Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

I’ve made a friend. Sandra. She’s just had a kid. A boy, Tommy. I don’t know if she thought calling him Tommy was funny or something. I’ve never mentioned it. Her husband has already been called up and gone off. He lives in a photograph on the mantelpiece. There are two leaves to the frame. In the other leaf is a poem: To My Dear HusbandWhere’er you are my Husband true,In these war-troubled days,My loving thoughts go out to youIn countless kinds of ways.God keep you, Dear, where’er you roam,And bring you, one day, safely home.

That’s all that’s left of him at present. This picture and when she talks about him. Which she doesn’t do all that much. She invited me over for tea. I can see you’re a bit lost around here. And Len. Well, he’s not the type to go out of his way to introduce you around, now is he. She used to work for Len in the shop. But then she fell pregnant and got wed. I think it was in that order. She offered me a treat. Two Rich Tea biscuits. I expect you have plenty of these in the shop whenever you want them, but for me it’s a treat. It’s a big thing. Don’t get much sweet stuff these days. She sat me down. They say people are queuing in town, trying to beat the system. And that doctors and dentists are hard to come by. Not just panel ones, private too. And that some people are getting mail a week late. I looked at her and wondered if Len had only come after me because he needed somebody to replace her in the shop. Maybe I’m being a bit silly, I thought. Maybe I’m reading too much into everything. I don’t know. At least I’ve made a friend. Sod Len and his pencil-thin moustache. He’s happy now that he’s got some mug to work for him in the shop. He’s happy now that he’s able to leave me in the shop and go to the pub with his mates. Are you listening to me, love? Sandra stared at me. You do tend to dream a, little, don’t you. I’ve been wondering if I should grow my hair like Veronica Lake. Or if I should just stick to the normal two and sixpenny shampoo and set. I smiled at her. They censor my husband’s letters, can you believe that? The kid started to cry. Tommy. Tommy started to play up. She picked it up and held it in her arms. Then she rocked it back and forth until it began to gurgle like it was choking. Tommy’s laughing, she said. Here, do you want to hold him? I held up the Rich Tea biscuit. I’d love to, but I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Got any of your own, have you? Sandra’s not much past twenty or so. About my age. I could see that now. Don’t look like that, she said. I had to get married and get started. Women in my family go off early. But you’ve plenty of time yet. Nice of her to say it. Polite of her. She looked sad now. You don’t know what it’s like when the postman passes the door. The day is ruined. Absolutely ruined. She’s the only person I know in the village apart from Len. Long, thin, blonde hair. At first I thought I saw blackened roots, then I realized she was just in some shadow. Why do I have to be so bloody critical? So what if she bleaches her hair? What business is it of mine? I think I’m jealous of her looks. But I do want to be generous to her. Len is a quiet bloke, she says. In his own way he’s kind, but it’ll take you a while to get to know him properly. Now I resent her. I don’t like being told about my own husband. But she feels as though she’s helping me. Len hasn’t bothered to introduce me to anybody. After all, Sandra has taken it upon herself to come into the shop and find me. A lot of the other girls have gone, she says. There are not many of us left. ATS, munitions work, they’ve nearly all gone. But some Land Army Girls are due to come here. And then there’s us. Mothers. I’m not a mother, I say. Sandra smiles. But I suppose working in the shop is vital work, isn’t it? They won’t put you in the factories, will they? No, I say. I’ve been classified. Len’s disabled. He can’t manage by himself, so I’ll not be going in the factories. Well, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better, then. I’m glad there’s somebody around like you. I thought it’d only be me and a few others. And to be honest, most of them are just interested in your business. They’re not interested in you, just in what you’re up to. I don’t have much time for that. Neither do I, I said. Neither do I. She looked at me funny. My mind started to race. I’d been looking right at her. Perhaps she thought I meant her. I couldn’t think of anything to say which would convince her that I wasn’t talking about her. So I just smiled back. I looked at her with a stupid grin painted on my face. I’m sorry, I said to myself. I don’t know how to behave. I like you. I’ve never been much good with people. She handed Tommy to me. Then she went to fill the kettle again. I knew she was watching me from the kitchen, watching me holding her child, worried that I might do something daft with him. I held him awkwardly. And then I heard the water splashing against the enamel as she started to fill the kettle. But I knew that she was still watching me. I turned around and she beamed at me. Had enough of Tommy? she asked. No. I held Tommy close to me. I’ll be all right.

Len and his mate Stan borrowed a car so they could drive into town. On business, they said. Drinking business more like, but I went with them so I could see my mother. I told them that I’d meet them outside the bank at six. Len didn’t want to see her, but it didn’t matter. There was no need for either of them to pretend. They’d passed that stage. At about five-thirty, I began to walk back into town, and I noticed that all the iron railings had been ripped out. By the park. Front gardens, everywhere. Together with the pots and pans, that they punctured as soon as you handed them over, the railings would be used for Spitfires. Things were changing. We’d been told that in a week or so we’d have to start rationing bacon, ham, sugar and butter. Customers would only be able to get them with a ration book. I stood by myself in the cold and shivered. The moon was full and the sky was bright with stars. There didn’t seem much point to the blackout. I looked up and wondered if Hitler had found a way to turn out the stars over his country at night. It was after seven. Len was late. Bladdered, I imagined. Not for the first time in my life I felt the humiliation of being abandoned.

The cold of winter has insisted on hanging on a few weeks past its time. Sandra has been looking increasingly lost and unhappy. These days I go around to visit her two or three times a week. She can’t breast-feed Tommy any more because she says her milk’s all dried up due to worry. He won’t take the bottle, so she has to spoon-feed him, which can take hours. Tommy has become an increasingly noisy problem, but I’ve grown to like him, and to even want to hold him. I never thought that I would want to hold a baby. Sandra seems to like this. The fact that I literally take him off her hands. Today she sat me down and gave me a cup of tea. And then she told me that she was pregnant. I looked at her but said nothing. She was expecting me to say something. That much was clear. She was expecting a reaction of some kind. Horror. Laughter. Something. But I said nothing. Did you hear me? I said I think I’m pregnant. No, in fact I know I’m pregnant. I’m nearly three months gone. She didn’t have to tell me how far gone she was, for I knew that it wasn’t him. I had no idea who it was, but it was clear that she was hoping that I might ask. But I said nothing. I just sipped at my tea. A small mouthful at a time. Don’t you want to know who? I was looking out of the window now. As usual, nothing and nobody in the streets. A perverse part of me longed for her to tell me that it was Len. But it wasn’t. It’s Len’s mate, Joyce. Terry. The farmer. She didn’t have to say who Terry was. I wasn’t so stupid that I couldn’t figure that out for myself. Sandra’s voice began to break.