he scolded and upbraided and criticised) and said blithely that she didn’t get paid, and at her bleak expression added that the London Academy of Hairdressing charged three times as much as he. At his fee, she’d blanched, seeing all her hopes disappear – she with no money, no savings, a fourteen-year-old with no job. By then her wish to be a hairstylist had so overwhelmed her that she had hurried home on the bus and run through the streets to speak to her parents, to beg them help her, so sure that they would.
Her dad’s first words had been, ‘’Ow can we pay that kind of money?’ Her world collapsed around her and she hadn’t been able to eat for a week. Her parents became thoughtful, then troubled. She caught them talking together in low whispers. Then her dad had said, ‘We might just be able ter manage it, but if yer don’t work ’ard an’ make a fist of it, then yer out! Don’t let us down, Bren. We ain’t rollin’ in dough, yer know.’
His only stipulation had been that he pay her tuition fee on a monthly basis rather than as the one whole down payment Mr Alfio Fichera had demanded. To this day, Brenda never could fathom out why the man accepted the terms, but he did.
Those two years had nearly crippled her parents, skimping and scraping for her, and she spent the time alternately overwhelmed by gratitude, consumed by guilt, knowing what they had sacrificed for her, and fighting the jealousy it provoked, especially from Vera who, if denied some small thing, would hold Brenda up as an example of favouritism.
Once her two years were up, she’d stayed on at Alfio’s as a qualified hairstylist and his chief assistant. She could have gone up West and got a position with a high-class salon but she always felt she owed Mr Fichera a debt of gratitude for his generosity in taking her on as he had in the way Dad had stipulated. When she had told him that she was getting married and would obviously be leaving, he had said sadly, ‘What a fool. What a waste. A single woman could have her own salon in time – become so very successful. But there . . . If ever you need any advice, any time, come to me.’
He was right, it could be looked on as a waste. Between Mr Fichera and Dad she reckoned she’d become as good as any top-class hairstylist. With her tutor, she had Dad to thank. How he ever managed to keep her those two years she would never know.
Like most people round here, they were far from well off. Her father was employed by a small firm making record and photograph albums; his money wasn’t so bad, though with two girls and two boys to feed, rent to pay, clothing and all the other bits and pieces that ate into a wage, they still lived somewhat close to the bone. A week in Margate in August on three days’ paid holiday money, with Bank Holiday Monday as an extra paid day, took a year to save up for. They would stay at a boarding house, and Mum would buy the food for the landlady to cook for their breakfast and evening meal. If it rained, that was too bad. You made the best of it; guests were allowed back only for a meal and for bedtime. But Dad had always made sure they had that holiday. During the worst of the Depression, he had been luckier than some. With millions out of work his boss had kept him, painting the factory when no work came in.
Even so, there had been times when Mum and Dad had feared they might have to find somewhere to live with a lower rent. Brenda remembered praying until she cried that they wouldn’t have to. She’d had all her friends here, and her school. The thought of changing schools, being among strangers, had been too awful to contemplate.
It hadn’t come about, but she’d been dragged out of school at thirteen and a half to work in the cake factory so that her small wages could help to boost the family income. She was never allowed to forget how lucky she had been to secure a job when so many were on the dole.
That was in the past now. In 1937, things were at last looking up. Even so, getting married on the low wages Harry earned as packer in a warehouse was still proving tough. But she was proud of him. He’d managed to pay the holding fee on a flat above a shop in Bow Road. It wasn’t much – living room, kitchen, bedroom, boxroom, access by an external wrought-iron staircase, a backyard toilet to be shared by them and the shop’s proprietor. But she’d have her own home, hers and Harry’s, their own little love nest.
Just under a week and she’d walk down the aisle of St Mary’s on Dad’s arm, all solemn, to stand beside Harry. She’d return on Harry’s arm, all smiles. The congregation, his family one side, hers the other, and friends, would be congratulating them both, following them out for photographs, and she would no longer be Brenda Wilson but Mrs Harry Hutton.
She recalled the first time of seeing him. She and a group of girls had been outside a chip shop exchanging banter with a group of boys. Then he’d asked if she’d like to go to the pictures. Taken by his handsome looks, she’d said yes, something about him making her hope it wouldn’t be just a fling. It hadn’t been. After three dates with him, a feeling began to stir that got her mulling over a new name for herself, Brenda Hutton, hearing in her head the nice ring of it. She’d even written it down on bits of paper, screwing them up afterwards and throwing them away in case, discovered, she’d be laughed at. The mention of his name would bring twinges of excitement in much the same way as she had once shivered to the names of Tyrone Power and Clark Gable.
And now, come Saturday, she would be Brenda Hutton forever, his ring on her finger, one thought only in her head, that they leave as soon as possible for their own little home and make love to each other as man and wife, in fact to make love to each other for the first time ever.
Underneath that chirpy exterior he had displayed on their first meeting, Harry had proved to be a shy person. For all his hearty attitude with his mates, in with the best of them for ogling the girls, once on his own with her he’d been uncertain of himself. So much so that though she’d felt sympathy for him, it had added to his charm rather than lessening it. But once he had regained his self-confidence, he proved himself to be as strong-minded as any man, and she loved him for it, knowing he’d make her happy. Every girl needed an assertive man for a husband.
There was, however, one fly in the ointment of all this contentment – leaving her job. After Thursday, having Friday off to prepare for the wedding, she wouldn’t be going back. It was perhaps her only regret.
‘It’s a respectable job,’ she’d pleaded with Harry. ‘Not like working in a factory.’ But he’d been adamant.
‘I’m not ’aving me wife going ter work. We ain’t that ’ard up and if I can’t provide I’d rather not be wedded. I ain’t ’aving people pointing a finger at me saying yer got ter work ter ’elp keep us. No, Bren, once yer married ter me, your place is ’ere, in the ’ome. That’s as it should be.’
She was proud of him for saying that, not expecting her to keep him while he loafed as some men did. And she looked forward to playing housewife, meeting other housewives. This was the dream of nearly all single working girls, to get married and never have to go out to work again. They would look enviously at their married counterparts and long for the day when they too could get their man’s breakfast, see him off to work before settling down in their kitchen with a nice quiet cup of tea and a leisurely cigarette. Then they would flick a duster around their new wedding presents and wash up their gleaming new crockery and saucepans, also wedding presents. No more taking orders from a boss. No more rushing off to catch the workman’s bus. No more clock-watching apart from timing the evening meal. Utter bliss. Every girl’s dream. Yet Brenda couldn’t help viewing the loss of her job with a small pang of regret. She loved hairdressing but she was giving it all up. In an odd way she felt obsolete, left behind, as if the world were going on without her and someone else would take her place.
Of course the friends she’d made there would come to her wedding if they could. Mr Fichera would definitely be there. One or two of the girls might visit her new home, which she would parade proudly before them. But eventually they would stop coming, get on with their own lives, befriend the new person who would take over from her. In time even her name would be forgotten as if she had never been. It was inevitable.
Oddly disconsolate, she turned her head away from Vera and Mum and glanced out of the window. From here she could see almost the whole way along Trellis Street. Not that there was much of it to see. A dozen or so houses stood on each side ending at the archway over which the Great Eastern ran, deafening the ears with rattling trains that boomed over the empty space below and filled the street with stinking smoke. Houses were terraced, with tiny front gardens that grew little and that blackened by soot from the trains. Each front door was set into a dark brick porch; beside it protruded a single, slightly bayed downstairs window, its stone mullions also blackened by soot; two upper windows were also stone-framed, unpretty, without character, each exactly like its neighbour, front and back, as with every other street in this district. Maybe it was better than Shoreditch or Whitechapel or Stepney or many other East End areas, but it still looked dull and dingy.
At the moment the street was full of kids. August meant they were on holiday and all seemed to be here in this one street. Brenda took a deep breath and did her best to brighten up and endure her mother’s attentions to the hem.
Trellis Street had seen three major events this year. In May there had been the street party for the coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth with the women bringing a little something to help fill the trestle tables they’d set up, with nearly fifty kids sitting down to sandwiches, cakes and jelly. The men had brought the beer for later, dragging a piano out from one of the houses for a sing-song and a booze-up.
Earlier this year, in January, had been the funeral of Tim Goodings with whom she had gone out for a while when she’d been eighteen. He had died from pneumonia; that and TB ran rife among people with little money. His funeral had been done by the Co-op, a single hearse and one following car, all his family could afford from years of putting into the Co-op funeral divi.
After the coronation do had come the still-talked-about fight between Mrs Cummings and Mrs McNab, one a fierce Cockney and one an equally fierce Irish woman, each yelling the other down, each as fast-talking as the other. It had ended with the two women rolling in the gutter, tearing out each other’s hair. The police had had to be called. Rumours had gone around but no one ever knew the rights of the argument. Something to do with kids – it usually was – ending up with both insulting the other’s husband. Arguments did go on, but never normally to the point of rolling in gutters and letting blood, no matter how little.
Now there was to be a fourth event. Her wedding. On Saturday, the eleventh of September, she would emerge from her home, arrayed in shimmering white satin and step into the waiting car paid for by her father. All the neighbours would stand at their doors watching her go. They’d grin and wave and call good luck to her. And she would shine.
Happy again, she craned her neck to see further down the street.
‘Hold still!’ came the command. ‘Stop wrigglin’ or I’ll end up gettin’ one of these bloomin’ pins in yer skin. Then yer’ll yelp. And stand up, will yer?’
Brenda brought herself back to attention. Vera was still standing in the doorway, carping, glaring at her headdress. Brenda just hoped she’d cheer up on the big day.
‘Right!’ Her mother’s conclusive tone brought her sharply back to the fact that she was still balancing on the kitchen chair in the bedroom. ‘Does that suit your ladyship?’
But Mum’s voice was kindly and Brenda dutifully looked down. Yes, that looked better. Much better.
‘Mum, you’re a marvel. You really are,’ she exclaimed and from the corner of her eye saw Vera’s nettled figure disappear abruptly from the doorway, the door closing with a sharp click behind her.
Vera would be all right on the day, would smile with the others and cause no trouble to mar her sister’s wedding. And pink suited her fine. She would give that hair just the tiniest of tints to make it work.
She lay in their new bed in their new flat, trying her best to come to terms with this new experience. And by his very lack of movement as he lay beside her, she knew Harry was doing the selfsame thing.
It had been a lovely day, a perfect day, which had gone without a hitch. Although the church was crowded with family and neighbours and friends, more people than she had expected, only her and Harry’s immediate families – about all his parents’ house could hold – had been invited back for the wedding breakfast and party afterwards.
The sun had shone without a break, the day had been just warm enough to be comfortable, almost balmy one could say. Everything had sparkled. The bridesmaids had been gorgeous. Vera had submitted to having her hair tinted a couple of shades darker than its natural blonde; she had said she liked it and was thinking of keeping it that way, though Brenda knew she wouldn’t – too much trouble and expensive as well for a girl earning only twenty-one bob a week as a shop assistant. But she and Sheila had looked truly lovely in that pink she had moaned about so much, both girls like two peas in a pod with such a strong family resemblance and their identical height.
And Vera had smiled all through the ceremony, through the wedding breakfast too, finding herself attracting the attention of a friend of Harry’s brother and best man. Vera could be stunning when she smiled. Pity she didn’t do it more often, then maybe she’d keep a boyfriend. Boys went for her, invited her out, but after a while they’d drop her and find someone else. Brenda knew why – if she’d only stop carping about everything – but you could hardly tell her and upset her. Maybe one day she’d learn. But at least she had taken that one’s eye. They had been together the whole evening.
‘Did you see the way yer brother’s friend was looking at Vera?’ she whispered to the motionless figure beside her.
His voice came low, muffled by the sheet pulled up around his chin despite the warm night. ‘I think ’is mate is sweet on ’er. Told me ’e was finking of asking ’er out.’
‘That’s nice,’ Brenda said softly and lapsed into silence again, her eyes wandering about the room which was faintly lit by street lamps, closed curtains stirring in the night breeze that came through the half-open sash window.
There were sounds too, making the room seem even more still: some way off a dog barking; faint passing footsteps from the pavement below, someone on their way home at this late hour; now and again a passing car, all public transport having long since stopped. She wished Harry would move or at least put his arm round her. He lay like a log. But she did understand. And they’d not long got into bed. It needed time.
It had been traumatic to say the least, this business of actually going to bed. One could almost have described it as a shock to the system – it had been to hers. She still wasn’t sure what she for her part was supposed to do, having no example to go by. Mum had never told her the facts of life. ‘Just do what comes natural,’ she’d said sharply on being asked and had turned away, her narrow cheeks reddening – and she was now sure that Harry too hadn’t much of an inkling. She could be relieved that he hadn’t, proof that he’d had no experience with girls before her.
Both she and Harry were innocents. Though it didn’t help now. If only someone, Mum for instance, had enlightened her just a tiny bit on what was expected of newlyweds. Maybe it was awkward for a mother to explain such things to her daughter. How would she explain when her own grew up and got married? It was a delicate subject, not easy to broach. Staring up at the faintly lit ceiling, Brenda silently forgave her mum.
She remembered the girls at the factory where she had started work, at nearly fourteen. An uncouth lot, some of them. On one occasion someone had related having it off with a bloke and how she had handled the biggest dick you ever saw, her audience of five girls screaming with laughter and making comments of their own. Innocently she’d asked what was a dick and had been told to take a peek at a horse when it sees a mare.
She had gone looking at all the horses she could find, those that pulled the coal carts and milk floats, but there was nothing to tell her what she should be looking for. Intrigued, she’d asked Mum and had seen that thin face go bright crimson. The next minute her mother’s hand had struck out and connected with her cheek in a sharp stinging smack. She was told to keep a ladylike tongue in her mouth and to shut her ears to the things filthy people said. It was years later, to her extreme mortification, that she finally discovered what it meant.
The girls she had worked with at Alfio’s had been too nice to talk about anything crude or relate what they got up to with boys outside work – if they got up to anything at all. She had got married today knowing nothing and that too in its own way now seemed somehow mortifying.
Did he feel the same? Was that why he lay so still and quiet beside her? Neither of them had looked at each other as they crept into bed; she felt very conscious of being in her new nightdress, of him being in his pyjamas. She had undressed in the living room, he in the kitchen. From there he had called softly, ‘Ready, Bren?’ and suddenly all pent up and shy, she’d replied that she was. He had already clicked off the bedroom light switch by the time she came in. They’d clambered into bed in the dark.
So far, with the covers pulled up to their chins, he had kissed her, briefly, leaning over her, and had then fallen back into the position he still retained beside her.
‘Orright, Bren?’ he’d asked and she’d nodded vigorously so that he’d be aware of it if he couldn’t see her in the dark. Now they lay side by side, aware of each other’s closeness – or she was of his – neither of them with anything to say, and with each passing moment embarrassment grew, since neither of them felt ready to make the first move. Of course, it should be him to make it, not her. She lay wondering what was going to happen, and how, this consummation of marriage that the vicar had spoken of.
It was ridiculous after all those evenings they’d said their goodnights to each other while they were courting, when he would cup her breasts in kissing her and she would love it, not drawing away, feeling the wonderful sensation that passed over her, even though a blouse or dress lay between his hand and her flesh. There’d been hardly ever more than that; she, determined to save herself for her marriage, had felt gratified that he hadn’t made too intense an advance. But they’d always been at ease with each other. Until tonight.
From the start of their relationship she had been surprised by the diffident way he behaved. From his apparently knowledgeable attitude when she had first seen him with his mates, she’d taken him to be a bit of a woman-chaser and had hoped he’d behave himself on that first date. He had. He hadn’t even kissed her. Encouraged, she’d let him take her out the following Saturday to the pictures, at La Boheme, the big imposing cinema on the corner of Burdett Road. He’d seen her home to the top of her turning, and had actually asked if she’d mind him giving her a goodnight kiss. It had been that gentle and tentative kiss of his that had sent little needles of joy pinging through her, invoking the love she still felt for him.
Harry hardly dared to breathe. His mind was in a whirl, indecisive, and he felt sick. Hell sometimes being a bloke. All right for a woman, all she had to do was wait her cue and follow his unspoken instructions. It was him what had to make the first move, and it was like jumping off a bloody precipice. Worse: with that all you had to do was jump, your lights going out as soon as you hit the ground. With this, you knew you’d be spending the rest of your blinking life forever being reminded of the bleeding blunder you made of it all.
He’d never been a one for girls, not until Brenda. For all his displays of bravado, of discussing girls with his mates, they made him uneasy. They were wily and clever, got there before you and shied away making you feel a bloody fool. If they didn’t, they were all over you, scaring the life out of you.
He had turned twenty-two before he found any real self-confidence to take on a girl seriously. The girl had been Brenda and after a couple of dates he’d seen no reason to change her. He was comfortable with her, and he was a man who preferred things easy. She was the sort a bloke could let do the thinking. He was proud of her too. She had everything: brains, looks, poise, bags of charm, and a sort of calmness about her. She was not your soppy sort who squealed and frisked about, showing a bloke up everywhere they went. Yet she could be the life and soul of a party. Everyone liked her. And now he was married to her. Now he must show how strong and virile he was, that he was boss . . . Well, not exactly boss, he didn’t think she’d stomach that, but worthy of his role as husband.
He drew in a deep fortifying breath and felt her body grow taut. The nerve that breath was supposed to fortify collapsed instantly. What should he do now? If he put his arm under her head? That meant lifting it, making a big thing of it. Perhaps if he leaned over and kissed her again? He should never have lain back after kissing her that first time. Bugger it!
To think of all the times he’d fumbled her breasts as they stood locked in each other’s arms inside her parents’ dark porch, hardly even daring to whisper in case her dad came to the door and hurriedly yanked her indoors, being protective of his daughter’s honour. As if they could do much inside a poky little porch! Or her mum would invite them in for a cup of cocoa before he went home. A real passion-killer, cocoa, as was her mum, nattering on, seeing him to the door when it was time to leave, saying to Brenda, ‘Now don’t stay out here too long, luv, yer dad an’ me want ter go ter bed.’
What chance did a bloke have after that?
Not that he’d ever have touched Brenda against her wishes. Naturally a girl wanted to be intact on her wedding day. It wouldn’t have bothered him if she wasn’t, so long as it wasn’t by some other bloke. But the truth of it was, he’d never had the courage, and God knows he had his needs all right, that tightening and swelling down there every time they said goodnight making him feel he might go potty if he wasn’t relieved. He’d go home feeling downright frustrated like he’d been dropped into a bucket of cold water. But he’d never given way to it. Imagine losing Brenda – and she’d certainly have given him his marching orders – it would have been the end of the world. Yet now, when it was all right to go all the way, he couldn’t even begin. Not so much as a stir down below.
Nerves. If he made a hash of it, how would she react? He dreaded even thinking of it. The mere thought of her contempt, of maybe hearing her giggle, was a threat to his tackle. Soft as a bloody overripe grape. Something had to be done. He reached a hand across his body and felt his fingers touch the smooth, slippery satin of the nightdress just above her breasts. They felt so firm under his fingers. A split second later he heard, ‘Oh . . . Harry . . .’
It took no more than that. She was in his arms and he at last felt in total command. This their first night as man and wife was grand, perfect. Apart from the business of hurriedly pulling on protection – she’d warned earlier that she didn’t want any babies too soon, not until they’d saved a bit – yes, it was great. How could he have been so blooming stupid as to even think it wouldn’t be?
Brenda awoke with a tingle of excitement, but not because of their love-making last night. That hadn’t quite been what she had imagined, although she had not really known what it was she had expected.
Lovely, of course, being explored all over, experiencing the thrill she had always felt whenever Harry held her close, his hand wandering as he kissed her, but surely there had to be something far more when a man and woman really became one, as it were?
The sensation of him slipping himself inside her had for a moment been a bit alarming. In fact, she had found herself praying it wouldn’t do her an injury, which was silly because this had gone on ever since man walked the earth, and women had never come to any harm by it, had they? After the first thrill of his hands touching her there, it had sort of gone off, so she lay there while he did what he needed to do. Much more enjoyable had been the long and ardent kiss he had given her when he’d climbed back into bed after disposing of that thing he’d worn to stop babies happening. After that they had fallen asleep.
No, this excitement stemmed from the anticipation of going off on the honeymoon this morning. The suitcase was already packed. And now would come the rush to catch the train to Eastbourne where they were spending a week before coming home next Saturday.
Bringing herself fully awake, she gazed down at Harry, who was just beginning to stir. Her husband. It did seem funny, as if they had magically come by this state. He looked so handsome lying there. Pity to disturb him. In fact she could easily have sat here watching him forever.
She dropped a kiss on his firm, narrow cheek. ‘Time to get up,’ she whispered, and saw him stretch, screwing up his face.
‘Ahh . . .’ He yawned mightily, then opening his eyes, he turned and smiled at her. ‘You orright, old gel?’
She gave him a push. ‘Old gel? And us just married. Give us at least a chance to get old!’
She leapt out of bed before he could catch her, even though it would have been nice to be caught and make love all over again. There wasn’t time. On the narrow mantelshelf over the tiny oval-topped firegrate, their new alarm clock, a wedding present from one of his aunts and uncles, showed eight fifteen. Its tinkling had woken her up but for some reason it hadn’t been that loud and had ceased of its own accord. Well, cheap and cheerful, Harry would have to tinker with it later to make sure it behaved itself properly when he had to get up and go to work. But not until they returned from their honeymoon.
‘Come on, love,’ she scolded. ‘We’ve got ter be out in half an hour or so. Mustn’t miss our train.’
She heard him singing in their bedroom as he dressed while she made the breakfast – her first-ever breakfast for them – a bit of bacon, egg, and fried bread. Mum had got in a few provisions on Friday before the wedding.
Harry had got under her feet, washing and shaving in the sink behind her as she busied herself around the gas stove; he had said sorry several times. But it was lovely to know that this was how married life would be from now on, getting in each other’s way, saying sorry to each other.
Breakfast was a rush, and the washing-up got done hurriedly. She put everything away tidily, and made a last-minute visit to the loo in the yard to empty out so as not to be caught out before getting on the train; her heart pounded from all the preparations to be off.
Soon, once they had their going-away togs on, Harry carefully locked the door of the flat as if it was the most precious thing he would ever do, putting the key carefully into his pocket before picking up the suitcase.
‘You got our door key safe now?’ she asked.
He grinned at her, which showed him to be very pleased with himself. ‘Yer saw me do it?’
She grinned too, happy that he was happy. ‘Yes, but I just wanted to make sure you’d remember where you put it.’
He took her arm with his free hand. ‘You leave it all ter me. Come on, let’s be orf.’
He helped her down the iron staircase to the side gate that took them out on to Bow Road, very quiet at this time of a Sunday morning; in a way she was sad at leaving their home so soon for a whole week, but their honeymoon beckoned, and they needed to hurry. There weren’t that many tube trains running on a Sunday, though the excursion train to Eastbourne would be crowded on such a sunny morning. People would be taking maybe a last trip to the south coast before September with its uncertain weather put an end to any more days out.
Harry, a little ahead of her, looked anxious to get going. She hurried along watching his long gangling form leaning away from the heavy suitcase as it bumped against his leg, his other arm held away from his body to counter-balance the weight. She carried the two smaller bags, one with various bits and bobs that hadn’t fitted too well in the case: another hat, her envelope handbag, a spare cardigan in case the sea air was chilly when they stepped out of the train at Eastbourne. The other bag held sandwiches, a bit of their wedding cake and a flask of tea to tide them over on the train journey.
They were catching the ten twenty from Victoria. She hoped they’d have enough time to buy the tickets without too much of a rush, perhaps even get a cup of tea in the station buffet. That remained to be seen. Getting there was the most important thing. Once on the train they could relax. She only hoped they wouldn’t look too much like newlyweds and have to endure the covert smirks that would embarrass her and spoil her journey. Well, she’d look the smirkers straight in the eye until, embarrassed themselves, they’d have to turn away. She would put her arm through Harry’s, cuddle up to him and show them all that she was proud to be his wife.
They were going to have a lovely honeymoon.
In the kitchen Mum was buttering the slices Brenda had so far cut from a large crusty bloomer.
‘I must say, Bren, yer look as if yer’ve settled down nice enough.’
Brenda chuckled as she sawed at the loaf. She’d bought the week’s provisions yesterday, an hour or two after she and Harry had arrived home from Eastbourne. Tired from the journey, she’d still had to go out shopping, cutting her first teeth as a new housewife. It was as yet a labour of love, as was this Sunday tea to which they had invited both their parents with one or two relatives popping round later to celebrate their homecoming.
Harry and both their fathers were at the moment in the front room, the two older men lounging in the nice if second-hand armchairs while Harry sat on the small sofa that didn’t match. Soon she would buy some strong fabric to cover all three pieces and make them match. The men, taking full benefit of the September evening sunshine slanting through the window, were talking and smoking as they waited for tea to be laid.
‘We’ve hardly ’ad a chance yet,’ Brenda answered her mother. ‘Say that again after we’ve had tea. I’m still new to all this.’
‘You ’ad enough practice at ’ome.’
‘Not all on me own, Mum,’ Brenda laughed. It was nice having her parents to this, her first effort at entertaining. ‘All I ever did them days was ter help you.’
Harry’s mum popped her head round the door. ‘Anythink I can do?’
Wedged between a wall and the little wooden baize-covered kitchen table, Brenda glanced around the pocket handkerchief of a kitchen. ‘Well, not really, Mum.’ She had to get used to calling her Mum, though with her own mother there it made her feel awkward doing so. ‘There ain’t hardly any room for two of us out here.’
She saw Harry’s mother’s expression change and hastily rectified her mistake. The woman mustn’t feel shut out.
‘But if yer could lay the table, the tablecloth’s on one of the chairs in the front room still wrapped up in fancy paper. And if yer can take in that nice cutlery and the tea set you and Harry’s dad bought us. Thanks ever so much for them. They really were a lovely wedding present and we just can’t wait to give them an airing. You’ll be the first of our visitors to use them, you and my mum and dad.’
The woman’s face brightened as she went to the little leather box whose open lid displayed the gleaming cutlery. ‘I’ll come back for the other things.’
It was her own mother’s turn to look a bit down as the other woman departed bearing the box of cutlery. ‘I ’ope yer liked our present, Bren.’
Brenda beamed at her. Mum and Dad had bought them a radio set. ‘It’s the best present anyone could wish for, honest. We can occupy all our evenings listening in, being as we won’t be able to afford to go many places.’
She saw her mother’s face relax, but it grew thoughtful too, a slow, deep indrawn breath accompanying it. ‘So, Bren, how’d it all go?’
Brenda returned to cutting bread. ‘How did what go?’
‘You know. Yer ’oneymoon. Did yer . . .? Well, you know.’
‘Oh, we had a lovely time. The weather was smashing for September, and we had really comfortable digs. We could see the sea from the landing.’
‘Yes, but everythink else – was everythink orright?’
‘Of course.’ She was falling in to what Mum was alluding to, and not too happy about it. ‘Why?’
‘Just wondered.’ Mum was buttering furiously. ‘Yer know, first time fer yer both – that sort of thing.’
A small twinge of irritation made itself felt. That sort of thing was her own business, hers and Harry’s. She wasn’t prepared to share even with her own mother the ins and outs of the cat’s arse so to speak, in spite of Mum imagining she had every right to know. But she blinked away her annoyance. Probably all mothers were like this. Concerned for their daughters.
‘We had a lovely time, Mum. And me and him – we’re fine.’
Either content or realising she oughtn’t to pry, her mother went back to buttering bread, now with less agitation, and changed the subject.
‘’Ope yer don’t mind yer Aunt Grace and Uncle Herbert poppin’ over after tea. It’s natural, them wanting ter black their noses – your new place and everythink. Herbert said ’e’d bring a bottle of whisky. And I’ve got that sherry in me bag what was left over from the weddin’.’
‘Harry’s Aunt Ada and Uncle Reg will be here too after tea,’ Brenda said, growing increasingly crestfallen at the prospect of all these people in one room hardly large enough for two. They really had no business inviting themselves like that. How was she going to fit them all in?
She had started off inviting both parents to tea, that was all. But when Harry’s mum had asked if her elderly dependent mother, who lived with them, could come, how could she say no? It made seven people sitting down to tea. True, the bulky Victorian table that had been his grandmother’s now graced her own flat. This gracious wedding gift had been the old lady’s treasured possession and had stood unused in two parts against the wall of his parents’ bedroom behind a curtain. Accepting it with good grace, Brenda suspected they’d been glad to see the back of it. It was almost too big for here, but she had fitted it in somehow.
‘It’s only nat’ral,’ Mum was saying, ‘they’d want ter see yer now yer ’ome safe from ’oneymoon.’
She had no option. ‘It’s going ter be a crush in this small place.’
‘Oh, we’ll manage,’ countered her mother without hesitation.
Brenda sighed. She’d hoped for an early night. Harry had to be back at work tomorrow morning and would get up at six thirty to be there by half seven.
They’d had an early night last night after all that travelling. Even so, he had proved himself well up to standard in the lovemaking department. She had no doubt by the way he kept looking at her that once they had got rid of their guests he’d show himself equally enthusiastic as he’d been last night. Pity about all this having to take precautions though – go on like this, it would end up costing him a mint on them things he got from the barber’s shop. She’d offered to cut his hair for him and save money, but only barbers could provide what he went in there for. At that rate, she found herself smiling, he would soon have the best-cut hair in the neighbourhood.
Her first effort at entertaining was turning out a great success even with seven people crammed round the table in the tight space between the rest of the furniture.
Conversation flowed easily, apart from an enquiry from Mum about what Eastbourne’s scenery was like, which brought a wink from Harry’s father.
‘If I know ’im, he wouldn’t of given ’er much time ter look at scenery!’
Brenda felt herself blush and saw Harry’s face redden. His mother threw a sharp look at her husband.
‘That’s enough, Sid! Round a tea table an’ all and in company. Leave the youngsters alone.’ She turned towards Brenda’s mother. ‘He can be so blessed coarse when ’e likes. Don’t stop ter think. I’m sorry.’
Mum, having hurriedly bent her head to the unnecessary task of cutting her ham sandwich into quarters, lifted her face to smile acceptance of the apology while Dad cleared his throat, and gave the two young people an embarrassed glance.
‘Let’s just say,’ Harry’s mother added hastily, ‘they ’ad a lovely time.’ This only succeeded in turning it into an innuendo, albeit innocent, and she in her turn went pink.
‘Eastbourne was lovely,’ Brenda volunteered, trying to avert her eyes from Harry. ‘We went up on the cliffs quite a few times. They’re ever so high and I felt scared. I couldn’t go anywhere near the edge, but Harry did. He didn’t see any danger. I was so frightened for ’im. It’s miles down. The lighthouse looked just like a little toy all that way below. But Eastbourne’s ever so clean and tidy. And the sea air smelled so nice and fresh. We was so sad to come away.’
Having finally sidestepped the ticklish subject, she was glad as the conversation settled down with no more personal references. But she knew that when the others arrived after tea, they would all be agog if only showing this in their meaningful if kindly glances. It was understandable, of course. After all, she was the first of the youngsters in the family to get married.
At one time it had been assumed that her brother Davy, oldest out of them all, twenty-four going on twenty-five, would have been first. But he was more happy with his mates, going to pubs and dance halls or cycling in the usual huge group of blokes out into the country of a weekend, with not a steady girl in sight.
At the other end of the scale, Brian, her younger brother who in her estimation was not half as good-looking as Davy, at nearly seventeen was always out with some girl or other to the consternation of Mum in case he ended up getting one of them into trouble. Mum was well aware what he was like, and even Brenda despite her own innocence knew there were girls of that sort about. In fact, Brian’s behaviour was the cause of more rows in Mum and Dad’s house than anything else. Not even Vera’s petulant attitude provoked as many arguments.
It was an unbelievable squash, as she knew it would be. By seven thirty the room was stuffy with heat coming off so many bodies. All she could think of was thank goodness the whole two families hadn’t decided to pop in. Look how full of relatives the church had been on her wedding day. All that lot and they’d have been lined up the outside stairs like some queue at the pictures. Just as well her brothers and her sister hadn’t come, especially Vera, moaning her head off. But they wouldn’t have. Too full of their own pursuits, they were: Brian out with a girl, Davy with his mates, Vera with hers.
‘If any more,’ she whispered to Harry as she watched everyone trying to find space to sit, ‘we’d have had to sit on each other’s laps.’
He grinned at her as he filled his pint glass from one of the half-dozen bottles of brown ale his uncle had brought along while her guests finally got themselves sorted out, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I tell yer one fing, Bren, we ain’t gonna do this very often.’
From the look on his face she knew he harboured the same thought as her – to get rid of everyone as soon as decently possible so they could both go to bed. They’d been fools to entertain after having been married for only a week. With them just back from their honeymoon, only the inconsiderate would have accepted any invitation this soon, and this was just a third of the family. No doubt in time the rest would trot along. It could go on for weeks, and they would have to put up with it, she supposed. It was inevitable, with no one keen to be left out of viewing the newlyweds’ new home. But tonight it was most important, even urgent, to get their guests out as early as possible.