Violets, page 3
More crowds of men surged forward in a block. She could hear the bang and roar of the chains loading supplies. Dockers passed cargo along in a line. In the midst of it all, a group of women stood. Their faces were upturned, some of them holding on to their hats. They seemed oddly stuck, jostled together as everyone else flowed past.
Violet lit a cigarette. The deck was getting crowded with men leaning over the rails. They were hooing and shouting and messing around. Someone pushed past.
Hey! Mind out.
The man swung round, did a double take, looked her up and down. A couple of the others grinned.
Violet sniffed, hitched her bag onto her back.
What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?
The soldier looked unsure, his friends brayed. Violet walked away.
~
They had been issued with various meal chits and dockets along with an advance of two weeks’ pay.
Violet patted her pockets, retrieved a green paper stub.
Deck A, Berth 4.
She made her way down through the ship. When she knocked on the cabin door she was greeted by a small, pretty blonde. The girl introduced herself and then her friend, also small but with a beakish face. Nurses, one was Peggy, the other May. They had trained together, Peggy said, and wasn’t it exciting to be going away?
Violet smiled, shook hands. They were eager, polite, like excitable schoolgirls at a hockey match. They began to ask her various things, where she was from, where she had been.
A machinist!
Wales!
They ushered her in. One of them asked if she’d been to Italy before.
Before the war, she meant.
Stupid question, Violet thought.
She squeezed past them into the tiny space. A third woman was lying on the top bunk to the right. Her ankles were crossed, her hands clasped casually behind her head.
Hallo, she said.
English, Violet thought. Cut-glass. She checked for signs of rank.
No stripes, no pips.
Her name was Maggie, she said.
The cabin was hot. The two nurses fluttered about, talking with kirby grips pinched between their lips. One of them hitched up her skirt to straighten her petticoat underneath, giggling as she fished it down with one hand.
Violet slung her bag onto the bunk below Maggie’s. She looked older than the other two, about Violet’s age. She wore one of those side caps you could buy when your training was done. It sat at a jaunty angle on her head. Her belongings were already folded and stacked at the end of her bed.
She had dark curly hair and pale skin. Her body looked angular and lean, like a drawing in a fashion magazine.
Violet ducked her head to sit on the bottom bunk, slunk her spine, had to lean awkwardly on her side. She tried the reading lamp. It didn’t work.
The girls were talking about sea legs and Atlantic storms. Old wives’ tales about chewing this and that, keeping your eyes on the horizon, putting your head between your knees.
Quite without warning, Maggie swung to the floor.
She landed in one deft movement, like a gymnast off the bar.
Violet. Fancy a walk?
~
The passageways were narrow and dim. Maggie was moving swiftly towards the upper decks. Some men rounded the corner up ahead then stopped, a couple of them visibly shocked, unsure of who should let whom pass. A sergeant stepped back, broad-chested, his tunic pulled taut.
Afternoon, Sir.
Maggie clicked her heels and stood straight but there was something mocking about her face.
He flattened himself against the bulkhead and the others did the same. Then Violet felt Maggie take her hand as they edged past, sideways on. She held her breath and the sergeant turned his head yet it felt like their bodies still touched, chest to chest. When Violet glanced up, she could see that his jaw was clenched.
Feel that Pram Boy, yes?
Everybody standing to attention, erect
Feel it everywhere on board,
their long, drawn-out thirst.
In uniforms that pull at shoulders, buttocks, hips,
bodies that bulge and slip.
They moved on through the maze of the ship, Maggie still pulling Violet by the hand. At ladders or hatches she would let go, only to take it again when they reached a straight pass. She threw questions back that Violet strained to hear. Her answers came out monosyllabic, stunned. She was breathless and her feet got in the way. She felt overthrown, outraged at the same time as there was a rush, a thrill.
What kind of person expects the world to yield that way, to sway with every bend of her wiry limbs?
Come on, this way!
Somehow, they came out at the stern. The ship was already a fair way out of the port. The sea was vast, the water churned.
Maggie pushed her chest forward with her hips against the rail. Then she let out a loud trill, kicked one foot out behind and held the pose. Her lips were vivid in the cold.
Violet glanced around, embarrassed by the display but Maggie laughed and the wind whipped her hair across her face. Strands of it caught in her mouth. Then she threw her head back and shouted Violet’s name.
The sound pierced the air like a knife, before the wind carried it away.
So wait, Pram Boy, wait
As your Mama turns her head,
feels butterflies instead
Chaplipped and
spat at in the spray
All a-swell, Pram Boy
(and pretty, in her own way).
So.
You must wait until she calls
you, hauls you in
Let others glitter
at the surface
of things.
For you, Pram Boy,
you are anchored, moored.
You
are
a long
throw
overboard.
10
Fred had been away for nearly two months. When Violet came out of the hospital she had taken one week off, then returned to munitions with the girls. They’d gone back to the same routine, Violet and Edith and Flo, friends since before the war, click-clacking across the factory floor.
They all made a big hurrah. She told them the joke about the playpen and the cot. They liked that, admired her spirit, they said.
They started at eight o’clock. Five minutes to put on your overalls and tie up your curls. The men were already trudging through in their steel-capped boots.
All right, girls?
The bell went and they moved off. Violet’s job was to drill holes in valves for submarines.
Machines for machines for machines, Flo said. It never ends.
She would complain of being bored but Violet quite liked the work. And they were lucky where they were. They’d made a big fuss of them all when the women came in. Now they outnumbered the men.
When it was their turn to take a break Mr Benson would put the wireless on. They would sing, and know he was watching. He favoured Flo, all the men did, but that was part of the fun of it.
Violet looked over to her right. Flo used to be on the same line but had retrained while she was away. She glanced up and grinned, gave Violet an encouraging nod. Her features were dwarfed by a pair of enormous goggles with a black rubber rim. Violet laughed and one of the other girls started a joke, until the bell went and the sound of machinery drowned her out.
11
There were twelve women on board. An ATS officer whom they never saw, then the two nurses, a few more ATS, a couple of Wrens and one WAAF.
They ate together in C Deck mess hall with the NCOs. Each night the girls on duty would go down to the galley, collect the food and share it out. If you weren’t there by six it was tough, you did without.
Most of the others were already sitting down. Violet joined the queue of soldiers filing in. A sergeant made a joke, asked her if she was there to serve dinner and what she had cooked.
She watched him coldly as he spoke, took out a cigarette.
You’ll be lucky, she said under her breath.
Another one offered her a light. She leaned in slightly and he shielded the match.
Thanks.
He nodded, asked her name.
Private Davies. Sir.
She looked directly into his face. Over his shoulder she could see the nurses flapping their arms, mouthing that they’d saved her a place.
The sergeant turned and looked.
Well, Private. Better not be late.
The nurses giggled as she approached.
Hoo, Violet! Sweet on you, that one!
Violet took a long draw on her cigarette. She thought of when she was fifteen, Edwyn Lyle behind the shed at his father’s shop; his darting, bird-like eyes, his dry fingers in the cold, his face when he shuddered and crumpled inside his clothes.
And so it goes, Pram Boy
Girls with their soldier boys
Mock coy though they had to check
if it was meant to be like that
– quick, painful, difficult
to get in, with him
blindly pushing
and them worrying
that it won’t go
As it pokes and
bends, desperate to jab
Then when it’s over, slips out.
Not me, girls, Violet said. He was asking about you two.
More laughter. The nurses were what Violet imagined boarding school was like. Green as apples, they ripened as the days went by.
Same as usual, I’m afraid.
The others were back from the galley with the food. They put the cans on the table with a thud. The metal handles clattered and they opened the lids. Everyone passed down their plates.
Violet looked around. Maggie was late. Violet craned her neck and saw that she was just outside the mess, talking to an officer they’d met the other day. He thought he knew Maggie from before. They’d been out on deck when he came over, Maggie laughing at something Violet had said.
That was how she was. You’re hiding something, Vi, or Violet, you’re so droll. Her fingers on her all the while.
Then the officer approached and Violet noticed the way they spoke, a change in Maggie’s tone. They went through all the people and places they both might know.
Marlborough? The Haverdeans? Summer of ’37 at Aixen-Provence?
Now, Maggie was laughing as he spoke. He blew smoke into the air above her head. Her body was angled backwards, her jawline exposed. Her hand rested on his arm, her mouth an ‘O’.
Dinner was a piece of thin meat with carrots and two halves of a potato. They were finished in ten minutes flat. Violet looked back to see if Maggie was going to come, if she should save her some.
But by then, Maggie was gone.
~
The nurses had a rota of suitors for cards after dinner each night.
Are you coming, Vi?
Violet shook her head, went out for some air on deck. When she got back to the cabin, Maggie was already there. The standard-issue pyjamas were loose on her frame. She looked up as Violet came in, threw her arm out over the back of the chair.
Darling Vi.
One leg was tucked up against the seat, the other lolled open to the side. Violet took off her cap and loosened the combs holding her hair back, pulled them out. Her voice was casual when she spoke.
So, Mags, who was that man?
You mean Captain Stokes?
I suppose. Blond hair, cigarette case. Funny jokes.
Maggie looked thrilled and gave a little clap.
Oh Violet. Don’t be jealous.
Of who? I’m not.
Violet turned away to undress. She unbuttoned her shirt, stepped out of her skirt, rolled her stockings down. Maggie’s eyes on her were sharp as knives. She felt like a pearl prised out of its shell.
With you tucked in there?
Well well well.
Hello sailor, ain’t you swell?
Because with Maggie, Violet was never sure. They would be at dinner or in the cabin sorting their things and she would feel the force of her gaze, insistent, a challenge.
And Violet had watched her, too. For any sign, any hint that she may have guessed. Yet she felt better than she had all along. Strong, alert. And she held herself tight. Her height, her broad shoulders helped to conceal the slight mound of her belly sticking out.
Maggie had closed her book. It was a thick novel, the second one that Violet had seen her read. There was an officer somewhere she swapped them with. Violet held on to the upper bunk as she pulled her pyjamas on and struggled to remove her slip from underneath. Maggie watched with a doubtful expression on her face. She made no effort to look away.
Don’t you want to get back to your book?
Maggie laughed, unfurled her limbs and climbed into the bed above.
Violet got into the lower bunk and pulled the blankets up. The springs of Maggie’s bed creaked, the light clicked off.
~
They hadn’t been asleep for long when the nurses clattered in and turned the lights back on.
Violet sat up. Peggy was drunk. There had been an altercation with a boy out on deck, May said. Peggy had gone for a stroll but there was some to-do and another soldier had heard her shout, then there had been a fight.
Maggie tutted loudly and Peggy started to cry. Her friend held her all the while by the arm, patted and preened her like a pet, arranged her hair behind her neck.
Hold on, she said. There there.
Then May kneeled down and took off Peggy’s shoes, unhooked her skirt and stockings one by one. Peggy clung on to the top bunk while her friend unbuttoned her blouse, slipped the straps of her bra off her shoulders and went round to undo it from the back.
The nurse stood swaying with one hand across her chest. Her breasts were fleshy beneath her fingers and her eyes were half closed. Violet looked away as her friend looped her pyjamas over her head like catching an animal in a net, pulled her limp arms through.
They were soon asleep. Violet waited in the shadow of her bunk and stared at the slats of Maggie’s bed above. She thought of the four of them all parcelled up. Safe, it felt like. Snug. She listened to the shudder of the ship, sometimes an echo from below, turned over, drifted, her breathing soft and slow.
And you Pram Boy?
Darkly stowed
Listen to the women’s voices come in waves,
sob, or sing you off to sleep.
Cocooned within the belly-pit of the ship
among three other women’s wombs
Feel their cycles clicking into sync
How their bodies swell, shed, bleed,
how they dream through the stop-go wetness of their loins.
There, sweet boy,
mother-lover, son-to-be.
Decked and berthed and set in the hold,
your ears are shells of tiny, soft-cell bones,
your heart a bivalve,
open
close.
You have fingers, and toes.
So wait then, stay your course.
That’s you, mother-lover,
filling her up.
Down in the womb-glow,
sweet loving cup.
12
Every Sunday Violet went to her mother’s for lunch. They’d had April showers and she’d been caught without a coat. Her feet were soaked and she’d taken her skirt off to let it dry. Elizabeth had given her one of her own.
You can keep it actually, Vi. If it fits. I’ve gone off it.
It was a mustard-coloured plaid thing, unlined. It was all right as long as she left the waistband unhooked.
Elizabeth sat opposite in a pale pink blouse. It had a tie at the neck and generous sleeves with deep cuffs. Her sister had just turned seventeen. She was yet to decide what her contribution to the war effort would be. Violet had no idea where she got her clothes. She had nylons to spare and a brand-new coat.
Their mother spooned out the mince, passed down the peas.
Your sister tells me she’s been invited to a dance.
She shook out her napkin so that it snapped, draped it onto her lap.
At the American base, her mother said, and held Violet’s gaze.
Oh! That one, yes.
Elizabeth gave her a hopeful glance. Violet had no idea but it was clear she was required to help. Flo would know one of the soldiers, no doubt, had probably been invited herself. You’d see them sometimes at The Dog, the GIs. They’d take up one whole side, buy everyone drinks, laugh louder than everyone else.
Well, Vi. She’s not to go on her own.
Of course not. Sweet Elizabeth, wrapped up in a bow.
When Violet had met Fred, it was her life that had been racing ahead. It was actually Elizabeth, half drowning in the municipal baths, who had met him first. Fred had seen her struggling, dived in and hauled her to the side.
Violet had dried her off brusquely and sent her home on the bus, cross to be made a spectacle of. But she had stayed a full hour after that, sat at the side of the pool. She was sixteen. He was older. She had watched him on the high-dive, puffing out his chest. His wavy hair was pressed flat to his head as he came up through the surface and took a breath.
She felt like a pebble at the bottom of a lake, waiting to be put in his pocket. He was sturdy and strong. He laughed like a song.
Ten weeks now since he’d gone.
And it was as if she had taken two steps back. She thought of their little house up the road, the patched armchair, the drop-leaf table, quiet without either of them there. And the room upstairs, ready and waiting, the walls still bare.
No summer baby, she thought. No noise and mess.
Now there wasn’t even Fred.
13
The atmosphere in the mess hall had a febrile edge.
Better line your stomachs, someone said.
There was word of a storm. A group of soldiers had got hold of some drink and were egging each other on. They reminded Violet of the men from the rugby club back home, all of them spilling out of the pub by ten, spewing into their hands, the sound of vomit spattering on the ground.
