Pam Weaver - Pack Up Your Troubles

‘I’ve got a couple of fish paste sandwiches in my bag,’ said Connie taking it from her shoulder. ‘They’ll be a bit squashed but you’re welcome to share them with me.’

‘Thanks for the offer,’ laughed Eva, ‘but if you don’t mind, I think I can do a bit better than that.’

‘But where are we going to get anything around here?’ Connie cried.

Eva tapped her nose and pulled Connie towards Green Park. When they reached the road, they turned into a side street. Connie hadn’t a clue where she was, but she didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Presently they came across a small crowd laughing and dancing outside a café.

‘Is this where we’re going?’

Eva nodded.

‘How on earth did you know this was here?’

‘My husband’s family has been here for quite a while,’ she said matter-of-factly.

Connie was taken by surprise. Eva had never mentioned a husband. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring either. She was about to mention it when she was swept up with hugs and kisses and handshakes as the family welcomed Eva’s new friend. Someone called out, ‘Queenie, Queenie luv, look who’s ’ere.’

Queenie, a small woman, middle-aged, with a lined face, hair the colour of salt and pepper and wearing a wrap-around floral apron, came out of the kitchen. The two women looked at each other, unsmiling, then Queenie opened her arms and Eva went to her. Such was the difference in their height, Queenie had to stand on tip-toe and Eva had to lean over, but there was a moment of real tenderness and, Connie supposed, if Queenie was Eva’s mother-in-law, a sense of shared grief. For a moment, Connie felt like an intruder so she looked away. Eva and Queenie went into the kitchen and shut the door.

Another woman sitting at one of the tables touched her arm. Connie looked down and smiled thinly.

‘Why don’t yer sit down, ducks,’ said the woman indicating a vacant chair opposite. ‘They’ll be back in a jiffy.’

Connie nodded her thanks and sat down.

‘Been to the celebrations?’ asked the woman fingering a pearl necklace she had around her neck.

‘To the palace.’

The woman lifted what looked like a glass of milk stout. ‘Here’s to His Majesty, Gowd bless ’im. Did you see him?’

As they talked, Connie discovered that Eva’s mother-in-law, Queenie O’Hara, had lived in London all her life. She and her late husband, an Irishman, had taken over the small café in 1941 after their dockland home had been bombed out of existence.

‘Queenie used to clean ’ouses for the nobs round ’ere,’ said the woman, ‘but when she saw this place was up for sale, it were an hoppertunity too good to miss. He died in ’44 just before her son got married.’ She pointed to a photograph over the counter of an Irish guardsman in his Home Service dress of scarlet tunic and bearskin. ‘That’s her Dermid. The light of her life.’

So this was Eva’s husband. He was certainly a striking man.

‘How long have they been married?’ Connie asked.

The woman shrugged. ‘No more than a couple of weeks.’

Connie frowned. Only a couple of weeks and already Eva had taken off her wedding ring?

‘This damned war,’ muttered the woman. ‘The day he died the light went out of Queenie’s face.’

Connie was appalled. Dead? She looked at the picture of the handsome young man in uniform again. How could it happen? Now she realised that she’d been so concerned to avoid talking about her own troubles that she hadn’t even asked Eva about herself. Losing touch with Kenneth was bad enough but to lose a husband so soon after marriage seemed grossly unfair. And yet coming down The Mall, Eva didn’t seem to be that upset. She was more like the life and soul of the party. Was she callous or was it bravado? But when she emerged from the kitchen and came over to join them at the table, Connie could see that Eva’s eyes were red and she’d obviously been crying. ‘Queenie’s going to rustle something up for us,’ she said matter-of-factly to Connie and then turning to the woman with the pearl beads and the stout, she said, ‘And how are you, Mrs Arkwright?’

Connie’s table companion leaned over and squeezed Eva’s hand. ‘Mustn’t grumble, ducks. Mustn’t grumble.’

Someone in the café had a piano accordion. He squeezed the box and one by one, the songs, especially the one penned during the war to end all wars, the same one which had meant so much to the country for the past five years, filled the air.

‘Pack up your troubles …’

Yes, that’s what the whole world wanted but for the first time that day, Connie felt uncomfortable. The war might be over but people like Eva had to live with the consequences for the rest of their lives. Her mind was full of unanswered questions. How did Eva’s husband die? Was it really only a couple of weeks after they’d been married?

‘What’s the use of worrying?

It never was worthwhile …’

Of course, she couldn’t ask. She hardly knew the girl and it seemed far too intrusive.

‘Pack up your troubles in an old kit bag and

Smile, smile, smile …’ they sang.

Connie could hardly bear it.

All at once, Queenie bustled in from the kitchen and put two plates of meat and veg pie, mash and gravy in front of them. Despite the fact that Connie had to search for a piece of meat in her pie, it was hot, delicious and very welcome.

‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ said Connie as Queenie went off to get them both a cup of tea. Her remark felt lame but she felt she had to say something .

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Eva.

Connie smiled awkwardly and Eva looked away. ‘Not much to say really,’ Eva said, addressing the brick wall. ‘We met in Hyde Park, got married by special licence and he was killed six weeks later.’

Connie stopped eating. ‘But I thought …’ She glanced sideways at Mrs Arkwright who was stubbing out a cigarette. Two weeks or six, it was still terrible. ‘God, Eva, that’s awful.’

Eva ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair and shrugged her shoulders. ‘It happens.’

She’d only known the girl for a few hours but Connie wasn’t fooled. She might be trying to sound tough but Connie could see that Eva’s eyes had misted over. Connie had obviously reopened an old wound and now she didn’t know what to say. Rescue came once more in the form of Eva’s mother-in-law who reappeared with the tea. Planting a kiss on the top of Eva’s head she said to Connie, ‘Isn’t she lovely? My Dermid picked a real gem. Like a daughter to me she is.’

Connie nodded vigorously and embarrassed, Eva shooed her away with, ‘Get away with you, Queenie.’

‘Now that it’s all over, my gal,’ said Queenie earnestly, ‘you mind you keep in touch.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Eva, looking up and squeezing her hand.

As they finished their meal the man with the accordion struck up ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ and they all sang along. Or at least, Connie mouthed the words. Her throat was too tight with emotion to sing but the jolly songs had the others dancing and clapping and the more poignant ones brought a sentimental tear to the eye.

‘I presume you’ve got a SOP,’ said Eva. ‘If you need a place to sleep, I’m sure Queenie will put us up, won’t you Queenie?’

‘’Course I can,’ smiled Queenie.

Mrs Arkwright frowned. ‘What’s a SOP?’

‘Sleeping Out Pass,’ laughed Eva.

Connie’s jaw dropped and she gasped in horror. ‘Oh Lord, no! Since we started double summer time, these long light evenings make such a difference. Whatever’s the time?’

‘Eight forty-five.’

‘Oh hell,’ cried Connie grabbing her handbag from the floor. ‘I never gave it a thought. I haven’t even got a late pass and I’ve got to be in by ten.’