In Love and War

“Well, you’re lucky, Prim, at least you’ve got Bob at home, seeing as Baker’s are exempt from joining up.”

“Yeah, I know, I should count my blessings Glo, but the powers that be are right, you know. They’re vital, aren’t they, baker’s, to the war effort, especially as commercial bakers like Bob can still make real bread with real ingredients, and not that homemade rubbish that passes for our daily slice at the moment.” She tapped her fingers on the table as if proving a point, “It’s so important you know, helping to keep up morale.” Prim lit a cigarette and puffed greedily, blowing out a long grey funnel of smoke that spiralled into the air to mix with all the smoke that hung above us in a thick cloud.

I poured a little more tea into our cups, squeezing out every last drop, then added the last of the milk, the resulting brew being thick and orange, “builders’ tea” as it’s known to be called. “Yeah, they can use real flour. Not like all the poor housewives who have to substitute it with mashed potatoes, eh?”

“I know, and the bread Bob makes might be wholemeal and not the white we’re used to, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh, Glo?”

“You’re right there,” I said as I drained my cup, wishing there was more, even though the last of the tea had been thick enough to stand a spoon in.

“Yeah, what is it they say, that blooming British Ministry of Food, “to make the most of every crumb …”

“Because bread is worth more than dough!” We both burst into laughter, cackling like hens as our old mum would say.

Oh, hello there, reader, sorry I’ve just noticed you. I’m Gloria Baxter and sitting right here with me in our favourite café, “Tea Up,” on Palmerston Road in our home town of Southsea, is my sister Primrose, well Prim to all her friends and, come to that, I’m Glo to all my friends too. Mum told us she and Dad chose the name Primrose because she was born on 19th April, Primrose Day. I remember being a bit put out when we were kids because my birthday on 1st August wasn’t called Gloria Day.

“Oh, you are a strange one, Gloria,” I remember mum saying as she ruffled my hair, “Why on earth would there be a Gloria Day?”

“Why on earth would there be a Primrose Day then?” I remember asking her. Only to be told it was something to do with the death of Benjamin Disraeli, whoever he was. I was too small then to understand, history going right over my head.

The café is busy as usual, with mainly women now, only a couple of elderly men, or younger men with disabilities, maybe to exempt them from the fighting. The women sit there, full shopping baskets at their feet, drinking tea and having a good old jaw to one another, no doubt about this awful war, the weather, and the price of potatoes. Piped music plays, but we can barely hear it because of all the high-pitched talk and laughter, the whooshing of the tea and coffee machines, and the ker-ching of the till. Waitresses dressed smartly in black and white rush from one table to another carrying trays of food and drinks.

It’s war time, which is scary for everyone, and, as we’re more than two years into it, and sick of it now, God knows what will happen if it goes on for many more years. It’s just too depressing to even think about. My fiancé, Will Harris, signed up right at the beginning and was gone in a flash. He acted as if he couldn’t wait to leave, to get out of here, as if he was setting off on an adventure, or the holiday of a lifetime.

“It’s patriotism,” I remember he’d said, “I’m proud to be able to fight for my country, Glo.”

I was sceptical about that. I mean, this time around, the second world war as opposed to the first world war, don’t you think all the men joining up wouldn’t be so eager to go, seeing as all the first lot, those poor innocent soldiers, were totally wiped out, well let’s say annihilated, that’s a good word, leaving all the women with no husbands, boyfriends or fiancés. Some of the women never even married again but stayed at home bringing up the kids, and when they went off to pursue their own lives, the women lived alone until the day they died. Oh my, I’m full of the joys today, aren’t I?

Breaking into my thoughts, Prim said, “Have you heard from Will lately, Glo?” She grimaced as she sipped her tea, “Good God, this is strong.”

“Drink it, it’ll put hairs on your chest.” We giggled as I said, “I’ve had a couple of letters from him.”

“How’s he sound?” She stubbed out her cigarette on a small piece of tin that served as an ashtray.

I shrugged, “Okay, I suppose. He wants me to pack up parcels for him, you know, with ciggies, and any edible goodies I can get my hands on.”

Prim patted my arm, “You just let me know what he likes, eh? And I’ll get Bob to try and get him some sweet stuff. Although that sort of thing is few and far between now.”

I patted her hand, “Thanks, Prim. Bob could get Will anything. He loves anything sweet.”

“Is that why he likes you, eh?” She laughed and nudged my arm with her elbow.

I smiled as I gazed at her pretty face with its dark eyes and red painted lips, dark hair in a cloud of loose curls. All thanks really to Prim’s patience with pin curls every night. Her looks were so different from mine, with light-coloured hair and green eyes; it was surprising we had the same mum and dad. Some people wouldn’t believe we were sisters. She looked tired, though, with little lines beneath her eyes and around her mouth.

“It’s because you smoke, that’s what it is,” Mum always said about the lines around her mouth, to which Prim would look at her with disdain and flatly deny it had anything at all to do with it.

“Oh yes, it is. You pucker your mouth, look like this, every time you take a draw, and that’s what causes those lines.” And she’d pucker her mouth into a tiny rosebud, making us all laugh.

“Mum’s that worried about our Terry, too, isn’t she?”

I nodded, “Yeah, aren’t we all though, me, you, dad. It’s not good, is it, knowing our brother’s out there somewhere, with harm lurking around every corner.”

“I know,” Prim patted my shoulder, and picked up the teapot, “Well, the tea’s all gone. Maybe we should get back home now, then Glo. Bob will be getting out of bed by now and getting ready for his shift tonight. I really should make him his tea. He hates going to work hungry.”

“Yeah, only because he’d eat everything he made, eh, Prim?”

She laughed and said, “You’re right there, Glo.”

I drained my cup and said, “I’m going to call in at Will’s shop.”

She stood up and took a quick peek in a pretty mirror hanging over the fireplace, I knew to make sure her hat was straight. “Whatever for?”

I shrugged as I stood up and began to button up my coat, “Well, I might have a go at opening it up for him, it’s been closed for too long, and I’ve been so busy with work at the factory, I hadn’t thought of it until recently. It would be a nice surprise, wouldn’t it, if he had a thriving business after this war is all over and done with.”

“Antiques, though? I can’t see antiques selling at the moment, Glo.”

“Well, it’s not all antiques,” I told her, as we made our way to the door, “There’s all sorts of quirky stuff in there. I’m going to have a look. Not everybody’s gone off to fight, you know. Some oldies still get out and about shopping on the main street,” I shrugged, “You never know, they might want to take a peek in the shop. Seems a shame that it’s all shut up.”

“Yeah, but what about your job, Glo, at the factory?”

I shrugged, “I’d open the shop at weekends.”

Prim nodded and then put a finger to her lips, as I said, “Don’t you breathe a word to anyone, okay?”

It was chilly outside, a fresh April breeze that blew sneakily around our ankles, salty and sharp from the sea, yet the park across the road was awash with daffodils, their bright yellow trumpets glowing in the sunshine. A heart-warming sight if it wasn’t for the fact that the place was half empty, most of the local men having gone to fight. It seemed strange not to see them sitting on the park benches, going in and out of the pubs, of which there were a lot here in Southsea, or paying a visit to the Ironmongers for packets of nails and screws, and planks of wood, or even scurrying into the local betting shop, and coming out with a smile when their horse won.

Prim flung her arms around me and pulled me close, “Take care, Glo, my baby sister. See you round at mum and dad’s during the week, okay?” The smell of her favourite perfume, “Evening in Paris,” floated in the air. I was surprised she had any left now, what with this awful war and all the shortages we had to endure, not only in food but fripperies like perfume as well, and even soap and toothpaste were hard to come by.

“Yeah, see you at Mum and Dad’s,” I replied as I hugged her and watched affectionately as she walked away. A tall figure, clad in a beige raincoat, the belt pulled in tightly at the waist. I envied Prim sometimes for her good, solid marriage to Bob. No children yet, though, although I knew they were trying, and I did worry for them because of that.

Taking a deep sigh, I turned in the opposite direction to Prim and walked to the bottom of Palmerston Road, where Will’s shop is situated. It has a lovely view of the beach and the sea from the large shop window, covered now in a thick blackout blind, although unfortunately sea salt plays havoc with the paintwork as both the door and the sign “William Harris Antiquities,” emblazoned across it in thick black letters, have to be regularly touched up with a special paint, just as it did now, its deep green colour being less vibrant and patchy white too. The same for the brickwork. Salt attack in a maritime area, as it’s called. Mind you, I was lucky the building was still here anyway, after the blitz on Portsmouth a couple of years ago.

The high, sweet voices of children and the crashing of the waves echoed from the beach as I unlocked the door, the bell dinging as I stepped inside, the smell of damp and mildew immediately engulfing me and making me cough. Fervently, I wished I’d thought to call in here before and not left it to get in such a state. Will would be mortified if he could see it now, although he had told me to keep away, that he’d deal with the shop when he returned from the war.

“Goodness,” I thought, as I switched on the light that illuminated the shop floor in a bright white, where an abundance of envelopes and flyers advertising all sorts of things thought to boost public morale were strewn all over the doormat. The counter was covered in a thick film of dust, as, no doubt, were some of the antiques. I picked up the post and put it all into a neat pile, thinking I’d sort through it later, and then wondered about taking note of all the ornaments, pictures, and quirky or nostalgic items we had on display.

I was just about to go out the back to check on the office and the store room when the shop bell dinged, bringing me up short, my heart doing a steady thump thump in my breast, wondering who on earth it was, when a voice rang out, “Ah, hi there. Um, are you open?”

“Oh no,” I thought, “I didn’t lock the door. How stupid am I?” but, turning back to the counter, I shouted out, “No, I’m so sorry, I’m not open at the moment. Perhaps you could come back some other time?”

A man stood there, a tall man wearing a dark great coat, a uniform underneath. Hastily, he removed his hat, clutching it in his hand, revealing light coloured hair in a crew cut. His eyes were a startling blue, and when he smiled, deep dimples appeared in his cheeks.

“Hey, that’s a shame, you’ve got a fine shop here.” He began to move around, gazing at the pictures on the walls, turning his head this way and that. He moved closer to an old black and white framed photograph of Southsea pier, the sky a pale blue, speckled with cloud, seagulls flying in the air like little white ghosts. “My dad’s really into antiques. He’s got quite a collection.”

“Really?”

“When your shop’s up and running, I’d like to buy this for him. Is that okay?”

I nodded even though I was quivering inside, and my stomach felt hollow, as if I hadn’t eaten for months, my legs shaky, and my voice shook, as I said, “Yes, of course, it’ll take a while to get it ready, though. This place has been closed up since the beginning of the war. There’s dust everywhere, and so much post piled up on the doormat,” I giggled nervously, “Two years’ worth.”

He fixed me with his blue eyes and held out a hand, the dimples appearing again as if by magic in his cheeks, “Hi, I’m Mitch, Mitch Jackson.”

“Hi, um, Gloria Baxter.”

“Nice to meet you, Gloria.” His warm hand gripped mine, crushing it tightly. I tried my catch my breath as the thought, “let this moment last forever,” blew through my mind. And then I came to my senses and snatched my hand away, saying briskly, “You’re American?”

“Yeah, GI Mitch Jackson, and I’ve just arrived in your lovely country.”

“Oh, come to help the poor old UK, have you?”

“I’d say support rather than help. You seem to have been managing pretty well up until now.”

Somewhat mollified, I said, “Where in America do you come from?”

“Kansas, mam.”

“Kansas? Why, isn’t that where Dorothy comes from in the Wizard of Oz?”

He laughed, throwing his head back and showing a long, tanned neck. I noticed his teeth too, so white and straight, “Yeah, she sure does. Hey, that’s a great movie. I love watching it, especially at Christmas.”

“Yeah, me too,” I hesitated, “But, as I said earlier, the shop isn’t open yet, so,” I held out a hand palm up, “If you don’t mind, I’ve loads of clearing up to do.”

“Sure, yeah,” He made his way towards the door, “It’s been great meeting you, Gloria.”

“Likewise,” I said, opening the door, and he stepped onto the street. It was dusky now, the sky a mass of red clouds on the horizon, and the smell of salt hovered in the air. Seagulls screamed and cried.

“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” he commented, nodding his head towards the clouds.

“Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning,” I finished for him.

“You know that, too, huh?” Putting his hat back on, he fixed his bright blue gaze on me, “Maybe I’ll call back in a week or two, see if you’re open?”

“Yes, but it will probably be weekends only at first.”

He nodded and said, “Okay, mam, but put that picture to one side for me, will you?”

“Yes, I will.”

I watched him then as he walked away, a tall, powerful-looking figure, his shoulders broad, straining against the thickness of his coat. He turned around once and waved, his hand a little white flag, and then disappeared as if he’d never been there at all, and that I’d imagined the whole encounter with such a charismatic American soldier.

“Mitch Jackson,” I thought, as I went back inside the shop, astounded at what had just happened, forgetting for a moment or two that I had a fiancé and, if not for the war, would probably be married to him by now. How could I let my head be turned by a chance meeting with a soldier, an American soldier at that, even though he did have the most mesmerising blue eyes and cutest dimples I’d ever seen.

I gazed around the shop, feeling a little down now at the amount of work there was to do, the hours of cleaning and, as I hadn’t had a chance to look in the office yet, I didn’t even know what paper work needed catching up with, if any, or even if I’d know what to do with it anyway. With a sigh, I decided to head home. Mum and Dad would be wondering where I was anyway, and Mum would probably have tea ready and be longing for a good old gossip about my meeting with Primrose.

Before I left, I carefully took the picture that the American soldier had liked off the wall, putting it carefully in the kitchen, and then, switching off the shop light, I stepped outside only, tutting with annoyance, having to go back in to collect the mound of post I’d left on the shop counter. I tucked it into my bag out of sight of prying eyes, before I left the shop and, turning on my heel, took the short walk home, treading slowly and carefully until my eyes became accustomed to the darkness that, without street lights and shop lights blazing, engulfed me in a black cocoon.