Roland Moore - Christmas on the Home Front

Why had it popped back into her head now?

She’d only been there once herself back in November 1940, before she joined the Women’s Land Army. And although the tea and cake had been lovely, that visit had turned out to be an unhappy experience. She thought back to that time. It had been the day before she discovered that her home in Coventry had been destroyed in the blitz of the city. So by rights, that afternoon in the tea room should have been the last time she’d been truly happy; unburdened by the effects of the war, unburdened by loss. But something else had happened in the tea room that had marred even that final sunny day.

She’d been away in Birmingham with John. Ostensibly it had been a business trip as John was scheduled to see a motorbike parts manufacturer for a discussion about supplying the Triumph factory where John worked in Coventry. But John and Joyce had used the opportunity to turn it into a mini-honeymoon – after all, they’d not managed to get away after their wedding. They’d stayed in a small hotel and John had gone to his meeting leaving Joyce alone. She’d looked at the wallpaper with its busy design of roses and vines, flicked through the bible on the bedside table and, bored of waiting, had decided she needed some air. Butler’s Tea Rooms had been visible from her window and she’d seen a steady procession of well-dressed people amble inside for afternoon tea. Joyce decided to put on her best clothes and join them. Why shouldn’t she live a little?

When she arrived at the tea rooms, Joyce was dressed in her smart dress – an eggshell blue frock with a white collar and a white belt blooming out to a full skirt. She sat at a table for four, her handbag occupying the seat next to her. She imagined she was a toff as she surveyed the smart and impressive establishment with its central atrium where a grand piano stood on the black and white tiled floor. Tables were arranged all around with a selection of large potted plants to add a splash of colour. For some reason the lower section was closed, so Joyce was seated on a table on the balcony that overlooked the atrium. All around her, other patrons sat around tables, chatting and smoking. On the plate in front of her was a business card for Butler’s Tea Rooms. Joyce put it into her purse as a memento. And while a proper toff wouldn’t have done that, Joyce didn’t care. Then she perused the menu and ordered tea and a sponge cake. The elderly waiter explained in a low voice that would have conveyed the reverence of a funeral parlour that the cake was made with dried egg and honey due to rationing. Joyce had assumed that would be the case and said she didn’t mind.

Joyce smiled at some people who were crammed in around a table nearby. She indicated the three free chairs at her own table, wondering if they would like to spread themselves out, but they were too busy chatting to notice her gesture. To her surprise, when Joyce turned back to her menu, a woman was already sitting down with her. The woman was catching her breath as if she had run from somewhere and had seemingly appeared out of thin air. She was a similar age to Joyce but stick-thin and glamorous despite her shorter hair and lack of makeup. She wore a simple black suit with trousers. On her shoulders sat a fur wrap, making her ensemble a curious mix of business and evening attire. Joyce noticed the worn cuffs on the woman’s jacket and wondered if the woman was down on her luck.

‘Hope you don’t mind.’ The woman had an accent that was hard to place. Was that a faint Manchester twang? ‘Say if you mind and I’ll move. But they didn’t have any other tables, see?’

‘I don’t mind.’ The truth was that Joyce would enjoy having someone sit with her. It would save her having to keep reading the menu to pass the time. ‘I’m Joyce Fisher.’

‘I know.’ The woman stared straight into Joyce’s eyes.

Joyce felt her mouth fall open in total shock.

‘How could you—?’

‘No, I’m joking,’ the woman laughed. ‘I’m always doing that. You should have seen your face!’

‘Yes, well,’ Joyce replied grumpily. She didn’t enjoy practical jokes. She remembered when her brother-in-law, Charlie, had excitedly claimed that John had won a prize in the Mayor’s raffle and made him get dressed up for a non-existent prize-giving ceremony. John had found it funny, but Joyce hadn’t appreciated it.

‘I’m Alice Ashley.’ The woman extended a black-gloved hand across the table.

‘I know,’ Joyce countered half-heartedly, feeling slight irritation at this woman’s manner. Hopes of passing the time with someone’s company she might enjoy were diminishing.

Alice smiled back, amused at Joyce’s comment and seemingly not noticing any weariness in her new companion’s voice. Alice promptly collared the passing waiter and ordered a pot of tea.

‘Why were you running?’

Alice looked perplexed for a moment as if she’d forgotten how she had arrived. ‘Oh, it was raining.’

‘Was it?’ Joyce hadn’t seen any rain on the windows and there had been no sign of drizzle on Alice’s shoulders or hair. She contemplated picking up the menu again and shutting out her irritating guest.

‘Sorry if I annoyed you.’ Alice had obviously picked up on Joyce’s mood. ‘I’m always annoying people. I think I’ll say something funny and it normally backfires on me. Sorry!’

‘That’s alright. I suppose we all need a laugh, don’t we?’

‘Yes, we do!’ Alice grinned, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth. Their tea arrived and the waiter arranged the pots and cups and saucers for them. He nodded and glided off to another table. The chatter in the room provided a reassuring and convivial ambience, but it made Joyce acutely aware of her own lack of conversation.

‘So, what do you do, Alice?’ Joyce poured them both a cup of tea.

‘I work on a production line. Hence the gloves.’

She pulled one of her long black velvet gloves off to reveal a set of stubby fingers adorned with sticking plasters and small cuts. ‘I move around a lot, but at the moment I’m here in Birmingham. They move me where I’m needed. What about you, Joyce Fisher?’

Joyce did her best to hide her annoyance. She never liked it when people used full names when they didn’t have to. It reminded her of being back at school.

‘I work in a salon,’ Joyce lied. She wasn’t sure why she said it. Perhaps it was to make it sound grander than it was, when the reality was she did the hair of friends and neighbours in her mother’s front room. Perhaps she felt a little embarrassed that Alice was doing proper war work and she wasn’t.

‘You never do!’ Alice exclaimed.

Was she accusing her of lying or was she surprised?

‘Yes, I do.’ Joyce felt a little uncomfortable. Alice must have sensed that she had crossed the line again and endeavoured to put things right.

‘Oh sorry, I wasn’t saying you didn’t. I just – well, I’m in need of a hairdresser.’

Joyce glanced up at the woman’s hair and decided that what it needed was to be given a thorough wash. Black strands hung limply down from where they had escaped a carelessly affixed hairband.

‘Well, if I had my things I could help you, but they’re back in Coventry.’

‘Coventry?’ A frown crossed the woman’s face.

‘Yes, have you been?’

‘No. It’s just—’ Alice seemed distracted, troubled even. And then it seemed she didn’t want to talk at all. ‘Sorry, I should be getting back to work.’

‘Oh right, yes, of course.’

Alice stood up and downed the rest of the tea in her cup. She pulled her fur wrap close around her shoulders.

‘It was nice to meet you Joyce Fisher.’ Alice offered her gloved hand for a shake. Joyce obliged, rising slightly out of politeness.