Violets, page 5
Violet took the coat off and hung it back on the door. She lingered by the dresser, put the lid on a jar of cream.
There were little figurines lined up in a row, ballet dancers and such. They needed a dust. On the bed, various items were cast aside from where Elizabeth had tried them on. A blouse and a skirt. A brand-new pair of nylons.
Violet picked them up and trailed them through her hands. So fine they were barely there. The thread caught on the rough skin of her thumb.
Violet opened a drawer to put them away and saw a small rectangular box pushed right to the back. She had to flatten a pile of hankies to get it out. Inside was a ring. It was a thin gold band with tiny diamonds in the shape of a flower.
She hadn’t seen this coming, not at all. Tony from New Jersey, nearly New York. She had assumed he’d just go back and that would be that.
Violet stared at the ring. The ring stared back. She resisted the urge to try it on.
All those charming things he brought her. Flowers, fancies, food they had never seen. Then she had turned up in that coat, pleased as punch, their mother inspecting the buttons, turning the seams over for faults.
It was just her colour, everyone said.
Give us a twirl.
That’s our girl.
Violet put the ring back in its box. The lid shut with a hollow snap.
~
Downstairs, the rhubarb had turned a crackled brown. Violet fetched the pastry from the pantry and threw some flour onto the tabletop.
It was as if Elizabeth had won the game and Violet was stuck. Even though she was the eldest, married and settled in her own home.
She rolled out an oval disc, cracked an egg into a cup.
It was no longer about patience, or hard work, or joining up.
She brushed the edges of the dish and slung the pastry down flat, then made a hole in the top with a short, sharp stab.
No, she thought, it had always been like that. Elizabeth would sail off in that coat, and never look back.
18
The British Army HQ occupied the whole of the palazzo. It was faded and in disrepair with sandbags at the gates, metal blockades and some windows on the ground floor boarded up.
They had been there for two weeks. The ATS girls worked Monday to Friday from eight until four. They’d walk the short distance to HQ each day, past the vendors with their carts, pestered by children in tattered clothes.
Violet strode on until Maggie caught her up. She’d bought a bag of apricots and cherries and ate them as she went, spitting the stones into the street.
Here, Vi, try these.
She placed a handful of cherries in Violet’s palm. They were small and sweet and the juice was shockingly red.
They arrived at the palazzo and went straight up. Their office was in a white-painted, high-ceilinged hall on the upper floor. It had ornate stucco plasterwork and tall windows running along one side. The typists sat at the front with the rest of them in neat little rows behind.
For this is how it was, Pram Boy,
light divided from shade in hard, clean lines.
Some of the girls lingered at the windows finishing their cigarettes. The soldiers crossing below knew to look up.
See how they shield their eyes, Pram Boy,
then don’t;
And the girls dab their foreheads, click
their compact mirrors shut,
only to open them again five minutes later.
Violet took a file from the tray as the typewriters began their clatter.
And you there, growing fatter down below,
work-shy, cockeyed
and everything in rods or rows
to keep the slack ooze in
(the heat, the streets, the gore of wounds still coming in)
For this is how it was, Pram Boy,
women close-quartered with each other.
Friendships formed, lovers were distracted from their letters.
A girl called Mary was late. She blustered up from behind and knocked Violet’s elbow as she passed.
Sorry, Vi.
She dabbed the sweat from her forehead with her handkerchief and heaved a dramatic sigh. If this was late April, what would it be like in July?
Violet turned and smiled.
Hot, I should think, Mary.
The girl tucked a strand of lank hair behind her ear.
Anyway, the war will be over by then.
I should bloody well hope so, someone else said.
Violet wasn’t sure of her name but she’d been there longer than anyone else. She told vivid stories about attacks in the street, locals eating stray cats for meat.
Just you wait. A little bit hotter and the mosquitoes will be out.
A chair scraped loudly at the back of the room. The Staff Sergeant got up and walked purposefully around.
Violet kept her head down.
Vi!
Maggie sat two rows behind to Violet’s left. She was paired off with a girl called Beth whom she had dismissed after the first day. She talked too much, Maggie said. Kept asking for help.
She made a gesture behind the sergeant’s back and rolled her eyes. She tried to slide a pencil behind her ear like the men in the factory did but it kept slipping so she took it out, tapped it impatiently on the desk instead.
I’m so bored! she mouthed.
Violet shook her head, opened the logbook on her desk. It was easy work, all of them were Pay Clerks. Some of the girls talked about the soldiers as if they knew them well. It was all there in the files: age, the colour of their eyes, their hair, their height. Some of them let their imaginations run wild. They knew which men were married or whose wives were expecting a child. There were medical forms, promotions and fines. Sometimes, one of them died of his wounds or was killed.
~
They went to the NAAFI after work for a drink. It was in the Royal Palace down by the port. Violet had already described it to Aggie in a letter home. Every one of the rooms had marble floors, ornate panels and doors, carved ceilings and chandeliers. There were films and shows, dances in the ballroom every weekend.
Maggie hadn’t joined them there at all. When Violet asked her why, she just shrugged. Had her own friends, she said, preferred to spend time with them instead.
Violet made her way through the grand hall with the others. There was something about being in a building so cavernous and tall. Not like church but something bigger, built for men. She thought it would make her feel small but it had the opposite effect. She walked faster to hear the sharp clip of her brogues on the smooth stone steps.
They arrived at the tea room, which had a terrace giving on to some gardens down below. They pulled chairs into the last of the day’s sun. By now there were a few sailors coming in. One of the girls went to fetch a jug of lemonade. There was never much sugar, they drank it and shuddered, pursed and smacked their lips.
Violet watched as the others sat back, stretched out their legs. She was conscious of her blouse pulling tight across her chest, her waistband digging in.
It was only later, in the evenings, when it grew cool and she walked alone through the city streets, that she would feel her body relax. Muscles slovenly and slack felt strong again. She didn’t mind the noise or the din, felt fluid, taking it all in. She passed hawkers with their wares, leave-takers, whores and spivs. Young men stared from beaded doorways, licked their lips.
Right girls, I’m off.
Violet stood up, hooked her finger under her watch to stretch it away from the skin.
The girls let her go, joking about her being a dark horse – all those long walks – or else being a bore, always the first one back to the dorm. She laughed, let them carry on, left them shouting something after she’d gone.
She stopped at the American snack bar to buy a sandwich on her way out and walked eating from the brown paper bag. She emerged onto the street and turned left. Next to the Palace was the opera house. Young boys hung about to catch an officer for a cigarette. Then Violet looked up and her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed. Maggie was just ahead.
Fine-drawn limbs, dark hair, standing among a group of well-dressed men.
She was in civilian clothes and Violet had to check again to make sure that it was her. She wore wide black slacks with pleats at the hips and a black silk blouse. It was high at the neck, draped across her throat and chest. Then she turned and Violet saw that it plunged down at the back.
She ducked into the shadow of a shut-up stall. She was so close she could almost hear Maggie talk.
Was it Italian? Yes. But now, addressing another of the men, perhaps French.
Violet stood and watched. After a while another man joined the group. He was tall with sharp features and narrow eyes. Maggie shook his hand and then the mood seemed to shift. He didn’t smile but stiffly nodded his head. He turned to Maggie and offered her his arm.
The opera. Of course.
Violet watched as they disappeared through the revolving doors.
She looked down. The sandwich was limp in its greasy paper in her hands. Feeling sick, she stuffed it into her bag, wiped a string of melted cheese from her chin. She couldn’t work it out. In the day Maggie would wink and be coy, linking arms, making her feel that they were part of the same charming act. And once or twice in the dorm, when everyone else was asleep, Violet had thought she could feel her standing by her bed, fogged by the mosquito net.
That was it, she thought, Maggie haunted, led you on. And when you reached out to touch her, pouf! She was gone.
19
Violet wasn’t sure where Flo was. Edith had left hours ago. She should have known. It was nearly midnight and they’d been out since lunch. It had been treaties and pacts for days so they’d all had a chance to prepare by the time VE Day was declared.
Someone pushed past her in the crowd, moving her sharply aside, almost lifting her clear from the ground.
A soldier. Drunk.
He shunted into another group of soldiers nearby and they set him on his feet, patted his chest and turned him round like a game of blind man’s bluff.
They’d walked into town from the pub. It had been great fun early on, they’d had a dance like girls on a chorus line, kicking their legs out in time. Someone had put a carnation in Violet’s hair, everyone laughing along. But now she was alone and her feet ached, the night air was chill. She pulled her cardigan across her chest.
Should have left while the going was good.
She waited for the bus on Colmore Row. The ground was covered with flags and streamers and God knows what. People were sitting around on the pavements, men but a few women too. A couple of them had children in tow, curled up asleep under their coats.
There was a young man with his mouth full of pork pie. He was standing with a group of others, unsteady on his feet.
Cheer up love! How about it? Give yer one for victory?
His friends laughed. Some girls watched without a word. Violet folded her arms tighter and moved off.
Oi! I served in France, I did!
All this mess, Violet thought. And the men with their slurred mouths spitting crumbs and filth. And the women wearing soldiers’ caps. Victory in Europe. Now they just had to clean up.
And what about Fred? No one mentioned Japan. There was no pact that meant Fred was coming home. That was all too far away for anyone here. And Fred was too far away to be any use to her.
Violet shifted her weight to the other foot, was tempted to close her eyes. She felt so deeply tired of everything.
The last bus finally arrived. People clumped together to board. Violet made her way to the back, brushed the seat and sat down.
At the next stop some soldiers got on. She recognised some of them. Flo was courting a boy from the Ninth and they’d come to the Arms the other night. One of them, John, had bought her a drink.
Violet sat up in her seat and smoothed her hair under her hat. The soldier swung forward.
Violet!
She wasn’t sure if it was the bus or if he was stumbling because he was drunk. She’d been tipsy herself but it had worn off. She laughed.
John! Can you rescue me please? I’ve lost Flo.
He gave a little nod, sat down and shuffled up.
My pleasure. Can’t have you travelling home on your own. Which is your stop?
The bus took a sharp bend and they held on to the seat in front. Thuds and cheers came from the top deck.
That’s your lot, Violet said.
John shook his head as if the soldiers were children playing up. He had a kind face. In the pub the other night they’d played four hands on a few tunes. He sang quite well. Now they talked about how it was when people knew you could play, how they’d never let you stop. There’d been drinks lined up all along the top of the piano by the end of the night.
They were quiet for a while. Violet watched the buildings go by. Some were half demolished, others bomb sites. There were sides ripped off others, you could see the wallpaper flapping in the wind.
Violet turned back to say something but John had his eyes closed. He swayed slightly in the motion, still holding on to the seat in front. Every time the bus went round a corner, their arms touched.
Gently, Violet leaned against his side. She felt herself nodding off, then her head would jolt up. Then she slipped her hand through John’s arm, let her head rest on his shoulder. His body shifted, his hand resting lightly on her knee. Then she felt the weight of him relax as he breathed out and leaned in.
20
Violet was surprised when Maggie invited her out to the coast. At the weekends she usually went off with her friends, or that was what Violet assumed. Then she’d come back and talk about all places that Violet should see. Pompeii, or the Americans on Capri. As if she was on holiday. As if she could go there for free.
But when Maggie told her about the cove she was eager to go. Since VE day the city had felt leaden and slow. It was still only May but the heat sat like a vapour in the streets.
Some soldiers gave them a lift. They had a battered old jeep with doors that opened the wrong way round. Violet sat in the back, Maggie was up front. The driver chewed gum and drove too fast, looking at Maggie whenever he could.
They dropped them at a bend in the road. There was nothing but clifftop and scrubland. The heat sang.
The path down to the cove was rocky and steep but Maggie stepped nimbly ahead. She wore her regulation shirt tied in a knot at the front and a pair of khaki shorts that were far too big.
Violet followed behind, carrying the bag with the food.
Maggie’s friends were ahead of them, sitting on the shore. There was an American GI and an Italian girl. The soldier stood up and shook her hand. His name was Jeremiah but most people called him Jim. He was from a division based out of town he said, and winked. Violet didn’t understand. Segregated, he meant. One place for whites, another for them. Violet wasn’t sure what to say but he laughed anyway, then the Italian girl leaned forward and kissed Maggie on each cheek.
The GI stepped back politely. Violet asked him how long he had been there, where in the US he was from.
Atlanta, Georgia, he said. How ’bout you, Violet?
She told him Wales, he looked unsure.
A little country next door to England, Maggie said.
She’d been quiet until then, a piece of dried grass between her teeth. She flashed a smile, turned over a pebble with her foot.
Nella was the girl. She wore a yellow bathing suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Her English was without fault. Her family was from Naples, she said, but she went to school abroad. She sat down on a woven mat that was the same as the basket by her side, unwrapped a piece of hard cheese and ate thin slices from the blade of a knife.
They chatted about the city, the end of the war, what they were going to do now.
Ship out! said Jeremiah and laughed. Nella made a sad face, leaned over and kissed his arm. His division were running trips while they were waiting to be demobbed. He’d been to Vesuvius, he said, bought a nickel stuck in a piece of molten rock for a dollar. He laughed again, the sweat on his forehead glistening in the sun.
We’re going to stay on, aren’t we, Vi?
Maggie was more animated now. Violet shrugged. It looked like they could. On VE Day there had been fireworks and a band, the Palace and gardens crammed with hundreds of men. But they’d gone back to work as usual the next day and nothing at all had changed.
Still lots to do here, the Staff Sergeant said, prowling among the desks. Violet commiserated with the others at lunch but was so relieved she could barely eat.
They were quiet for a while. Nella lay down and closed her eyes. Her limbs were languid and honeyed and brown. The GI had taken off his shirt and stretched out by her side. His trousers had been cut short and rolled up tight around his thighs. They looked like they had been washed in the sea and dried in the sun a thousand times.
Violet tried not to stare. The contours of his body were solid and hard, from his jawbone to his shoulders, across his bare chest, his muscular arms and legs.
She looked away. Lots of the GIs were black, but she had never seen anyone like that.
She took off her shoes and socks, lit a cigarette. She could hear the hum of crickets in the grass up above. Maggie had wandered off towards the sea. The light on the waves seemed to cut into her frame where she stood at the water’s edge. She shimmered, diamond-shaped.
Violet shielded her eyes with her hand and watched as Maggie threw her clothes down onto the beach. She was wearing a bright blue bathing costume underneath. She stretched her arms behind her neck to tie the straps in a bow. There were pale lines on her skin where the sun had made its mark. On another day, perhaps, with others looking on.
Maggie turned and smiled, made a little flourish with her hands. Violet stubbed her cigarette out in the stones.
Go on then, show us what it can do!
Jeremiah sat up and whistled and clapped, then Nella raised her head and looked out from beneath her hat. She gave a gleeful shout.
