Summer 1941
Olive didn’t know whether to be happy or not. One of her old school friends, Nell, was to be married at St Peters Church and she and Bill were invited. Of course she was happy for Nell, a sweet girl if a bit on the drippy side, and Olive looked forward to the celebrations, muted as they would be with so little food and beverages available. Not to mention the lack of any decent dresses for the women. The problem for Olive, and she knew it was mean of her, was Nell had fallen in love with her beau, Stan, and he with her. They were the proverbial besotted couple and Olive didn’t know if she could cope with seeing them so happy. If her own marriage to Bill had been a love-match, it would have been different, she admitted to herself as she scrubbed cooking pans in the sink. Not that Olive fancied Stan, she didn’t. He looked all right, she supposed, a bit on the skinny side, but that was true of most men these days, except her Bill who managed to eat more than his fair share of food. Stan was another dreamer, like Nell, and made a living, if you could call it that, by doing odd jobs for anyone who asked. He’d given Bill a hand on occasion, like when Bill needed another pair of hands to refit a gate which had blown off in a gale.
Leaving the pans to drain, Olive wiped her hands and put the kettle on. It would have to be bramble tea as she hadn’t been able to buy any acorn coffee recently. Nursing the chipped enamel mug, she thought about the wedding. The miracle was Bill had agreed to go. Mind you, it had taken a lot of persuasion on her part; in spite of her own reservations, she wouldn’t miss it for the world. She knew Bill had only said yes because he knew there’d be not only more choice of food than he got at home, but also a supply of spirits, stashed away for this kind of event. Every guest had to contribute something to the wedding feast and Olive planned to bake a carrot cake and take along a few punnets of strawberries and a tub of their own cream. Bill had reluctantly offered to take a few bottles of beer.
Having made her decision about the food, Olive’s next, and more difficult decision, was what she could wear. She’d had no new clothes since her wedding and her two summer dresses were looking decidedly shabby. Perhaps her mother could help? Edith had been a seamstress before her marriage and made all Olive’s clothes before she got married, including the wedding dress. She decided to visit her and see if she could alter one of her own dresses to fit Olive. Edith had barely gone out over the years and her dresses were likely to be in better condition than Olive’s. With two weeks to the wedding there was no time to waste.
‘Hello, Mum, how are you doing?’ Olive tried to hide her shock at Edith’s appearance. It had only been a few weeks since she’d last visited, but her mother had changed almost beyond recognition. Her hair was now completely white and her face etched with deep lines. Never fat, she looked little more than skin and bones, as if she hadn’t let a morsel of food pass her lips in weeks.
‘Not so bad. Glad summer’s finally arrived, for sure. The winter, it was so long and I couldn’t get warm. Even now, I find it hard.’ She wore a thick skirt and stockings, matched with a Guernsey jumper, and sat hunched by the range. Olive, in contrast, wore a thin cotton dress and her legs were bare. She worried her mother had taken ill, she hadn’t seemed well since her father died.
‘You don’t look that clever, Mum. Have you seen the doctor? Could be a tonic you could take.’
Edith grunted. ‘Don’t need no tonic! I’ll be fine once this war’s over and Ross comes back to me. It’s been hard, losing him to the army and then your dad going…’ Her dull eyes seeped tears and Olive felt a pang of pity for her. She seemed to have given up and that wasn’t like her mother.
‘Tell you what, I’ll make you some nourishing soup, shall I? Vegetable with a bit of ham to give you strength. Doesn’t look to me like you’re eating properly.’
‘Don’t have much appetite these days and there’s not much to eat, anyways. But if you bring me some soup, I’ll try to eat it.’ She stared at Olive. ‘It’s not like you to offer to do something for me, girl. Did you want something in return?’
Her cheeks burned. Her mother could read her like a book!
She told her about the wedding and the need for a dress. Edith nodded, a small smile lifting her lips.
‘There should be something in my wardrobe that’ll do. I made a blue shantung dress for your cousin’s wedding a few years back, might not need much altering. Go and fetch it and we’ll take a look.’
As Olive opened the bedroom door, a wave of sadness washed over her. She hadn’t been in the room since her father’s death and all she could see was him lying in the bed. Shutting her eyes and then opening them again, the image had gone, but the feeling of loss was still there. She pulled open the heavy mahogany wardrobe and was dismayed to see her father’s meagre supply of clothes still hanging on the rails, alongside her mother’s dresses and skirts. She stroked a sleeve of his best suit and sniffed the heavy wool. It smelt of his pipe tobacco and stale sweat. Olive brushed away a tear and quickly looked at the dresses, instantly spotting the shantung. She pulled it out and the iridescent colour gleamed. It was beautiful and she would love to wear it. She held it against herself and looked in the blemished mirror. The colour suited her dark hair and the sheath style would make her look elegant. Glancing at the bottom of the wardrobe Olive saw, amongst others, a pair of deep blue shoes which she remembered her mother wearing at the wedding. Slipping them on, she found them a bit tight, but not enough to not wear them. She scooped them up with the dress and returned downstairs.
Edith noticed the shoes.
‘I’d forgotten about them, but they’re a perfect match. Put the dress on so I can see what needs altering.’
Olive slipped the silk over her head and it slithered, with a soft whisper, over her body. Her mother did up the zip at the back and stood back.
‘It needs shortening, I know you young girls like your dresses on your knees,’ she said, tutting. ‘Apart from a little tucking in here and here,’ she pointed, ‘it’ll do.’ She cocked her head. ‘You look very nice, girl. Bill will be proud to have you on his arm.’
Olive’s pleasure at her mother’s rare compliment evaporated at the mention of her husband. He wouldn’t give a damn what she looked like. Oh, if only she had a man she truly loved and who loved her!
The wedding celebrations were lovely, Olive thought, sipping a glass of refreshing home-brewed gooseberry wine, bottled when sugar was still available. Wine of any kind was a luxury and she savoured every mouthful, enjoying the sensation of light-headedness. Nell’s parents had done her proud. A collection of odd sized and shaped tables filled the farmyard and in the kitchen all the surfaces were covered with food and bottles of drinks. The rare sight of ham joints, roasted chickens and fresh fish made her mouth water. The family and guests must have paid dear to provide such a spread. You wouldn’t know there was a war on to look around the tables and the laughing faces of the guests. Nell looked a treat in her wedding dress, her flushed cheeks making her look almost beautiful. Olive’s mind skipped back to her own wedding, a poor reflection of Nell’s. Bill hadn’t wanted a fuss and truth be told, hadn’t wanted to spend much money, so few guests had been invited. Olive bit her lip, trying not to feel sorry for herself, but failing. She looked around for Bill and saw him smoking with his mates, glasses of beer in their hands. He wouldn’t miss her company and when it came to sit and eat, she joined some friends with a spare seat at their table. If they were surprised she didn’t sit with her husband, they made no comment. It wasn’t long before they were talking about the good times they’d had before the Occupation and laughed at the fun they’d shared.
After the toast and the cutting of the cake, the tables were moved back for dancing, with music provided by an accordionist and a fiddler. Olive clapped her hands to the beat, itching to dance but knowing it was no point asking Bill. He didn’t dance. A friend of the groom came up and asked if she’d like to dance and she accepted without a second thought. They stayed on their feet for several dances before, laughing, Olive said she needed to rest her feet. The shoes pinched and she eased them off with a grateful groan. She had barely sat down when a hand grabbed her roughly, jerking her to her bare feet.
‘What d’yer think you’re doing, making a fool of me in front of everyone? Not enough for you to sit on another table, but you have to go and dance with that man as if you’re a couple.’ Bill’s eyes flashed at her and she trembled. ‘Get your things, we’re off.’ Olive winced as she pushed her feet back into the shoes and grabbed her bag from her chair. She just managed to say goodbye to her friends and the bride and groom before Bill marched her off. They had walked to the church and then down to Nell’s parents’ farm and had a half-mile walk back home. Bill’s rage flowed from him and he continued gripping her arm while not saying a word. Olive was too scared to say anything, convinced she’d only make matters worse.
By the time they arrived home her feet were throbbing and she could feel the blisters oozing blood. Once in the house she tried to shake off Bill’s hand but he dragged her upstairs into the bedroom and flung her onto the bed. Horror filled her when he took off his belt.
‘Bill, no! I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry–’
‘Oh, you’ll be sorry all right by the time I’ve finished with you, my girl. You’re going to get the hiding you deserve.’ He turned her onto her stomach and she closed her eyes as the blows fell, pain ripping across her back, until she blacked out.