Heartache for the Shop Girls. Joanna Toye
‘Isn’t he a little smasher?’ Les beamed at his son. ‘Hasn’t Beryl done wonders?’
Beryl glowed as everyone showered praise on her, the baby, and the general miracle of creation.
‘Don’t you want to sit down, son? It’s nearly wiped him out walking over here.’
As she spoke, Ivy was removing her coat and lowering her own sizeable behind onto the luckless dining chair that had drawn today’s short straw. Dora nodded in agreement. Physical opposites, Ivy large and expansive, Dora neat and trim, they’d become fast friends since Les and Beryl’s marriage, united by their unswerving devotion to their families.
‘Pull him up a chair, Jim.’
Common sense and a desire to appear manly tussled in Les’s face, but he gave in to the inevitable.
‘Maybe I will.’ He took the chair. ‘Just for a minute or two. I’m a lot better than I was!’ he added bravely.
‘I think he looks awful, don’t you?’ Lily asked Jim under the hiss of the kettle. They’d been sent out to the kitchen to make the tea.
‘Not great.’
The worry about Les had started after the battle for Tobruk back in June. Nothing had been heard of him, or Lily’s brother Reg who was also out in North Africa, for weeks. Finally, Reg had managed to send a wire saying he was OK. From Les, though, there’d been nothing till Beryl got a letter saying he’d been in hospital – and nowhere near the fighting! He’d been taken with something called West Nile fever – from a mosquito bite.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Lily. ‘Do you think it was more serious than he let on?’
Jim shrugged.
‘I can’t think why else a simple fever case would mean him being shipped home and discharged for good.’
Lily sighed.
‘Oh, Jim. This war! If so, where does that leave Beryl and Bobby?’
It wasn’t till after tea that Jim got the full story out of Les. Under the pretence of giving Bobby, newly fed and changed, some air, they went out into the yard where the hens scratched tirelessly if pointlessly in their run. Les was already looking a bit less peaky. He’d certainly eaten a giant tea.
‘So, this fever …’ Jim began.
Beryl had already told them with a hint of pride that Les’s records had gone to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases in London as an interesting case.
‘I’d never heard of it,’ answered Les, shifting his body slightly to protect the baby’s eyes from the bright sky. ‘It’s not that bad in itself. But I had complications.’
‘Right …’ So there had been something else – just as Jim and Lily had suspected.
‘I carried on, see, thought it was gippy tummy or heatstroke – they were always warning us about that. By the time I came over real queer, it had taken hold. I had this kind of seizure, woke up in hospital and my legs had gone all floppy. You know how they hit you with that little hammer? Not a thing.’
‘My God, Les. Scary.’
‘It was. I thought it was polio or something. But they said … let me get this right … the fever had gone to … encephalitis, is it?’
Now Jim understood. Without telling anyone, even Lily, he’d gone to the library and read up on tropical fevers back when they’d first had the news that Les had been in the isolation ward. Encephalitis was a swelling of the brain.
‘But you got the feeling back?’
‘Yes, thank God, bit by bit. And I’m better now.’
‘Are you? Really?’
‘Well …’ Les looked shifty. ‘I get the odd headache. My heart races a bit. But I’m properly on the mend.’
‘They still invalided you out.’
‘Yeah. And compared to some blokes, lost a leg, blinded, burns and what have you, I’m darn lucky. But the Army can’t have me driving or handling machinery, let alone a gun. They can’t take the risk, “in a theatre of war” was how they put it.’
‘No, I should think not.’
‘But I could kiss that mosquito!’ The mosquito being unavailable, Les kissed the baby’s head. ‘Giving me a free pass home!’
This was more like the old Les.
‘Well, maybe it’s for the best,’ Jim said thoughtfully. ‘At least Bobby’s going to grow up knowing his dad. There’s plenty of kids who won’t have that.’
They both looked down at the baby. At four months he hadn’t quite mastered getting his thumb into his mouth but was happily sucking his fist. Les stroked his silky hair in disbelief and wonder.
‘What was it like out there, Les? Really?’
Les puffed out a breath.
‘What can I say? Like everyone tells you: heat, dust, sand, flies, more sand, more heat … What they don’t tell you is wearing the same clothes for days, soaked in sweat, drinking water that tastes of petrol from a rusty can, lying in a scrape in the sand being strafed by the Jerries, seeing the truck ahead of you hit a mine … and the things you see … fellers blown apart, bits all over the place … digging them a grave …’
Gently, he touched Bobby’s head again.
‘But at the same time, the lads, we had such a laugh – you had to. And the guts of some of them – injured and carrying on, could have got a Blighty pass no trouble, but raring to get back to it – and that’s officers and men. And not just us Brits. Indians and Aussies and New Zealanders … they’ve fought like lions.’
Jim was silent. He’d tried to join up when he’d turned eighteen but had failed the eye test. He still felt guilty about it, despite the fact that he did his ARP duty three nights a week and took his turn fire-watching on the roof of Marlow’s.
‘They should have kept you on – recruiting officer!’
‘No thanks! But, look, Jim, I want to talk to you about that. What’s the chance of my old job back?’
Until he’d been called up, Les had worked as a delivery driver at Marlow’s. Beryl had worked there too. It was how they’d all met.
Jim had been waiting for the question and he knew the answer would disappoint. Les had never been replaced and the store was hardly going to create another driving job now, with petrol rationed even more strictly.
‘Les. Be realistic. You can’t go back to driving. The Army have got a point.’ Les opened his mouth to object, but Jim carried on. ‘No, listen. There is a job coming up. Not driving – it’s warehouseman-cum-porter. I know it’s a step down for you. It wouldn’t be quite as well-paid, and you’d still have to convince them you were fit enough … Would you be up for that?’
‘With a wife and kiddy to support?’ Les nearly bit off not just his hand, but his whole arm. ‘I’d be up for anything! And I’ll work on getting myself A1 fit. Get my chest-expander out!’
‘Don’t overdo it!’ warned Jim. ‘One step at a time. I’ll have a word with Staff Office and try and get you seen. I should think they’d be glad not to have to advertise, and wade through a load of useless applications.’
‘Thanks, Jim. I appreciate it.’
Lily, Gladys and Beryl trooped out now, Beryl saying they ought to get going and get Bobby to bed. She, Gladys and Les formed an admiring circle round the baby as Lily squeezed in next to Jim on the wall of the