‘It matches your eyes perfectly,’ the shop assistant had insisted the morning before, folding her arms over her ample bosom when she and Julia had considered it in the mirror together. It had been a frivolous expense during wartime and had taken most of her pin money for the month, but she’d decided it would compensate for the lack of silk stockings available. Julia wished his last memory of her to be a meaningful one, one he could carry in his thoughts for as long as was needed.
Watching her with amusement, he quirked an eyebrow and his usual mischievousness returned. ‘You don’t want to lose your new hat, gal. That would never do,’ he stated, beaming.
Clinging to her brim, Julia returned his smile. Just then the train whistled a second time, its urgency palpable. Sucking in a full breath of the muggy air, Julia panicked and looked around, hoping for someone to give them permission for just a little more time, but all around her were scores of serious, ashen faces looking as desperate as her own. Mothers, brothers, sisters, children, all staring wistfully at young, uniformed men, and she reflected with sadness how this was taking place in stations all over England.
Activated by the urgency of the train whistle and stomping out cigarettes under the toes of shiny new black boots, a swarm of brown uniforms merged with the train, as soldiers clambered up, pushing and joking with one another. Further down the platform, a lively group started singing a jovial rendition of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, and it lifted into the air, cutting through the heat of the day, attempting to lighten the sombre mood and stifle the sobs of loved ones left behind.
Running her hand slowly down John’s arm, Julia considered the unfamiliar, coarse cloth of the uniform, drew his hand to her lips, and kissed the tip of his knuckles before interlacing her fingers with his and strolling by his side towards the train.
As he shifted his bag onto his shoulder, he leaned in. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of Mum,’ he urged her above the din of lively banter as soldiers all jostled to find a seat. ‘I don’t want her to worry herself to death.’
Julia nodded, thinking about how stone-faced and fearful Agnes had looked that morning as she’d watched him leave from their doorstep. ‘Of course. She’s just next door. I can pop in and see her all the time,’ she assured him. ‘Promise me you’ll keep your head down.’
In response, he saluted her comedically and stepped up into the carriage and away from her just as the vast cylinders on the train exhaled, letting out a hiss of white, hot steam that encircled her bare legs again, its acrid smell and fumes causing her to shut her eyes and hold her breath momentarily.
John pulled the door shut and slid the window down to look over at his wife one last time.
‘I love you, Julia,’ he whispered in an unusually intense manner. ‘Kiss the kids every night and tell them their father is winning this war for them so they will have the hope of a future, and I’ll be home before you know it.’
Unable to resist, she rushed up onto the train’s step to kiss him one last time. In her exuberance to run her hands through his thick dark hair, she knocked his army cap askew.
‘Steady on there, gal,’ he laughed. ‘I can’t meet Mr Hitler half-dressed now, can I? I don’t want to let the side down.’
She tenderly straightened it and stepped down to look at him, framed in the window, and even though there were dozens of people milling about on the platform, she could only see him in that moment and her heart was desperately sad. But more than anything, she was proud, proud of this amazing man with the carefree and loving nature who made every one of her days better for being in them.
‘I’ll write,’ she called out above the final train whistle that blasted out its urgency again in three long lingering shrieks. ‘Every day,’ she assured him over the clamour of what sounded like a thousand goodbyes all up and down the platform.
He nodded. ‘I’ll write when I can too,’ he shouted back as the train began to chug, vast metal wheels starting their slow arc, grey smoke billowing from its chimney and cylinders, hissing and spluttering.
Julia followed the train along the platform as long as she could, waving vigorously, until finally it became nothing but a spot on the horizon, John’s hand waving out of the window in a sea of other brown arms and nothing but the faint echoes of, ‘It’s a long way to go…’ that reached all the way back to the platform then dissipated into the air. As soon as all trace of the train was out of sight, she let the tears flow freely down her cheeks as she attempted to gather herself to adjust to life without the man she loved, and suddenly she felt incredibly lonely.
5
Julia brushed away the tears that blurred her vision as she crossed Westminster Bridge on her way to work. As she strode at a clip, she gave herself a stern talking-to. Lots of people were putting their husbands on trains. She had to pull herself together, be strong for her children, for Maggie and Tom, show a brave face. Besides, she had important war work to do.
Turning off Whitehall Road onto Whitehall Place, she crossed the street and entered the building on the corner. With its impressive Edwardian Baroque exterior and splendid restored rooms and stairways inside, it was a well-known and much-beloved London landmark. That, as well as being a palace at some time, with a history that extended back to the reign of Henry VIII. Even Cardinal Wolsey, the Lord Chancellor, and the Archbishop of York had used the London residence, which had formerly been called York Place. Now the outside of the old palace was a pitiful sight, with each entrance marked with the evidence of war: piles of cream-coloured sandbags stacked eighteen feet into the air.
Breezing swiftly through the entrance, she presented her pass to the soldier there on duty. As he nodded to her, she raced past him, her feet echoing across the floor. Inside, the white marble hallway was a magnificent spectacle, with its grand cream Grecian-style pillars and stone staircases ascending up through the building, but Julia had no time to admire the decor today; instead she sprinted up the stairs to her office on the first floor.
Since the beginning of the war she had been working in one of the typing pools.
It was her department’s job to document all of the artillery needed for the ground forces and her days were repetitive and predictable, which in many ways was a comfort to her. But not today, because as she dashed into the enormous room, with the dozens of rows of typists, she was taken aback to see quite clearly that her supervisor, Mrs Hathaway, was waiting by her desk.
Julia tried to muffle the echo of her high-heeled shoes on the wooden floor as she hurriedly tiptoed to reach her, speculating as to why she could be waiting there. She knew she’d informed her boss she’d be late today because she would be seeing John off, so the only other possible explanation would be that there was something wrong with her work.
As the woman who had been pacing in front of her desk turned to see Julia coming towards her, she let out a gasp of relief. ‘Oh, Julia, I wonder if you could step into my office for a moment. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’
Attempting to catch her breath, Julia followed behind her supervisor, snaking through the long line of desks. Feeling uncomfortably warm, and sensing a trickle of perspiration forming under the brim of her new hat, she averted her gaze from the many curious expressions she sensed all around her. It was as though the whole typing pool paused to watch this unusual occurrence, the two of them parading back to the office at the very end of the room. Julia tried to wrack her brain about all the work she’d finished the day before. Never had her supervisor called her into her office. Mrs Hathaway usually handed out packages of work to them at their desks. As she turned to shut the door, Julia’s eyes swept across the room, noting the many raised eyebrows and open-mouthed stares that had followed her inside.