Queenie

Queenie’s stockings were smudged with coal dust as she trudged home with a bag of old newspapers. It wasn’t too far from the Ovenden’s; just a ten minute bus ride but she had to walk today. The snow was thick in drifts and the ice was black in places. She stopped every hundred yards or so to straighten out her back and breathe warm air into her red raw hands. Her little road was quiet except for the concerned faces appearing at the windows and the shuffle of her boots.

She forced the door to her little terraced house with her shoulder; on the second barge it scraped open on the swollen frames. Once inside she twisted and crammed some newspapers into the gaps in the skirting boards and the windows then looked blankly at her fireplace full of ash. She dumped the bag in the corner.

“Billy! Fire”. She shouted.

She put the wireless on to listen to the world service and collapsed in the armchair. They were talking about rationing again. She groaned and rubbed her feet.

“His bloody Highness, I’ll swing for ‘im I’m sure I will. Fred are you listening, you won’t believe what his Lordship said this morning”.

She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. The conversation had started harmlessly enough with their eldest son Johnny who was anxiously talking about some playground chat where he’d heard that they’d discovered canals on Mars and giant man-made pyramids.

“Pluto is the furthest planet father, but the closest is Mars. There’s a whole civilisation watching us through giant telescopes. Studying us; waiting for their chance to invade!” he said.

“Preposterous claptrap. Its the Russians we need to watch not the bloody Martians.” His father interrupted.

“Stop talking about the war Colin, you’ll upset Queenie” said mother.

“If I want to talk about the bloody war in my own house I bloody well will”. Colin’s moustache twitched and he slapped the table top. “Now what’s this nonsense about the bloody war Queenie?”. Mother glowered at him.

“Its Fred your lordship...your gardener. My husband. We buried him last week. We...”. Queenie’s voice halted in her throat.

“There there dear…”. Mrs Ovenden rubbed her arm.

Queenie took a deep breath to stop the tray from trembling then in silence calmly served Mr and Mrs Ovenden an egg each. Then Alice and Johnny. She laid out their toast soldiers as they liked them on side plates with butter and jam for everybody except Mrs Ovenden who preferred honey. Mother shook one of the glass pots over her egg and looked at it curiously.

“Can you top up the cruet Queenie”.

“Yes ma’am”. She curtsied.

“Will there be anything else ma’am?”.

“Why are you in a rush?”.

“Well you see the boys had to fend for themselves this morning. I‘ve been worried sick about them”.

“Oh Queenie, can’t you ask your mother to look after them? isn't she nearby?” she asked.

“She’s in Chartham ma’am like what I told you when I started here. On account of my father.”

“What about your father, can he not help you?”.

“He didn’t come back from the first one you see and it sent my poor mother round the bend. Me and the girls were sent to the workhouse ‘cept for Lil”. Queenie smiled crookedly. “My uncle took care of her. “But I’ve got Billy. I don’t know what I’d do without ‘im. I asked Billy to make sure the boys get off to school. He’s really stepped up has my Billy but I have nothing for their lunch except stale bread again and they’ll be home soon. I…“.

“Yes, Yes dear don’t go upsetting yourself. Now why isn’t Billy at work? He was at the local newspaper wasn’t he?”.

“Yes ma’am, delivering in the morning and typesetting in the evening. He wanted to work his way up to be a reporter, you know he loves to write does Billy but he got laid off last month. Never mind; he’s looking for an apprenticeship at a big paper in town though. He's expecting a reply any day”.

“Billy ! Fire”. Queenie felt her rage surge briefly. The clock chimed one on the mantel piece. She looked up and was reminded that the rent was due by the brown envelope behind it. She sighed deeply. She walked over to the yellowed net curtains where the open casket had been on display just a few days before. For the wake. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked like a bag of bones in a faded dress; she was barely thirty five but she’d been losing her looks quickly. Her once lustrous raven hair had been falling out recently and her reflection showed that she’d lost another tooth.

“I’ll ‘ave to keep me mouth shut Fred. Apart from what I can nick off her ladyship’s breakfast table I’m hardly eating”. She checked her purse and palmed a few pennies. “All my money goes to feeding and clothing those boys. Billy needs to get that job so we can get some bloody coal again”.

She impersonated the voice of Mrs Ovenden and paraded around the settee in a falsetto voice. “Yes of course dear but before you go please remember to make up the fires in all the downstairs rooms as its going to be bitterly cold today. Oh, and make sure you put out Johnny’s fresh P.T. kit, extra woolen socks for the children, jumpers, skirts and long trousers”.

“Yes Ma’am, thank you ma’am. Three bloody bags full ma’am”. She punched the settee and shrieked.

Before she left the breakfast room she’d overheard his lordship. “Now who’s going to cut my bloody hedges? That gardener said he got caught by the S.S. in Northern France, he was trying to steal a boat and get back home?”.

“Yes dear” said mother in a hushed voice “he was in a POW camp for years. He got TB so they finally sent him home in 1943”.

Colin picked up his paper and cleared his throat. “Bloody coward”.

Queenie leaned back against the sideboard. She picked up a cushion and screamed into it.

A photo of Fred in infantry uniform caught her eye; she’d taken it in the front garden with a Kodak Brownie. They next day he was crossing the channel on the way to war in Europe. She remembered roses were blooming in the garden that day and he had looked so handsome. She picked it up.

“Chas has been like an uncle to those boys Fred. He bought them a pet rabbit round yesterday but I reckon I’ll be taking it up old Grainger in a few weeks, won’t I? I’ll ask him to show me how to gut it and skin it proper. I promise we won’t be wasting nothing. Old Grainger is a dirty old bugger mind; he keeps offering to pop round with some chops and off-cuts. I don’t think his wife knows. With you barely cold in your box. Bloody cheek. I’ll crack soon enough at this rate though”.

Queenie is disturbed by the front door being barged open. Jack the youngest is the first to come home. He’s red faced and looks agitated.

“Jack love, why are you wearing my shoes?”. Queenie pats her dress down and composes herself.

He burst into tears when he saw his mother but wouldn’t let her hug him. He was angry. Stamping his feet to get them warm.

“I told you my shoes are too small and have got big ‘oles in ‘em from football”.

“Why are you crying duck?”.

“The Bennetts teased me on the way to school this morning then they ganged up on me and pelted me with snow on the way ‘ome. Why haven’t I got a coat mum?”.

“Because Its Michaels turn today. He needs it”.

“Mickey ‘ad it yesterday.”

“Don’t worry; when Billy gets that job we’ll buy you new shoes duck”.

The door opened again and Michael walked in with the long coat and a grin as always. He was blonder and a little older than Jack.

“Hello mum” he kissed Queenie on the cheek and emptied his pockets. A few potatoes and assorted vegetables fell out.

“You’re a good boy” she said and cradled his cheeks. “I won’t ask you where you got ‘em I’ll get these on the boil for pottage”.

Michael held up a muddy carrot.

“This is for Flossy” and ran through to the dining room.

“Awww Where’d that rabbit come from?” asked Jack following behind.

“Uncle Chas”.

“Who’s uncle Chas?”

“Chas was dad’s best pal” said Michael. “They both signed up and went to the front line...remember?”

“Nope”.

“You know, its the story where they both got lost and split from their division and then tried to nick a fishing boat in France” said Michael as though he was discussing a film he’d seen at the picture house.

“Oh Yeah”. They took Flossy out of the cage and stroked it together.

From the kitchen Queenie felt the cold and shivered. She dreaded going to bed these days; her bedsheets had been the coldest she could ever remember. She stirred the pot. Looking into the bathroom she could see him coughing up blood into the sink. It was heartbreaking to watch and worse to listen to. There was nothing anybody could do for him since the Germans sent him home. He had lasted a few years God bless him; they had enough time to get their little house and family started but she was glad to get his open casket out of the living room and finally lay him to rest in the cemetery.

The wake had been a typically rowdy affair and she did her best with the spread for his family and army pals; they had chipped in with what they could but she wouldn’t get her widows pension for another month or two and she knew she’d be scrimping for a while.

She took a postcard from a dresser drawer, turning it over she gently kissed the photograph on the front; a black and white image of her perfect new born baby. She looked at the familiar message on the back. She remembered what it said because she had written it herself with a fountain pen that she’d borrowed from Mrs Ovenden. The words were shaky and scrawled in blue ink

‘My dearest Fred. Here’s your little Billy. With love from both of us’.

“It cost me a week’s pay to get his eyes coloured in blue for you my darling”. She whispered.

The postcard was addressed ‘Stalag Luft XV, Germany’. She’d gotten that address from the home office who’d contacted her with the official news that Fred had been captured. She was heavily pregnant with Billy at the time.

“Fred. I don’t know if I can cope no more..its so hard”.

Billy came down the stairs in his pyjamas and a long dressing gown with a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Were you calling me? Why are you crying mum?”. He held her gently and noticed the postcard. He was taller than his mum now. But was still short for his age. Queenie recognised her husband’s gown and smoothed the lapels.

“Yes darling, never forget that your dad was desperate to get home to see you”. She held up the postcard for him to see. "He just wanted to come home”. Queenie smothered him in kisses.

“I know mum”. Billy took a hanky from his sleeve and dabbed some tears from his mother’s cheek. “He was our war hero”.

“I’m surprised I have any left to cry love. Thank you so much Billy; you are a godsend. You’re my angel”.

They went through to the little dining room and Queenie served the meagre soup for her family. She cut some bread into thin slices.

“Get that rabbit of the table and wash your hands boys”.

“Do we have any butter or jam?” asked Jack expectantly sitting down.

“No poppet. Maybe next month. We have to make do… did that letter come love?”.

“Yes mum…. I err have some news“. Billy looked down at his shoes and paused.

“What news duck?” She looked up from the saucepan. “Do you want another potato and a slice of carrot? Here have mine”. She transferred some vegetables from her dish to his. “Cup of tea love? the pots still warm look”.

“Mum!”

“Never mind duck. We can manage...sit yourself down”. She looked at Billy with doting eyes but tears were welling up in them when she saw the tension in his face.

He sat down. “I don’t know how to tell you this mum… I got the job”. He cried as well. Michael looked up from his lunch. He’d been drinking from the bowl, wolfing it down like there was no tomorrow.

“What’s going on Bill?” he asked. “Are you ill?”.

“But that’s wonderful darling” says Queenie. She started pouring the tea. “So why the long face? You are funny”. Her voice cracked.

Billy put the newspaper down on the table and pointed at some writing. “Look at this advert for New Horizons mum”.

“You know I cant read well, you’ll have to read it to me duck”.

“It says here. The government are offering assisted emigration, they’re saying there are apprenticeships for all sorts of professions, printers, typesetters and reporters… I really want to do this mum".

“What’s emigration?” asked Jack.

"Oh don't get your hopes up love. They probably want rich folk who went to posh schools"

"They replied to me today. I’ve been accepted mum". Billy flashed the envelope.

Queenie didn’t speak. The tea ran over the table cloth in a steady stream.

“Its in New Zealand mum. The boat leaves in two weeks from Portsmouth”.

Again, Queenie didn’t respond.

“What’s emigration?” asked Jack again.

“Where the bloody hell is New Zealand?” asked Michael.

“Might as well be bloody Pluto”. Queenie sobbed into Billy’s hanky.

“Mum”. Billy composed himself and stood tall.

“Mum… I’ve got to go. This is my chance to follow my dream of becoming a journalist and getting out of here...”.

“But this is your home Billy. Our home. Excuse me”. Still sobbing she stood up, then stumbled forwards. Composed herself and drifted silently upstairs to her bedroom in complete silence.

Billy went to the foot of the stairs. “I didn’t mean it like that...mum!”.

New Zealand wasn’t mentioned again that day or the next. In fact it took a full two months before the topic was brought up again and for the war pension to arrive. One evening, the boys came home from school. Jack was delighted with his new hand-me-down shoes and Michael with Billy’s old duffle coat. They were greeted by a bright blue budgie chirruping in a cage next to a very fat rabbit. Queenie was kissing a light blue letter and a postcard that had arrived that morning from Pluto via air mail.

"Pretty boy Billy" she cooed into the cage. "Pretty boy".

That’s why from that day forwards every budgie that Queenie ever owned was called Billy.