The War Comes to Witham Street

1 WITHAM STREET Sunday 27 August 1944.It was a blustery day although the sun was stretching over the fenlands to Lincoln where we were celebrating our street entering the war. We had finally been given the chance to do our bit. The Yanks Were Coming — Over Here. Well, they were already over here really. In fact, they were swarming over the whole of Lincolnshire, but we hadn’t had much to do with them up till then. They weren’t an active part of our lives. Now they would be on our doorstep as our guests. We had a whopping big banner hanging between two lampposts: ‘Witham Street Welcomes You’. The officer who had come to inspect the housing offered by the volunteer families had told everyone it was our rightful duty to offer hospitality to war-battered servicemen. They were on a rest and recuperate scheme and needed to sample real home comfort. Witham Street area had been promised three men, but in the end only two were assigned to us and only one was a Yank. The other was one of our own — it was a real disappointment. Now the big day was here with everyone anxious to look the men over. All the women and a handful of embarrassed looking chaps were waiting to applaud loud and long. As the hour drew near, the sun finally climbed over the cathedral hill and smiled in good cheer. A faint chorus of ‘We’re Going to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’ gathered momentum until it became a call of triumph. “And we’re going to do them proud,” Mum acclaimed in an ardent but trembling voice, wiping my nose with a starched hanky for the fourth time. The way our street was decked out would have done King George VI, or even Winston Churchill himself, proud. Bunting criss-crossed the road from one bedroom window to another in sagging lines. Flags were everywhere. We children had tiny hand-held ones made of paper, which fluttered in the breeze. Tea-towel size ones were tacked in front windows or pinned to doors. Tablecloth size Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes, side by side, were fluttering in harmony from wooden flagpoles made out of props normally used for holding up washing lines. They had been hoisted to roof guttering height. There was even a ‘God Bless the Men Who Fight’ banner emblazoned across the baffle wall. Almost all the women from the street were out there, hoping by this single act to make up for having passed almost all of the five years of the war so far in relative ease. The Browns were out in force. Tilly Brown was standing beside Mum, her arms folded, resolute and challenging. She would have pleased the most exacting sergeant major if his troops had stood like that in their landing craft before reaching the beaches of Dunkirk. She had her black dress on, which had white frills down the front. Being the size of Tessie O’Shea, but without the charisma, she looked like a sumo wrestler in a dinner jacket and natty bow tie. She eclipsed Mum into jockey size; if Mum had been wearing the same coloured frock, she would have passed for a bit dropped off. The officer got ready for his speech. He had a clipped moustache and sleek hair mostly hidden by his peaked cap. There were wings attached to his jacket, and braid too. He climbed onto a wooden podium that the council had supplied and nodded to us all before addressing us. “By billeting them out with you we know that they will soon be back on their feet, soon back in action. It isn’t always easy to sacrifice your privacy, your time, even your patience. But your effort will not be forgotten. These men have had a bad time. Not physically, thank God, but mentally. That means that with the right treatment, the right comfort and a little help from you all, they will soon be well again. It is up to you to get them back on their feet. See that they have someone to talk to, to confide in, to laugh with. They need the normality of a family. We cannot give them that at an air force base. It is up to you. Your gesture will not only be appreciated by the men themselves, but by our country. You are contributing in no small way to winning the war. It is a war that is drawing to a close. Hitler is on the run. But we still need men to fight. We are most grateful for this gesture.” When he had first asked for volunteers he got nine offers, although two of the families had a rethink and withdrew their proposals, so he was left with seven. The two chosen were the ones that offered the men a room of their own and the sort of comfortable life-style that the office obviously thought they were used to. My mum, Amy Knight, was standing in front of the general gaggle. She was part of the welcoming committee, with the special duty of being in charge of the party food. In front of the women was a decrepit air-raid warden whose job was to supervise the crowd, although we were only lined up one deep so he was dealing more with a thin straggle. He marched along the gutter at the side of the road, back bent like a fishhook, down to the end house and back again. He did this continuously, his arms straight, swinging back and forth like those of a tin soldier. The slant of his tin hat, badly askew, betrayed his non-military status. Tilly Brown, our neighbour, leaned over and whispered to Mum, “I do wish the old codger would stop traipsing up and down like a pregnant father. Gives me the willies.” Slung over the warden’s shoulder was a gas-mask case, which was gaping. It appeared to contain a bag of sandwiches and a thermos flask with a tin cup on top. “Get them back on their feet, that’s what we have to do,” he called to us as he passed. “If we let them loose on the hussy at Number Twenty-seven, the chaps will have a devil of a job getting off the bed, let alone on their feet,” muttered Mrs Brown in a voice now clearly meant to reach beyond Mum’s ear. Mum tittered but then caught the warden’s eye, so reverted to a poker face again for him. “Stop fidgeting and stand still,” she ordered me before turning to Mrs Brown again, confiding, “We’ve had the war easy really. They aren’t asking much of us, are they? I’m pleased to give a hand.” As the warden once more approached on his round, Mum yanked my arm so that I snapped to attention, mindful of my neat appearance. I was being very careful to keep the sash of my dress tied up so I looked my best, just as she had asked me. Although summertime, I had on my Sunday maroon woolly frock with its white Peter Pan collar. It itched, just like the oiled woolly vest, the liberty bodice with its fleecy lining and the thick brown stockings. It was like being laced between two flee-ridden sheepdogs. Nor was it fair. I was the only one there who was being smothered by cumbersome, bloodsucking beasts. Mum said I was delicate and needed special care. Mum was in summer array. Goose pimples dotted her arms. She began placing her weight on one foot and shaking the other as if she were doing the hokey-cokey. She never joined in with the hokey-cokey at parties, as she said it was too common. Nice people danced waltzes or Old Time numbers, gliding to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. She changed feet now and then so as to relieve the ache of her pinching shoes. She patted her navy crêpe dress over her slim hips, pulling it into place so that the hemline ran true. She had made the dress herself for her first wedding anniversary; it was the only decent thing left in her wardrobe. She touched her light brown hair, pressing flat the regular waves, which bounced in lines above the wide sailor collar. Her snub nose, bow-shaped mouth and round, sparkling eyes seemed a leftover from a previous decade, from a time when petite, rotund features had been in fashion. “Four o’clock and they’ll be here for sure.” The warden lifted his voice to a small group of women who had suddenly become tired of waiting and were starting to shuffle back home, like grandstand spectators at a race ten seconds after a horse has flashed past the winning post. The warden opened his mouth wider, giving us a full view of rotten teeth sprouting from under his floppy moustache. Then, cupping his open palms to his lips to form his own megaphone, he hollered, “Only ten minutes to go now. Have a little patience, my dears. It’s not much we’re asking of you. Just a little patience.” By half past four, Mum was not only passing from one foot to the other, but also tap dancing as she switched over. “I suffer from lack of proper circulation in my hands and feet. It isn’t good for my health to stand on the same spot like a ninny for all this time. If somebody doesn’t get a move on I’m going in to get our tea, welcome or no welcome,” she said to no one in particular. She had spent the best part of the morning over at the scout-hut making peanut butter sandwiches by the hundreds, and shaking white blancmange rabbits out of their moulds and splattering them into green jelly lawns. She was hoping to be appreciated for the time she had given, so I knew that statement must have cost her a lot. The women began to murmur amongst themselves, buzzing like a lot of film set extras muttering ‘rhubarb’. The babbling increased, forming a soft choral background for the solo voices. Anonymous airings were tossed back and forth, each competing for a titter of laughter from a neighbour. I struggled to see who was speaking. My only vision was that of crêpe-de-chine clad buttocks. The spirit voices floated far away above my head like vapour vanishing into the blue. “Who’s been picked to look after them then,” said one high-pitched voice. “We’ve all got to look after them — see they aren’t lacking for company. One of us at a time, of course.” There was a communal giggle. “Well, I made the roly-poly from ‘The Be-Ro Cookbook’ and that’s as far as it’s going!” said another. “Roly-poly, my hat. I’ve had none of that for years.” “I bags the best-looking one. Mind you, I miss my Harry, but I have to admit he must have been in the back row when they handed out fascination — Bela Lugosi’s leftovers. I bet they only have to show his face to the Huns to make them scarper. They’ll be using him as a weapon of war, bet your life.” “Well, as these two lads have suffered shell shock or summat during their campaigns, I say that a bit of shenanigan is what they need. Should get ‘em back on their feet, and sharpish. They’ll return to the front with a kit-bag full of worthwhile memories, at least.” The chuckling started again. Mum bent towards me whispering, “Don’t forget Jane, such rowdiness is common. They all want to be radio comediennes. Like Elsie and Doris Waters.” “It’ll only be for a few weeks until they are posted. Hardly worth starting up a friendship,” came another twittering call. “Who is talking about friendship?” shouted Mrs Brown, enjoying the banter and nudging Mum to make sure she was aware of her brilliant retorts. Mum looked at me and grimaced. Then she took me to the corner of Lakeview Road, so I couldn’t hear any more comments or listen to the guffaws. We got a grandstand view of the gaggle as we looked back towards the rows of red roofs, which slanted in a playing card display towards the distant skyline. I could see one of the women had put on her newly knitted pink angora jumper with puff sleeves and was standing crushed against her fence so her bosom dangled over. She seemed to be sporting two oversized fuzzy show medals. From time to time she moved slightly, adjusting her stance and the sweetheart neckline, tweaking a kiss-curl from the edge of her turban. Mum said that folks like her made themselves totty, downright totty. “It’s daft dressing up to the nines like that. Looks as if she’s waiting to be discovered for the flicks. Instead of the David Niven type she thinks she’s getting, I bet they’ll be fellows with squints and ducks disease.” “What’s duck’s disease?” I asked. “Behind too near the ground. Probably have a goggly squint and be boss-eyed, too, you see. Some women have no sense of decorum. You have to learn that at an early age, Jane: that way you can avoid being common yourself. It’s better to be natural like us. You know, unadorned and unaffected. Still, what do they say? You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Common is as common does.” I stared back at the pink snowballs. The jumper was a lovely colour and the lady did stand out in the crowd. She was a friendly soul, so when she saw me staring she waved at me. Mum caught the hand I was using to wave back and lowered it to my side. Mrs Brown was marching over towards us. “Let’s get back to the scout hut, put the kettle on and mash the tea,” she suggested as she approached. “That’ll bring a smile to the fellows’ faces when they arrive. Make ‘em all happy. Happy as you can ever be in a war that is.” She stopped in her tracks. “One of them’s American. I don’t reckon they drink tea over there.” “Well there isn’t any Bourbon whiskey so he’ll have to take pot luck like the rest of us. Tea’s our drink and tea it is. I better go and have a peek first, see if there is any sign of them.” Mum glanced back to look at the flock of cackling neighbours with their nodding heads, their flapping hands, their craning over dividing walls, their chin-wagging and casting of furtive glances towards the street corner. Off came the turbans, metal curlers, wave-clippers and pinafores. The women ruffled their newly released locks and, like emerging chrysalises, shimmered in the low sunlight. From the corner we peered along Lakeview Road again to see if the promised jeep was in sight. It was — with a burst tyre. Three men were scrutinising the damage, one of them already jacking up the chassis to change the wheel. And they still had not reached our street. That would be another surprise for them. Our street was an obstacle course of the most exacting kind for anything on wheels — even a pram. The council had labelled it ‘unadopted’, as it belonged only to the occupants of the street. Mum said she would have been prepared to pay the rates on it to have it taken care of by the council. The council said that while the war was on it would be a crying shame to bother with it, as there were far more important things for them to spend their money on. Instead of a fluid sheet of asphalt we had jagged stones, gravel and gaping holes. Mrs Brown’s boy, Neville, said that a meteorite could have caused the largest of them, as it was that sort of shape. Or even a bomb. He said he had seen other holes like it down near the gas works. Mum said that was daft. We hadn’t had those sorts of bombs down our way. What had worked the nifty job on the road was neglect. And it was a cul-de-sac so no one ever showed much interest in getting it mended as only two of the inhabitants had cars. And they didn’t have any petrol either. She had once suggested that everyone in the street contribute a bucket of cement so that we could all mend it ourselves, but she only got three supporters and three buckets would only have filled one hole, so she gave up. Practically no vehicles ventured down our street at all; even delivery boys on bicycles preferred to walk from the corner or ride on the path. We children could play out there unattended and undisturbed all day. And we had gashed knees, grazed elbows, and holes in our woollen stockings to show for it. Lakeview Road was long, stretching from the racecourse almost to the town centre. It was beautifully kept and had front gardens and paths edged with silver birches, which bowed low and wafted their fronds at you, like silken veils, as you passed. It was a posh road compared to all its tributaries. Mum nodded towards the three men. One of them looked smarter than the others, distinguished by a uniform of a finer cloth, a smooth, lightweight stuff, with a cut far more tapered than that of the British man who wore woolly serge of the rough blanket variety. “Hey, we took a wrong turn. Road’s pretty bad, guess we should have walked,” the Yank called. Mum smiled and nodded, hiding for a moment behind a baffle wall, licking her index fingers, and passing the tips over her fair, pencil-slim eyebrows, arched by careful plucking to give an expression of permanent semi-amazement. She tucked the odd wisp of hair, which had escaped the orderly waves, back into place. “They look nice fellows, don’t they Jane? Good-looking chaps, too. Wasting their time on the tyre, as we know. They have a fifty-fifty chance of it going again as soon as they turn into Witham Street.” The men jumped back into the vehicle, revved the engine and swung the steering wheel, heading for our street. Mum and I preceded them as if we were leading a parade. I waved at the waiting crowd and they waved back and cheered. I felt like a gladiator entering the arena. The jeep slithered back and chugged into first gear, the space between us widening. We turned to see the driver had jerked to a halt, daunted by the dodgem car course needed to avoid floundering in one of the gaping holes. The three men jumped down. The American was tall and older than the English fellow. He had broad shoulders and golden fair hair glinting like sun on beaten corn, and with a parting from forehead to crown that led a crooked path. The English chap had flaxen hair and a shadow of a moustache that somehow gave him a look of faked ageing. With his gauche stance and look of silent resolve, he seemed ill at ease. He badly fitted his clothes. It seemed as if he had just taken any garment at random, whatever had been handed out to him, without being measured up for it. The officer stepped forward, saluting with a sharp cut of his hand. The warden answered him with a similar gesture, although his movements were slacker, without the chiselled precision. With a snap of heels the accompanying officer then turned to face the four ladies of the committee. There was Mum, whose idea the whole reception was. Next came portly Mrs Brown, who had not really been elected to do anything but had pushed herself in as committee chairman because, as she said herself, she had a marked talent for organisation. Helen Vaughn was a quiet, genteel lady who was to take the English lad. And at the end was Valerie Dowland, who had volunteered to take the Yank. She stood out from the rest of the women, as she was taller and sort of lustrous, with the poise and stature of Vivian Leigh. The four women nodded and smiled to one another, then at the warden and the men. With solemn pace in keeping with the officialdom expected, the men stepped forward to greet us. A general hum of voices lifted on the air, all echoing how pleased everyone was to meet them, how they hoped they would settle in, how they knew they were going to feel at home. Mrs Vaughn placed a hand on the arm of the English youth, tugging his sleeve and leading him away. Mrs Dowland approached to do the same for her guest. The Yank suddenly found himself face to face with her, noses only a few inches apart. She slackened her speaking pace as she began “I’m sure we shall enjoy ...” but her gaze held the fear of an actor forgetting his lines, and she ground almost to a standstill, like our wind-up gramophone did when it tired of Bing Crosby. The world had shunted to a dead-end. The women waited in line for Mrs Dowland to greet her guest who the officer said was named Martin. But she did not move forward. She was trapped in a slow motion gawk for what seemed to the others like a good ten minutes. Then the senior officer re-presented him formally, as if everyone had only been rehearsing up till then and we were having to do the scene all over again for the film shoot. “This is Martin McLochlan. He is American, as you will gather when he opens his mouth to speak.” The officer coughed on to the back of his hand. “Which I expect will be quite soon.” The American did not open his mouth, however. Apparently confused, he turned back to greet the other three ladies and a few neighbours who had pushed forward. He nodded to them one by one, smiling gently as he passed along the line, walking like the king and queen did, grasping at outstretched anonymous hands thrust before him, without looking up to see who they belonged to. Then he came face to face with Mrs Dowland again. Her hand was not outstretched but her eyes were looking up at his. Like an actor gathering his next lines, he glanced back towards the officer, the prompter, waiting for a sign from him, or a nod. Then she spoke loud and clear. “Hello Lieutenant McLochlan. I’m Valerie Dowland. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. We, that is me and my husband, hope you will feel most welcome. If you’d like to follow me I’ll show you where we live.” Valerie flicked her black hair off her shoulders and headed off away from the crowd. She turned to see if he was following, her Gaelic eyes flashing for a moment like fireflies on a warm evening. Mum whispered to Mrs Brown “Wow. I have a feeling we might be in for a spot of trouble here. Everything’s been smooth running in our street up till now. And this reception was all my idea. I do hope we did the right thing and there won’t be any malarkey.” Mrs Brown whispered back: “War doesn’t just affect those who go to fight. It affects us all in some way. You have to be prepared to accept that if you get involved.”