The Photographer's Wife Read online

  The buzzing above continues and the frequency of the sound peaks overhead then begins to drop away, which means that the danger is now heading into the distance. Someone else will be listening for the splutter when it runs out of fuel. Someone else will have ten seconds to throw themselves to the ground, hands over ears. Someone else will feel the blast rip overhead and then will stand and carry on walking down the street, perhaps exchanging a raised eyebrow with a passerby at the fluke of having survived yet another near miss. Or they won’t. Or they will join the ranks of the dead and maimed.

  All of this passes through Barbara’s mind but she is barely even aware of it, because war, which has been going on now for almost half her life, seems normal. She doesn’t imagine that it will end because she can’t even picture what that might mean.

  When she gets to Willow Street, she finds her friend Jean sitting on the wall. Jean never goes to school and Barbara has never thought to ask her why.

  “You’re back quick,” Jean says.

  “Teacher didn’t come.”

  “D’you want to play?”

  Barbara looks up the staircase and imagines her mother in the darkened interior. She will be sitting in the armchair and Barbara knows exactly what she will be wearing, the position she will be sitting in, and the expression she will have on her face. She knows because since the factory got bombed and Minnie stopped working, none of these things change anymore. Minnie’s silent presence makes Barbara feel funny these days – sort of queasy. She thinks she should probably do something to help her mum but other than cooking and cleaning and running errands, she doesn’t know what. “OK,” she says.

  “Shall I get my skipping rope?”

  “OK.”

  Jean runs into the dark interior of the house and then reappears with her skipping rope. She is closely followed by Yasmin.

  “You not at school either?” Barbara asks Yasmin.

  She stares at Barbara with her huge brown eyes and dolefully shakes her head.

  “Shall we go to the gap?” Jean asks.

  “Why not?” Barbara replies nonchalantly. The gap is the rubble-strewn space left by three bombed out buildings in the next street where they like to play. It’s extra-exciting because it’s totally forbidden.

  “I’m not allowed,” Yasmin says.

  “Then stay here, chicken,” Jean tells her. To Barbara, she says, “Come on.”

  As they start to walk, Yasmin hesitates, then predictably, runs to catch up with them.

  “Benjamin got hit by shrapnel,” Jean says. “They took him to the hospital. But he’ll be alright, Mum reckons. It’s just his leg.”

  “His funny leg? Or the good one?”

  “I don’t know,” Jean says. “I s’pose it’d be better if it’s the funny one.”

  “Yes, I s’pose it would. Otherwise he’ll have two funny legs, won’t he?”

  ***

  Barbara uses her hip to push open the door.

  Minnie, looking up from the sewing machine, exclaims, “Tea! Thank God. I could eat a ‘orse.” The bombed out factory has just started sending out piecework and her mood has begun to improve.

  “No horses, I’m afraid,” Barbara says, “it’s corned beef fritters.”

  “Cheeky,” Minnie mutters, releasing the section of uniform that she has been sewing and stretching her arms by linking her hands behind her head. “Where’s your sister, then?” she asks.

  “She’s eating downstairs,” Barbara says – a lie. As often these days, Barbara doesn’t know where Glenda is, and as this will either make Minnie angry or upset depending on her mood, Barbara has got used to covering for her.

  Minnie scoops a finished pile of khaki collars from the table to the bed so that Barbara can put the plates down. “No greens?” she mutters when she sees the plates.

  “We’ve got carrots,” Barbara offers.

  “Since when were carrots green?” Minnie says. “I’m starting to wonder what Mildred is doing with everyone’s rations. Because she certainly isn’t cooking with them.”

  “There’s nothing in the shops, Mum,” Barbara says. “It doesn’t matter what rations people’ve got. These carrots came from someone’s garden. A friend of Sylvia.”

  “It’s not right,” Minnie says. “No potatoes, no greens, no eggs, no cheese. I don’t know how we’re supposed to win a war if there ain’t any food. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mildred is keeping the rest for herself.”

  “She really isn’t, Mum,” Barbara says, lifting a slice of fritter to her mouth. “And we’re doing better than most.”

  “Carrots, carrots and more bleedin’ carrots,” Minnie says. “We won’t even need streetlights by the time the war’s over.”

  Once they have eaten, Minnie returns to her piecework and Barbara carries the plates back downstairs. Three women are eating similar plates of food at the kitchen table: two of them, Agnes and Sylvia, are residents of the house whilst the other, sporting a black eye, is no doubt one of Mildred’s “waifs and strays.”

  “Are you sure your Glenda’s coming back to eat that?” Agnes asks as Barbara moves Glenda’s plate to the side and begins to wash her own.

  “I’m here,” Glenda says breathlessly, from the doorway. “So keep yer hands off!”

  Barbara turns and smiles at her sister. “I saved you some.”

  “And I’ve got pudding,” Glenda says, producing a brown tube of M&M’s from her pocket.

  “Sweets!” Sylvia exclaims.

  “Don’t tell us what you had to do to get those,” Agnes comments and Sylvia nudges her and mutters, “Agnes,” under her breath.

  “Well...” she mutters. “It ain’t much better than whoring.”

  “You won’t be wanting any then,” Glenda says sourly, but with steely self control.

  “You’re right,” Agnes says. “I won’t.”

  “Scoot over,” Glenda says, removing her hat, then sliding onto the bench seat behind the table. “Corned beef again, is it?” she asks, as Barbara places the dish before her.

  “Don’t you start,” says Sylvia. “Not unless you want to try shopping yourself.”

  “Oh, I ain’t complaining,” Glenda replies. “I don’t mind the stuff, I don’t.”

  Once she has eaten, she hands all of the women, Agnes included, a single M&M. Sweets are considered such treasure these days that no one even imagines that they might be given two.

  “Ooh, these are good,” Sylvia says.

  Even Agnes manages a nod.

  “Mum sewing?” Glenda asks, once the M&M has finally dissolved in her mouth.

  Barbara nods. “She’s got a whole pile to do. Collars. I should go and help her, really.”

  “We both will in a bit,” Glenda says. “But first come out back so we can have a natter.”

  Barbara, keen to hear her sister’s adventures, follows her down the steps to the small yard, now transformed, like most yards, into a vegetable patch.

  “Our boys took somewhere in Greece,” Barbara says. “And the good guy won the elections in America.” Minnie leaves the radio on almost twenty-four hours a day, so Barbara unconsciously collects thousands of mini-facts about the war, facts which for the most part mean little to her.

  “Roosevelt?” Glenda asks.

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “Well, that’s good then. Harry will be celebrating,” Glenda says. Harry is Glenda’s latest boyfriend.

  "What’s he like?”

  “He’s lovely,” Glenda says, pulling an almost empty packet of Target cigarettes from her pocket. In fact, Harry, in his late thirties, is a little old for a fifteen-year-old – her mother certainly wouldn’t approve. But in wartime London where everything, including men, is scarce, she is enjoying the perks.

  “He gave you cigarettes, too?”

  “No, I nicked these,” Glenda replies, sending her sister a wink. “But he won’t mind.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To a dance at the Red Cross club,” Glenda te
lls her, lighting up the cigarette with studied panache.

  “Ooh lovely.”

  “The music was American songs. Jive. And there was hundreds of them doing it. Ever such good dancers, they are.”

  “Were they all GI’s?”

  “Yeah. And hardly any girls, so...”

  “You had your pick.”

  “I could have. But Harry was the best one there. He’s ever so good looking,” Glenda says. “Looks lovely in his uniform. He’s a sergeant. And then we went down the West End.”

  “Did you, you know...” Barbara says.

  “First base,” Glenda says.

  “First base?”

  “That’s what they call it. It means just kissing.”

  "So, you kissed?”

  “What do you think?” Glenda says, laughing to cover her embarrassment, because she went far further than first base. In fact she’s concerned that she may still have the imprint of the door on her buttocks. She chokes briefly on the cigarette fumes – she has only just started to smoke and it doesn’t always seem to go down the right way. But she’s determined to get used to it.

  Barbara checks over her shoulder that no one is listening, then asks, quietly, “Is he a good kisser, then?”

  Glenda nods knowledgeably. “They all are,” she says. “Much better than the local boys. I think I might marry myself a GI when the war’s over.”

  “You could marry Harry,” Barbara says. “You’d have chocolate every day.”

  “I might just do that.”

  Barbara bites her bottom lip and restrains a naughty grin. “Don’t let Mum hear you say that though.”

  “Over-paid, over-sexed and over-‘ere,” Glenda says, mocking Minnie’s voice as she offers Barbara another M&M from the tube.

  Barbara takes one and hands back the packet. “These are smashing,” she says. “Are they from America?”

  “Of course they’re from America.”

  “Save some for Mum,” Barbara says. “She said she’s still hungry. And you know how she loves chocolate.”

  “I can’t. She’ll want to know where it come from, won’t she.”

  “Oh,” Barbara says, frowning. “Can’t you tell her Maisie got ‘em or something?”

  Glenda nods vaguely. “I s’pose. But she might not believe me.”

  Somewhere to the east, they hear the trademark double supersonic boom of one of the new rocket-bombs, followed, almost immediately, by the sound of the explosion.

  Over the last few weeks, the doodlebugs have all-but ceased as the allies have overrun the launch-sites in France, but their particular, almost familiar terror has been seamlessly replaced by new bombs arriving from farther afield. Unlike the buzzing, spluttering doodlebugs, the supersonic rockets provide no warning – even the air-raid sirens sound afterwards, not before. Faced with such invincible technical prowess, the government is at a complete loss to even suggest what people should do and so all official channels have been pretending that these explosions, up to ten a day of them, are being caused by exploding gas pipes. But no one is really fooled.

  “Bloody flying gas-pipes,” Glenda says, which has become the most common nickname for the rockets. She drags on the cigarette, then coughs again as she stubs it out on a rock.

  “Ben says they’re rockets,” Barbara says. “New German rockets. The air-raid warden told him.”

  “Harry told me that too,” Glenda says – a lie. “So it must be true.”

  As they climb the stairs to the room, the air-raid warning belatedly sounds. It’s almost certainly a response to the explosion they just heard rather than a warning of anything to come. This lack of warning, this new impossibility, when faced with missiles that travel through space and announce themselves at the moment of explosion, this impossibility of doing anything whatsoever to protect oneself has produced a new kind of terror, so acute, so unmanageable, that there seem to be only two ways left to react. The first, opted for by a few, is to go mad. These people can be seen wandering the streets talking to themselves or sitting in corners rocking gently. But for most people, the V2 attacks have pushed them to adopt a new form of fatalistic determination that these things are beyond control. Enjoy yourself while you can, is the philosophy of the day.

  “When are you seeing Har–”

  “Shh!” Glenda says. They have almost reached the door behind which Minnie is sewing.

  “When are you seeing him again?” Barbara whispers.

  “Tonight,” Glenda says.

  “Tonight?”

  Glenda shrugs. “There’s another dance on over in Pimlico.”

  “You don’t have to go to every dance, do you?”

  “My number could be up by tomorrow. Anyway, he promised me some nylons if I go.”

  “Ooh, nylons!” Barbara says.

  “I’ll sneak out once Mum conks out.”

  “You’re so lucky, Glenda.”

  “It’ll be your turn soon enough.”

  1945 - Shoreditch, London

  Barbara is walking home from school. Because everyone is abuzz with rumours that the war will end today, they have been sent home early. Though Barbara’s tummy feels light and fluttery, as if full of butterflies, beyond the fact that there will be no bombs and beyond the fact that a barely remembered man called ‘Dad’ should be coming home soon, she doesn’t really know what to expect. But the fact that they have been sent home early adds to the feeling that this is an exceptional day.

  It’s exactly three pm when she walks around the corner into Willow Street and a cheer rises up from a house across the way, almost as if timed to greet her. To her left, a window is thrust open and a woman’s head and shoulders appear. “It’s over!” she shouts, grinning a little madly. “The war’s over!”

  A man and a woman walking towards her freeze and turn to face the window. “What did you say?” the man asks, sounding perhaps incredulous, perhaps angry at the poor taste of this joke the woman is making.

  “Really!” the woman shouts. “Winnie just said it on the wireless. It’s over!”

  Barbara stops walking and the woman addresses her as well. “It’s all over, little one!” she tells her. “You can smile again! We can all smile again.”

  And though Barbara isn’t quite sure why, smile is exactly what she does. She turns to face the couple again. They are staring into each other’s eyes.

  “Oh Derek!” the woman says. “Can it be true?”

  Another round of cheering erupts from another house and the man breaks into a grin. “It sounds like it might be,” he says.

  The woman’s eyes are glistening as he slides one arm around her waist and they start, silently, in the middle of the road, to waltz.

  “I have to tell my Mum!” Barbara says.

  “Yes,” the woman at the window replies. “Go quickly! Tell your Mum!”

  Barbara hikes her satchel over her shoulder and starts to run. As she progresses along Willow Street, people start to appear from doorways, all desperate to share this exceptional moment with others.

  “It’s over,” she hears again and again as she passes by. “The war’s over!”

  “We beat the bastards,” a man pushing a barrow says, then, spotting Barbara, he adds, “Pardon my French, love.”

  “It’s OK!” Barbara laughs, running on.

  The door to their building is open and everyone has congregated in the communal spaces. There are at least twenty people crammed onto the lower flight of stairs and the hubbub of excited conversation is deafening.

  “Did you hear?” her friend Benjamin asks, when he sees her.

  “Yes!” Barbara replies. “Yes, I heard.”

  As she squeezes between a group of women, Mildred, who cooks for them all, grabs her arm and says, “The war’s ovah, darlin’. You should go get yer Mum.”

  “Yes!” Barbara says. “Yes, I’m going!”

  When she pushes their door open, she finds Minnie frozen at the sewing machine, seemingly suspended in time.

  The radi
o is on and a news presenter is excitedly listing the successive surrenders of the Axis powers during the last twenty-four hours. Right now he’s talking about the Channel Islands. Barbara isn’t sure where they are but they sound terribly important.

  Minnie has her left hand on the lapel of an unfinished, khaki jacket and her right hand on the handle of the sewing machine. She is staring, in apparent shock, at the radio. Tears are slithering down her cheeks.

  Barbara has never seen Minnie cry before. “Mum!” she says. “It’s over. The war’s over. You need to come outside.”

  Without moving the rest of her body, Minnie swivels her head to face her youngest. As she frowns at her daughter, the tears continue to fall, landing now on the sewing before her.

  “Mum!” Barbara prompts, hoping to wake her from her trance.

  Minnie’s brow wrinkles further. “I don’t know what to do,” she says.

  “Come outside, Mum!”

  “But do I need to finish this jacket or not?” she asks, her voice other-worldly. “That’s what I can’t work out.”

  Barbara shakes her head. “No, Mum, you don’t. It’s over,” she says. “They won’t be needing uniforms anymore. It’s all finished.” Barbara gently prises her hand from the sewing machine. “Come outside,” she says again. “Everyone’s outside. Come see!”

  By the time they get outside, the street is full of people. Three men are dragging a battered upright piano through the front door of a house opposite and a fourth man is already playing a one-fingered version of “Take me back to dear old Blighty” as they do so.

  The couple Barbara saw dancing before are still at it, and two other couples, one mixed, one comprising two women, are now dancing with them as well.