A Mother’s Sacrifice. Kitty Neale
Battersea, London, 1947
‘Glenda!’ The front door flew open and Glenda Jenkins tensed as she heard her husband shout.
‘Get your glad rags on, we’re going down the Castle. Alfie Ledger’s missus had a boy last night. We’re gonna wet the baby’s head.’
Glenda pulled the covers over Johnnie, tucking him into his crib. At seven months old, he was teething and it made him tetchy, so she didn’t want to wake him and drag him out in the damp evening air to Harry’s parents’ house. She hated going to the pub too, but knew it would be useless to protest. Anyway, it sounded like Harry was in a good mood and she dared not rile him.
She took a deep breath and moved her slim frame to the top of the stairs as she called down, ‘All right, love, just give me a few minutes. Have you checked with your mum that it’s OK to drop Johnnie in?’
‘No, but you know she loves having the little munchkin. Just get a move on, will you? We’re missing valuable drinking time.’
Glenda sighed heavily again. It was Thursday, Maude’s Tombola night at the Catholic church, so she might not want to look after her grandson. But Glenda was used to Harry barking his orders, and when Harry said jump, she knew better than to argue. She would take Johnnie’s bottles and formula for Maude to make up. Once again, she felt a familiar surge of guilt that she’d been unable to breast-feed.
Quickly slipping off her housecoat and smoothing down her drab dark-green dress, Glenda checked her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She was twenty-four and her long legs would have looked good in one of those fashionable new knee-length skirts, but Harry wouldn’t let her have one as he said only tarts and whores wore them. She would have loved a smart jacket with shoulder pads too, but Harry said that big shoulders were for men, not for decent wives and mothers. Anyway, with clothes still being rationed, and only stuff made of cheap, scratchy material available, she’d have to make do with what she had.
Content with her dress, she patted her brown hair, wrapped a scarf over her waves and tied it under her chin before leaning in closer to the mirror to apply a touch of lipstick. Damn it, she thought as she noticed the yellowing mark still visible on her jaw. Harry rarely hit her on her face but his violence seemed to be escalating and last week, after a skinful of beer, he had come home the worse for wear and woken her, dragging her out of bed to warm up his dinner. She had thrown it away earlier, thinking he wouldn’t want it, but that had been the wrong thing to do. She had paid for her mistake with several blows to the head.
When they entered the smoky pub, Harry steered Glenda towards the saloon bar where several of his mates’ wives were already sat. Before the war women weren’t seen in London pubs, but things were changing and, as long as you were escorted, it was now acceptable to be in the saloon bar. A cheer went up from the group of men. ‘Look, Harry’s here!’
‘All right, lads, where’s the proud new father?’ Harry said, smiling as he greeted his mates. ‘There he is. Alfie, my old mucker, let me get you a drink.’
Glenda stood back shyly, her head lowered as Harry summoned the barman and ordered a round of drinks for everyone. His generosity and popularity had once been attractive to her, but now she worried as she saw the rent money going over the bar.
‘Glenda, hello, love. How are you? I ain’t seen you in ages!’
Glenda looked up and inwardly cringed. It was Betty Howard, the last person she wanted to be seen with and the biggest gossip in Battersea. If you wanted something known locally, Betty was the person to tell. She was also the most gossiped about and had worked in the local greengrocer’s since she was fifteen. Though she was nice looking and had dated most of the men in the area, Betty was still single and known to be flighty. Harry had come home only yesterday and said that Betty had her eye on Billy Myers now. Apparently she had turned up at the old bombsite on Lavender Hill which was now a building site and brought sandwiches for Billy. All the workmen had had a right laugh about that.
‘Oh, hello, Betty,’ she said. It wasn’t in her nature to snub anyone. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. I’ve been busy with little Johnnie lately. He’s teething at the moment; you know how it is.’
‘Well, not really,’ Betty answered as she drank her gin and tonic. ‘I’ve not had much experience with babies but you never know … I’m hoping Billy Myers will be coming in later. You know him, don’t you? He works as a labourer on that site where your Harry is. He’s a bit of all right, I must say! Tell you what, your Harry reminds me a bit of Billy, both with their dark hair and stocky build. I do like a muscly man, what about you? Here … have you tried gin with this Schweppes stuff? It’s ever so ladylike, don’t you think?’
Glenda looked at Betty, rather bemused. Blimey, she thought as the woman jabbered on, but thankfully, before she had a chance to engage in too much conversation, the pub door opened again and Billy Myers walked in, bringing with him a blast of chilly autumn air.
Betty spotted her target instantly and sashayed towards the door, wiggling her hips in her satin skirt. Glenda admired Betty’s outfit and wondered how she had come to own such a garment, what with the shortage of clothing. Betty was brave to wear it in here, she thought.
Harry appeared at Glenda’s side and handed her a small sherry. ‘Look at that bloody tart,’ he said, nodding towards Betty and Billy.
‘Yeah, she came in on her own and it’s disgusting,’ said one of the wives who was just passing them and had overheard Harry’s remark. ‘I wouldn’t walk into a pub, saloon bar or not, without my husband.’
‘You