write about when she started her proper job in the summer.
Frank wrote back asking why Mrs Eaves’s sister hadn’t moved into one of the prefabs they had been hearing about. If she didn’t know, she should find out, get the complete picture, start thinking like a journalist.
Rosie asked Grandpa as they sat in front of the coal fire while the rain teemed down as it had done for the last seven days. Jack had collected some wood from a flooded bomb site and this was stacked on its end to one side. There was a smell of wet dust from it which crept through the whole house, but it would make the coal last longer.
‘There aren’t enough. They’re having lotteries in some Local Authorities, though why anyone would queue to live in one of those I don’t know,’ said Grandpa, flicking the ash of a Woodbine into the fire. He coughed. The damp November air was making his chest thick again and his tan was fading, but he had had no accidents for months.
‘Well, I can,’ ground out Norah. ‘A nice clean bungalow with a neat garden, a nice sort of neighbour. A nice new town away from London’s mess. I’d want it.’
Rosie looked round the room, at the books either side of the fireplace, the American oilcloth on the table, bought from Woolworths. She thought of the house by the lake, the house in Lower Falls, and knew now that all three were home. At last all three were home.
As Christmas drew near she sewed cotton sheeting into two small pillowcases and filled them with hops, sending one to Frank and Nancy, hiding one for Grandpa. She bought a Duke Ellington record for Jack and Evening in Paris perfume for Maisie, Californian Poppy for Norah (because Norah needed all the sweetness she could get, she told Jack).
She bought Ollie paint brushes because he was always talking of doing up the house, but there were so few materials available. She bought Nancy a Union Jack brooch which was left over from the war. It was luminous ‘so Frank will be able to track you down wherever you are’, she wrote as she put their card in with the parcel.
She told them that her typing was still improving, the Palais was still fun. She did not tell them how Jack kissed her good night or that, as she crossed off the days to Christmas, her grief was deep and dark again because she remembered Lower Falls and the times they had spent together.
Instead she sat by the fire with Grandpa on 20 December until ten p.m. colouring, cutting and sticking paper chains together as they had always done.
‘I’ve missed this,’ he said, his hands folding the strips slowly, holding the ends between thumb and finger while they stuck together. ‘I’ve missed our Christmases.’
‘So have I, Grandpa,’ she said. But she was not thinking of paper chains. She was thinking of the thick snow where here there was rain. Thick snow which had turned the world into a Christmas card as they had travelled by tram on her first American Christmas to the main shopping centres which were decorated with lights, and with streamers and garlands, snowmen and Father Christmas. The air had rung out with carols and there had been a Father Christmas on each floor, wilting in the central heating.
That night she didn’t sleep at all. The next day when she walked home from work, there were no lighted trees in the windows, no people on skis and horse-drawn sleighs, no sparkling snow. There was nothing of the excitement she had known in Lower Falls for Lee, who was looking out into the street, his face pressed against the window. It wouldn’t goddamn do.
At home there was a small piece of fatty bacon to boil along with carrots and potatoes. She did this but didn’t talk. She poured Grandpa’s tea, smiled at Norah and then went in to Maisie, wrapping Lee up warmly, taking the pushchair, going to the market, talking to Jack who nodded and asked Ollie to mind the stall.
They went by bus up West, and walked down the streets where there were some decorations, but not many and no
Frank wrote back asking why Mrs Eaves’s sister hadn’t moved into one of the prefabs they had been hearing about. If she didn’t know, she should find out, get the complete picture, start thinking like a journalist.
Rosie asked Grandpa as they sat in front of the coal fire while the rain teemed down as it had done for the last seven days. Jack had collected some wood from a flooded bomb site and this was stacked on its end to one side. There was a smell of wet dust from it which crept through the whole house, but it would make the coal last longer.
‘There aren’t enough. They’re having lotteries in some Local Authorities, though why anyone would queue to live in one of those I don’t know,’ said Grandpa, flicking the ash of a Woodbine into the fire. He coughed. The damp November air was making his chest thick again and his tan was fading, but he had had no accidents for months.
‘Well, I can,’ ground out Norah. ‘A nice clean bungalow with a neat garden, a nice sort of neighbour. A nice new town away from London’s mess. I’d want it.’
Rosie looked round the room, at the books either side of the fireplace, the American oilcloth on the table, bought from Woolworths. She thought of the house by the lake, the house in Lower Falls, and knew now that all three were home. At last all three were home.
As Christmas drew near she sewed cotton sheeting into two small pillowcases and filled them with hops, sending one to Frank and Nancy, hiding one for Grandpa. She bought a Duke Ellington record for Jack and Evening in Paris perfume for Maisie, Californian Poppy for Norah (because Norah needed all the sweetness she could get, she told Jack).
She bought Ollie paint brushes because he was always talking of doing up the house, but there were so few materials available. She bought Nancy a Union Jack brooch which was left over from the war. It was luminous ‘so Frank will be able to track you down wherever you are’, she wrote as she put their card in with the parcel.
She told them that her typing was still improving, the Palais was still fun. She did not tell them how Jack kissed her good night or that, as she crossed off the days to Christmas, her grief was deep and dark again because she remembered Lower Falls and the times they had spent together.
Instead she sat by the fire with Grandpa on 20 December until ten p.m. colouring, cutting and sticking paper chains together as they had always done.
‘I’ve missed this,’ he said, his hands folding the strips slowly, holding the ends between thumb and finger while they stuck together. ‘I’ve missed our Christmases.’
‘So have I, Grandpa,’ she said. But she was not thinking of paper chains. She was thinking of the thick snow where here there was rain. Thick snow which had turned the world into a Christmas card as they had travelled by tram on her first American Christmas to the main shopping centres which were decorated with lights, and with streamers and garlands, snowmen and Father Christmas. The air had rung out with carols and there had been a Father Christmas on each floor, wilting in the central heating.
That night she didn’t sleep at all. The next day when she walked home from work, there were no lighted trees in the windows, no people on skis and horse-drawn sleighs, no sparkling snow. There was nothing of the excitement she had known in Lower Falls for Lee, who was looking out into the street, his face pressed against the window. It wouldn’t goddamn do.
At home there was a small piece of fatty bacon to boil along with carrots and potatoes. She did this but didn’t talk. She poured Grandpa’s tea, smiled at Norah and then went in to Maisie, wrapping Lee up warmly, taking the pushchair, going to the market, talking to Jack who nodded and asked Ollie to mind the stall.
They went by bus up West, and walked down the streets where there were some decorations, but not many and no
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