Red is the colour

"Red is the Colour"

By Annette Cranstoun 

"And darling, wear your brightest red lipstick" were his parting words as he left to rejoin his ship.

They had married in church, just six days before. They'd had so little time to plan their lives together.

Yesterday, the postman's visit had ended the uncertainty. The letter had been read over a thousand times, each time, causing the quick intake of breath and a small spasm beneath her ribs. He was coming home in time for Christmas.

Other letters had filtered through, and, whilst being careful to lend no assistance to the enemy, he had been unable to hide his and the crew's elation, at the interception of a supply vessel, making it's way to the mighty "Bismark".

She recalls the day his posting came through. His pride in his ship, HMS Neptune. He'd been with her from the day of her launching at Portsmouth. He called the ship "My Babe"

Knowing she won't sleep, she relaxes in the small tin bath, sipping a mug of cocoa, into which, she's treated herself to a little extra milk powder to celebrate.

Brown eyes fill with tears as she listens to the big bands in the wireless, and hums along to one of their favourite tunes, "White Christmas".

Through the long hours of the blackout, alternating doubt and excitement, hold sleep just out of reach. Cradling a sugarless cup of tea in her hands, she watches the dawn, slowly but surely, win it's own battle against the black skies.

She applies her make-up, so very, very carefully. A feather light dusting of powder, no rouge needed, anticipation has blushed the colour to her cheeks. Mouth formed in an oval to spread the scarlet lipstick, his favourite colour. Slipping her best frock over her head, she smoothes it down over slim hips. Twisting from the waist, she straightens the seams of her nylons, jealously hoarded for this day. Bought on the black market the last time an American ship was in port. A teaspoon of vinegar in the final rinse has brought a gleam to the short dark hair, cut in the latest fashionable bob.

Dabbing "Evening in Paris" behind her ears, she takes a long critical look at herself in the dressing table mirror. Is the dress too short, is she wearing too much powder, will he like her hair?

Delving in her handbag, mentally ticking off; purse, hankie, ID card and last but not least, his favourite lipstick.

Lifting her coat from the peg in the hall, she glances in the mirror by the front door. The bob's a mistake, how will he twirl that round his fingers as he used to.

Pulling the front door behind her, she gives it a gentle push, checking the latch has caught. Satisfied, she walks quickly along the narrow street of terraced houses. She thanks God that their street is not one those that have been the recipient of a German calling card. They are among the lucky ones who still have a home. Her footsteps keep in time with the words in her heart. "He's coming home, he's coming home".

Reaching the tram stop, she examines her watch, plenty of time. She could walk it easily but doesn't want to spoil her hair or take the chance of laddering her so precious nylons. Searching the distance, she anticipates the tram, not yet in sight. Scrutinises the timetable, studies her watch, should be here by now.

"Please, please, don't let it be cancelled".

Judging her face, the conductor recognises good news, reciprocates her smile and wonders what sort of man, inspires such radiance.

Her smile fades as she sees again the devastation of The Princes Theatre. She feels again, the warmth of his hand, gently encircling her fingers as she remembers sitting close to him in the darkened theatre. He will be sad but the theatre will be re-built, they will go together again.

Clutching her coat about her, she climbs carefully down from the tram, head high, a spring in her step and butterflies in her tummy, she makes her way along Commercial Road. Sprigs of holly and strands of ivy intertwined with home made paper chains endow the shops with a festive feel.

Weaving her way through the crowds, men, woman, and children, jostling and queuing. All searching for those few little extras. Clutching brown paper carriers that hold the treasures they've been so lucky to find.

She congratulates herself at having found a present so exactly right for him. An old china plate discovered in a second hand shop. Hand painted in a delicate blue of an old fashioned sailing ship. It would complement his small but treasured collection. Lovingly wrapped in crepe paper and tied with red ribbon.

Their Christmas Day lunch is all organised. Succulent rabbit wrapped in crisp salty bacon, basted in butter, all frugally hoarded from her meagre rations. She smells the rich aroma of the prized onion, braising alongside the meat.

If wishes created perfection, grated carrot, potato, dried egg and some dried fruit, her Christmas pudding will be ambrosia. Laced with a small tot of brandy, slowly maturing on the shelf of the larder. It was going to be the best Christmas ever.

Reaching Landports department store, she makes her way to the Dome tea bar, so many good memories here. She and her girlfriend used to come here often, ostensibly to drink tea, mainly to see and be seen.

Happy giggles and girlish glances attracting the attention of two young sailors, openly interested in the two young ladies.

Memories of him walking her home, leaving her at her door, looking forward to tomorrow. Their feelings had just gone on growing.

His homecoming would be as their beginning.

Slipping her arms out of her coat, she chooses a seat facing the door, she doesn't want to miss a second of him.

"What'll you have dear?"  A kindly waitress asks.

" A cup of tea please"

"Anything with it?"

A smile and a slight shake of the head is her reply.

How will he feel about her working at the docks? She knows she's doing a worthwhile job, keeping all the workmen fed as they all play their part in the war effort. He doesn't believe in all this modern woman nonsense, a wife's place is in the home, caring for husband and family.

Removing her empty cup, the waitress looks expectantly, does she want another. Once again, a small shake of the head only this time, there is no accompanying smile.

Studying her watch, a pain starts to nag in her chest. He must have been delayed, perhaps his tram isn't running, maybe his ship was late docking.

She changes her mind and asks for another cup of tea, which sits on the table in front of her. Taking the spoon from the saucer, she toys with the skin forming on the cooling liquid.

No empty tables left as workers and shoppers come in for their lunch. Not one sound of their laughter and chatter permeates her concentration.

The innocent eyes of a rosy cheek toddler, gaze at the pretty lady sitting so still.

"Don't stare", chides his mum, wiping his nose on a hankie she's tugged from her sleeve. She bustles him off home. "Mustn't be late, got to get Dads tea".

The eyes are all that moves as she waits, and waits and waits.

The waitress knows the signs, she seen it all before.

"I'm sorry dear, we have to close now, could be, he'll be here tomorrow".

Eyes down and shoulders drooping, she pulls on her coat, not bothering to fasten the buttons, looking neither right nor left, walks slowly to the door.

Indifferent to all around her, she retraces the route she trod so expectantly this morning.

A small glimmer of hope squeezes its way into her despair. Up comes the head, back go the shoulders. Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, he'll be here tomorrow.

Red, gold, silver and blue lights flash from the dark green tree especially imported from Norway. Brilliantly lit shop windows, arranged and set out with such care. Orange, green and yellow peppers, sit happily alongside their neighbours, an abundance of mangoes, passion fruit, bananas. Row upon row of turkeys hang from bright chrome hooks seeming to stare at the enormous joints of beef, pork and lamb, displayed so artistically below.

Foil wrapped chocolates from Switzerland, embroidered silk undies from Hong Kong, hand made lace from Malta, all make last minute stocking fillers.

Taped music, plays the seventh repeat of "White Christmas" from the speakers carefully sited around the self-service restaurant.

Harassed mums and grumpy dads, nag over-excited children as they push their way to the nearest empty table. Legs twist around split seamed plastic carriers crammed full of presents. Shoved under a table that’s covered with cardboard cartons of coke and filtering cups of coffee.

She glares at the family sitting at her table.

Don't they know, don't they realise, if she doesn't sit there, he won't come. She has to sit there, she must.

A whining, snotty nosed child, tugs at his mother's sleeve, "Mum, look at that old lady, the one with all the horrible red lipstick. Why is she crying?"