Geoffrey Gordon¡¦S Private War

By VJ Bacon

Geoffrey Gordon, a young widower under dubious
circumstances lives in London. A father to two
children he takes a marriage of convenience so that he
can leave his children and join up to fi ght in the Second
World War.
He fi ghts through Dunkirk, N. Africa and Italy where his
experiences will at times make you laugh uproariously,
and at others bring you close to tears. Gradually Geoffrey
sinks into madness due to his personal loss and war,
made worse by the dark secret that he has carried with
him since the death of his fi rst wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465302717

VJ Bacon

V.J. Bacon will give you a deep insight into Geoffrey’s Gordon’s life and experiences, writing with a wry and ready wit and an ability to make you laugh and cry. A real page turner, you will not want to put it down. If you are a fan of the books ‘Virgin Soldiers’ and ‘Come to the War’ by Leslie Thomas you will love V.J. Bacon’s writing.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Vernice Darnley. [e-mail]

Cover design : Sandy Hughes, [e-mail];

Written: Ireland, April 15th, 2011.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4653-0270-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0271-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.XlibrisPublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

302408

Also by VJ Bacon writing as V.B.Darnley

Plays

Pox Doctor’s Clerk

A Dangerous Ambition

Graffiti Wall

What’s it all About Alfie?

A Matter of Circumstance

Pantomime

Jim’s Adventures in Wonderland

One Acts

Waking the Dead

Children’s Books

Simon Hollington Book 1

Simon Hollington Book 2

Simon Hollington Book 3

Simon Hollington Book 4

V.B. Darnley has also had poems published in anthologies, both in the USA, and Ireland.

Dedication

To my husband George and daughter Nadine with all my love.

Thanks

My thanks go to everyone who has helped me in the writing of this book. To my grandfather Leonard (Max) Bacon, now sadly deceased, whose unpublished memoirs ‘A Soldier’s Memories’ was such an inspiration and help. To Sandy Hughes for the jacket design, first reading, and her unfailing interest, to my Editor Emer O’Dowd, to Emer’s husband Dan O’Dowd for his unfailing belief in my ability to write, and finally to my husband George for his love, interest, encouragement and good humour when on a roll I have forgotten to make dinner, go to bed, wash and generally behave like a normal human being.

Author’s Note

This book has been amazing fun to write and I have taken some very large liberties in its writing with characters, places, names and events.

Although I have written end notes to show where I have found certain information, nothing in this book is to be taken as gospel.

Neither have I consciously written about any person specifically that I know or have known. If you somehow insist on identifying yourself in these pages, may I refer you to a very famous song supposedly about a certain ‘Rolling Stone’ first sung by Carly Simon.

Contents

Thanks

Author’s Note

London, England 1936

England 1939

London, England 1928

London, England 1939

Lower Barrington, England 1939

Somewhere in England, 1939

London, England 1939

Lower Barrington 1940

Somewhere in England, 1940

France 1940

England 1940

Lower Barrington 1940

England 1940

London 1942

England 1942/3

Lower Barrington 1942

England 1942

Algeria 1943

Italy 1944

References

London, England 1936

You can’t be! He said this with such definite knowledge, such force that she felt he could see all the way through to her womb, through her apron and dress, through her underwear, corset and knickers, skin, fat and muscle, to deep inside her core, her very being, in denial of their foetus.

She felt damned as a liar by his emphatic exclamation, but she knew she was right. She had waited such a long time before telling him.

She had no idea of the form of it. Of how her egg had been invaded by her husband’s sperm, as his penis had her body, of how its head had pierced her ovum’s walled defences, burrowing into the softest part of it until seeking out and finding her own chromosome it had coiled itself around, fusing with it, changing it ’til no longer her, as her life, fused to him had changed.

She did not know that this product of his male invasion had divided and divided again until the even numbered clump of cells, half him, half her but different, had taken shape and form until at five weeks it looked like some alien creature, bug eyed and square headed, its tail curled towards its belly looking no different to the foetus of a rabbit, chicken or dog. An ugly pink, fish-like thing.

She did not know that at seven weeks her foetus could feel pain, and at thirteen looked vaguely human with hands, eyes, nose, mouth, limbs that twitched and fingers and toes with nails and fingerprints. Nor did she know that at twenty six weeks nestled in her womb, it could react to Violet’s happiness, or misery. Could respond to music, recognise its mother’s heartbeat, could recoil at harsh sounds.

She knew none of this. She only knew she loved it. Loved it formlessly, mindlessly with an almost spiritual belief in the rightness of that most visceral love of all, a love for something she could not see or feel, but knew grew within her.

She was already a mother twice over with two girls that she would say she adored. Too thin, her skin almost transparent, her deep blue eyes large in a tiny face, ringed by black lashes and framed by thin arched brows, she had hair that was a luscious red-brown which belied her fragility. Abundant and glossy she wore it in the latest style of Marlene Dietrich, her favourite movie star.

At twenty three, she’ d never been to the pictures as she called them, but she’ d seen the posters on the cinema walls and would devour them with those large blue eyes as she lingered outside for once oblivious to the biting winds (for she was always cold), which in the winter would whip full blast and pointed round the corner and cut her flesh deep with its scimitars of ice. No one could stand for long on that corner in winter without moving and stamping their feet, hugging their coats to them in an effort to stop Heat running away from that vicious fiend Cold, but Violet could. When she stood in front of that poster of Marlene Dietrich, who was for her so distant, so contained, so exotically foreign she felt nothing, not wind, not cold. She was transported and in awe.

Her husband Geoffrey, she thought, looked like a film star. He was so handsome. Violet doted on him, was obsessed by him. She frightened herself sometimes by the depth of her obsessive love for him thinking that the deep passion she felt, the spiritual shift towards wanting to melt into him, be one person with him, no longer herself, should be felt only for God. Yet somehow Geoffrey usurped God by gathering her love, her life force into him. She had no resistance, her acquiescence to the giving of her soul to him a foregone conclusion.

She wasn’t a bad mother. Not a good one either, her psyche so deeply entwined with her husband’s, her mind so delicate that her children hovered on the horizon. She loved them, truly loved them, fed and clothed them as best she could, but never had the strength, energy or will to bring them up and they ran wild. Little gypsies of six and three they wore odd socks, or none, ate jam from the jar and did what they wanted.

Baby Peggy was happy enough, often perched on Violet’s knee, being vaguely rocked or bounced as Violet sang snatches of song, or stuffed fingers of bread soaked in milk into her grinning birdie mouth, but Edith wanted, needed more. Much more.

**

She could see the door, black painted and scarred with steps going up to it and a basement below.

He prodded her gently up the steps to the door and waited for her to knock on it. The knocker, a great curved black tongue lolled lewdly towards her out of the paintwork and rested on a fat round metal knob that sat like a boil on the woodwork. She was afraid to touch it, disgusted by it and drew back.

Come on, we agreed. Urging, silky, You know we did. We just can’t have another one love. You know that.

She turned and looked at him, her big blue eyes wide and moist with fear and disappointment. She didn’t want this, but did not know how to stop the events that were rolling over her, flattening her, squeezing the breath and tears from her slight body.

Come on Vi, we talked about this. His voice was low and sexy in her ear, a voice he used to persuade and cajole. He knew she would melt. But still she stood there at the top of the steps.

He reached over her slight shoulder in its powder blue costume jacket and lifted the black tongue. It looked gross in his hand. He let it fall with a crash. Violet flinched. The whole door, to her seemed to shudder.

A long time passed it seemed. The door opened. He gently prodded her in.

There was a plump middle aged woman wearing a pretty blue flowered apron.

A wintry smile of greeting.

A long passage.

A room.

A stove with pots on.

Potatoes boiling.

A kitchen table.

Money changed hands, a lot of money and then he was pushing her towards the table, pushing Vi down on it.

Struggling, she resisted as he pulled at her knees. Come on Vi, for me. Urgently, Do it for me, there’s a good girl.

She was crying, pushing his hands down. Away. Begging.

Heavy hard hands.

Cruel hands.

A knitting needle.

Excruciating pain.

Nothing.

And then he was helping her down the steps as the black door with its dirty, rude tongue shut behind them the tongue bouncing mockingly on its metal knob, and they walked slowly to the bus stop.

They said nothing to each other.

**

Geoffrey told the girls and his mum that Violet had a brain haemorrhage. It meant nothing to Baby Peggy but a door quietly closed somewhere deep within Edith.

**

Geoffrey was a handsome man. People were always telling him how much he looked like Gary Cooper and could easily pass for him. He liked the comparison, nurtured it, styled his hair like him, tried to dress like him as best he could on his wages from the pencil factory. Easy enough when he lived at home with his mum, but not so easy after he had married.

Then two kids came along.

He’ d tried to keep his hands off her when she was well enough after the first, and had managed for the three years between the two baby girls, only making love when they thought it safe and then he used a rubber. He didn’t like it, Like washing your feet with your socks on girl. and they were dreadful thick things that had to be washed and dried and then sprinkled with French chalk until the next time, and so sometimes after a few pints with whisky chasers he got carried away.

Geoffrey couldn’t go long without sex. He was a man of appetites and so was not against a quick knee trembler round the back of the pub provided the girls knew there was nothing in it for them except a few drinks. He never wore a rubber then. If you do it standing up you can’t get up the duff. he believed and so did the giving, willing factory girls.

He’ d never do it like that with his wife. That wasn’t for wives.

He never had sex with girls from where he worked, they were work mates and that was all, but bedding women for him was easy, girls fell over themselves for his attention, vied for him. They loved his film star good looks, his smile, his easy ways and empty compliments and the way he wasn’t mean with money. He knew how to show a girl a good time.

To be fair, Geoffrey didn’t bed many girls, but those he did considered themselves privileged members of an exclusive club in which Geoffrey was their special stud and being his favourite gave them standing within their group. Geoffrey was their hero, their film star. He was the most desirable man in the borough, and they were his fans.

He was also discreet about his conquests, even if the girls would giggle and talk coyly about him during their tea breaks at the factory, though never letting on that they went ‘all the way’, saying that it was just a bit of ‘slap and tickle’, and thus they were safe from the gossips and local bible bashers who believed ‘no bed ’til wed.’, but Eliza who worked in the same factory had a fair idea though she said nothing.

Each of his concubines aimed to be his favourite, the only girl in his universe, and he had the gift of being able to make his girl of the moment believe she was the centre of his whole existence. He was her Svengali, and she his Pygmalion, and she would forget her surroundings, forget that he’ d taken her round to the yard of a seedy back street pub to have sex up against a grubby wall. For her they were making love, and it didn’t matter where. And Katy or Sue or Linda would believe that she was the envy of every other girl in her circle.

Even when he married and had a couple of kids they would still vie for his attention. But they also realised they could never compete with his wife. In truth they were just his bit on the side although they would deny it to themselves and each other and knew better than to try to denigrate his wife if they didn’t want to be cut out. His wife and kids were never discussed.

Geoffrey had the ability to look through people as if they were invisible if he decided to cut them, his blue eyes cold and distant, his face expressionless, and then they no longer existed for anyone. One girl was too pushy, wanted more, and no one would take her side for fear of falling out with him and getting ‘the treatment’. When no one would talk to her or buy her drinks, she’ d left the Kings Head and not returned. So they all settled for what they could get.

But now since Vi died, he had two girls to look after on his own and his life wasn’t so free and easy. No more down the Kings Head at the drop of a hat, no more dropping in for a quick one straight from work and maybe staying all night if the company was right. Now it was nothing but work, and he couldn’t expect much from his mum, Elizabeth Gordon, Granny Gordon as she was known to the kids. She had her own work as a machinist and didn’t get home from the factory till all hours.

Eliza, as her friends called her had taken the job after his father Kenneth had died and found she was a natural. Not that she needed the money, they owned their own house, Bought and paid for. she’ d say proudly when she looked around her, but Eliza had needed to get out of herself. She’ d recognised that she was becoming depressed. Bogged down she called it, and one morning she took the black drapes off the mirrors, threw open the curtains and re-set the clocks. She didn’t think her Ken would want her to stew in her own juices anymore, though she’ d draw the line at another man.

Now, in the factory she was over a whole group of girls.

Geoffrey’s sister Aggie, who also worked shifts in the same factory was as much use to him as a chocolate teapot. Besides she had her own life to live. She was a looker, and at eighteen was just discovering young men as against boys, or rather, young men were just discovering her, and a succession of them were, by this time, calling to the door for her mum’s approval.

Eliza always opened the door to them. She’ d stand there politely whilst they stuttered out their request to walk out with Aggie, and arms folded across her waist, would look them up and down slowly, pointedly. She always looked benign, and it added to their discomfiture. If she approved of one he could take her to the pictures, Not the back row mind. And she had to be in by ten thirty. And no pubs. Her finger wagging all the time she said this in the young man’s face. I don’t hold with women in pubs. Otherwise she’ d politely tell whoever was standing on the doorstep that she was sorry but Aggie was washing her hair.

In the end it was his mum after all that came up with the solution.

Granny Gordon had a friend at work that also had a friend, another widow who needed to find a position for her daughter. Club footed and with a mildly twisted humped back, the girl was finding it difficult to find work, and her mum was finding it difficult to feed the family.

Gran knew of her son’s little peccadilloes and had no intention of recommending any girl to baby sit or nanny for him. Besides she took a silent pleasure in seeing him struggle. Having his wings clipped.

She didn’t know for sure what had happened to Violet, but she had a damn good idea, as she’ d muttered to herself, Brain haemorrhage my eye! Edith had cried in her innocence how she’ d seen blood all over her mum’s bed. Dripping with it, it was Gran, she had sobbed into Eliza’s enfolding comforting arms. No, she had a damned good idea, so let him stew in his own juices.

But she could also see the girls were suffering. The house soon fell into chaos and Baby Peggy was back in nappies, her backside sore and bleeding because she was never cleaned properly, and Edith was ill, diagnosed with anaemia and wetting the bed. The place was beginning to stink from the damp mattresses, and piled up nappies and wet sheets that Edith couldn’t clean or dry properly.

Edith was only six and not strong enough, nor did she know how to clean and even feeding herself and Peggy was beyond her, though she tried and worked as hard as her anaemia and waif-like little body allowed her. She was too young, much too young.

Anyone could see the toll trying so hard was taking on her, her hands all reddened and chapped, blistered by scrubbing—if they cared to look. No child should be down on her knees scrubbing for the family. It isn’t right, and you’re not being fair to the girls by leaving it any longer Eliza. Gran told herself.

Eliza knew Geoffrey was trying his best after work, and at the weekends when he was home he would clean after a fashion, but in the evenings he’ d come home exhausted and didn’t really see what needed to be done, only making a vague swipe, a token gesture towards cleaning, and the girls often slept in what they stood up in that day, just removing their shoes and dresses.

Eliza blamed herself she supposed, Always doing for the lazy bugger, waiting on him hand and foot. and she acknowledged that she had pampered him, her only child for such a long time. Her only beloved son. Teaching him nothing about housework as a child did him no favours. And besides, she reminded herself, Edith should be in school, not wiping her sister’s bum.

Realising that if something wasn’t done soon, the girls could be in danger of being taken away and put in a home. It only takes one nosy bitch to report them.

So, in the end she’ d given in and interviewed this plain whey faced, gimp footed, twisted form of a fifteen year old and felt safe to introduce her to Geoffrey. This one, surely, he could keep his hands off.

**

Her name, ironically, was Marigold Strong. When Geoffrey was introduced, he thought she looked more like a dandelion than a marigold, but didn’t care who she was. So long as she kept the kids clean and fed, did the housework, didn’t steal, treated the children right, and kept out of his way he was contented to leave everything to her. He didn’t want to know how she did it, as long as she did. After that he noticed her as much as he would notice a stray cat on the street.

But she found, almost instantly that she felt differently towards Geoffrey than towards any other male. It was a feeling that she’ d not experienced before. It was alien, uncomfortable and it upset her, her equilibrium all over the place.

Marigold settled in and muddled along in the big old house as best she could, the work was hard, and often her back hurt her and her hip where it was twisted due to her shortened club footed leg, but she tried not to complain.

She had a position, her first and a few bob in her pocket for the first time in her life, after she had handed up to her mum. She was better off than she had ever been.

She didn’t live in, but lived with her mum and two sisters where she’ d been brought up in Lime Grove. She started at seven in the morning and she’ d have to stay until Mr. Gordon (as she was expected to call him) came home from work at six.

It didn’t take Geoffrey long to slip into his old ways and often it was after eleven at night when she limped, exhausted, home to her mum’s only to have to start out again at six thirty the next day to get there for seven. She had one day off, and on that she had to help her mum clean their own place. On top of that, Edith resented her bitterly.

Baby Peggy didn’t care much, she liked being clean and warm, but Edith was a bird of a different feather and Marigold thought her pampered and spoilt. Little bitch, she’ d mutter to herself as she humped washing or coal up the stairs, angry at Edith over some slight or other.

One of Marigold’s duties was to walk with the children to the butchers in Shepherds Bush Market twice a week, pushing Edith all the way there in her old pushchair which was far too small for her to collect the fresh cows blood that doctors said Edith had to drink for her dangerous anaemia. Baby Peggy would have to sit on Edith’s lap and they usually argued most of the way. Marigold resented this bitterly, thinking the blood drinking filthy, disgusting and unnecessary.

By extension, she thought Edith filthy and disgusting.

The butcher would pour the hot blood that had flowed from the just slaughtered beast into the small jar she’ d brought with them and give it to Marigold, who would hand it swiftly to Edith with a shudder.

Grimacing with disgust she had to watch Edith to make sure she had drained the jar, and then, after she’ d finished, Marigold had to make sure Edith’s disgustingly bloody mouth was wiped.

Then she’ d wrap the jar in the bloody wash rag and put it in the shopping bag where it bumped gorily against her leg as she pushed the two girls home as fast as she could, Marigold limping queasy and exhausted.

When they got home, Marigold had to take the jar, and the wash rag, and heaving and retching, first rinse them in cold water and then boil them in a saucepan on the stove to get them clean, disinfected and ready for the next lot.

She tried very carefully not to touch the gory areas. She couldn’t understand why it didn’t make the child heave as it made her.

Her resentment grew, but she kept her counsel. She didn’t think Edith was as weak as she made out, often taking to her bed, lying there, drinking blood like some vampire, whimpering and talking in that thin, weak little girl voice. She was sure she was putting it on. Once she’ d heard Edith talking to Baby Peggy normally, but her voice had immediately changed to become thin and breathy when her father had walked into the room.

Marigold had been outside in the garden bringing in the washing from the line and the bedroom window was open. Right my girl, I know your game. Think you can pull the wool over my eyes do you? But she could say nothing to Geoffrey. She’ d tried once before to tell him when she’ d heard Edith laughing with Baby Peggy, calling her ‘Marigold Pissybed’.

She had been kept late for almost a week, unable to confront Geoffrey then, needing to get home before it got any later, until one evening Geoffrey had got home early and she’ d marched into the sitting room where Geoffrey and the girls were sitting together.

Edith was reading a story to Peggy, Geoffrey was reading the paper, and foolishly she’ d denounced Edith, pointing at her, her voice raised, all her disgust towards Edith spilling out in her voice and face and pointed finger.

She told him loudly what she had overheard, what Edith had called her, and all the other hurts that Marigold thought had been inflicted on her. Ask Baby Peggy. She’ d said, her voice shrill, finger now pointing at the youngest child, but Baby Peggy merely sat there bemused, mouth open as usual, wondering why Marigold was shouting with her face all red and pointing at her.

Peggy decided she wasn’t frightened by this storm that was raging around her head. She thought it exciting, like a good game where you were scared and laughing all at the same time, but Edith ran over to her daddy, taking his hand, begging him not to let Marigold hurt her.

Geoffrey had immediately flown into a rage, thrusting himself out of the chair, throwing down his paper, and Edith had slid behind his legs, looking out from their safety directly at Marigold.

He had shouted and pushed his finger at her, pointing and shaking it in her face. Geoffrey insisted that she was making it up. She was being mean and catty. Didn’t she understand that if Edith had called her a name, it was just childish fun? She was supposed to be able to look after the children, so she should get on with it and if she couldn’t she’ d be let go. And, you’ll get no reference from me my girl.

Marigold had shuddered at that. This red faced shouting man who frightened her was so different from the man she had previously experienced. She knew he’ d meant what he’ d said, and it more than worried her. It was her first position, and with no references she’ d never get another. No one would believe she’ d been badly treated by weak, sick, frail Edith. They’ d believe this handsome, easy going, gentle man who would never make up a story just to get rid of someone. She’ d be labelled as someone who was cruel to children, and would never get another job.

Besides, she didn’t want to leave him.

From then on she’ d kept any further miseries to herself and stealthily got her own back on the small child she had come to see as her nemesis. She’ d give small pinches as she helped Edith out of bed, grasp her with hard hands as she pushed and pulled on her clothes whilst she dressed and undressed her. Gave jerky, tearing tugs at the tangles in Edith’s long thick red-brown hair. There were pokes and pushes that left no marks. Edith would cry to her dad, but he could find no bruises and Marigold would deny it, and so he would soothe her and put it down to accidents, or Edith being sensitive over the loss of her mum.

Marigold had sailed close to the wind a few times, and got away with the miserable little tortures she inflicted on the child, more by luck than judgement, but there was one time when she had sailed almost too close.

She had read in one of her magazines that long hair drained the strength and if sick, it should be cut. It gave her the excuse she needed. I’ll cut your hair you little bitch. Your daddy won’t love you so much when you’re all ugly and don’t remind him of his sainted wife. Save me work anyway, having to keep brushing the stuff. Edith wriggled and fidgeted, crying under the scissors until it had all gone horribly wrong, and she’ d ended up looking like a badly shorn sheep, almost monk like where Marigold had kept cutting, trying desperately to even her hair up, with bits that wouldn’t lie down and stuck up in tufts at the top and sides of her head. She looked ridiculous, and Baby Peggy had laughed and pointed at her.

The whole family were up in arms when they saw the poor tufty head and it took a lot of fast talking by Marigold to keep her job.

Aggie and Granny Gordon wanted to sack her there and then, but Geoffrey was more pragmatic, wondering to himself what he would actually do without Marigold, so let himself be persuaded. Marigold did her best for Edith, he’ d said weakly, for the child’s sickness. Then lamely, Marigold says long hair weakens the body.

But her hair, Aggie had screamed at him, she had Violet’s beautiful hair! And she stood dismayed as he had continued to try to smooth the situation over. How could you? she’ d hissed into his face, How could you let that witch anywhere near Violet’s children? and she had launched herself at Marigold, pulling her hair, tearing it out in clumps, clawing and scratching, knocking her to the floor, and finally giving her one last kick as she was being hauled off by Geoffrey.

Aggie had refused to talk to him for a month after that.

Marigold’s actions had gone further than she thought they would. She’ d acted out of jealousy, her hair being so thin that you could spit through it, and a large measure of spite. She wanted to get even with Edith and had found an excuse. It had nearly backfired. On top of that, whereas before, Aggie was a nuisance, now Marigold had an implacable enemy and Geoffrey’s mum was more than none too pleased with her either.

Eliza Gordon had complained to Marigold’s mum about what her daughter had done, and her mother had leathered her with the belt she kept on the back of the kitchen door for the purpose ’til she drew blood across her poor bent back, and Marigold screamed and begged for her to stop.

Marigold was also grounded on ten of her days off, having to stay at home and down on her knees to do extra floor scrubbing. You brought it on yourself Marigold my girl. Her mum would say finger waving in Marigold’s face and her face grim whilst Marigold scrubbed and cried. Well, you’ve made your bed so now you can lie on it.

Still, at the back of it all, Marigold couldn’t help harbouring a sneaking pleasure at upsetting them all, and making pretty Daddy’s girl Edith ugly for a few months.

As well as small physical abuses, Marigold played mind games on the kids. She knew what it was like to be the butt of cruel tongues—to have people be deliberately hurtful to her without using their fists, and she used that experience to good effect.

She would give Baby Peggy a biscuit or a rare sweet and refuse one to Edith, or treat Peggy lovingly giving her cuddles in front of Edith telling Peggy that she wouldn’t want to cuddle smelly, ugly Edith. Say it Peggy, say smelly ugly Edith. And an unknowing Baby Peggy would clap her hands and sing out over and over again,

"Smelly ugly Edith,

Smelly ugly Edith."

Like a nursery rhyme.

Gradually Marigold drove a wedge between the sisters, telling Peggy that Edith didn’t love her. Only I love you Baby Peggy, me. I’m your Marigold, not that wicked, smelly ugly Edith’s. We don’t like her do we? And that wedge grew over time, and was to remain between them for the rest of their lives.

England 1939

What was to become the Second World War was on the horizon, Hitler was on the march, and was threatening Poland. Great Britain had warned that war would be declared if the Chancellor of Germany continued.

Geoffrey decided to join up before being conscripted. He had already completed his national service in the now defunct cavalry, so he thought he had a better chance of getting the regiment he wanted. But also, truth be told, he couldn’t wait to get away. Trouble was, What in God’s name am I going to do with the girls?

He’ d asked his mum if they could sleep round at theirs at night after Marigold went home, but she had said just one blunt No. and that was the end of it, she’ d discuss it no more. She didn’t want him to join up. She’ d already lost her husband to one war, and couldn’t understand why her son should be running so fast towards the next one.

Why can’t you get a job that’s vital to the war effort? Why do you have to sign up? she’ d asked. The girls have only just lost their mother they need you here at home with them! But he was determined to go and decided that Marigold would have to move in. It was the perfect solution, he thought. It would be cheaper too because he could deduct her board and lodging.

But he hadn’t reckoned on Marigold.

**

Even at fifteen, Marigold had had a healthy instinct about sex, although she could and would wait to try it. She wasn’t going to give her virginity away like the easy girls she would see from her back bedroom window that overlooked the yard of the Rose and Crown, pushed up against the wall between the beer barrels after the pubs shut, and sometimes before, even in the half light of the long summer evenings.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with it, but she knew instinctively that she had a strong bargaining tool, deformed and plain as she was. It’s worth more in the promise than the delivery. Her mum had told her, and she believed her.

At fifteen, Marigold didn’t look too bad when she gazed at herself in the mirror, well not front on. Short and plump, she had good pert breasts with a bit of substance about them although not that big, and a smallish waist with hips beginning to round out. She’ d learnt to stand in such a way as to look as if the tilt of her hip was deliberate.

Me bum’s not bad either. She muttered to herself as she twisted to look at herself in the small mirror. It’s high with a good bit of shape about it. Her mum’s was so low it could hide a pencil under its folds, and her elder sister Florence’s wasn’t much better, even though she was only twenty.

Her mother’s friend Joan had brought round some magazines and shown her pictures of the rich and famous. See, she’ d pointed at some woman posing at the race course, or at a toff’s party, if you wore something like that you wouldn’t see so much of your hump, and everybody wears ugly shoes to work.

Her face was the one thing she could do a lot about without too much expense. She was more plain than ugly, with good strong, white teeth. Her tawny eyes were a bit small, eyebrows bushy, and Dear God, if I had as much hair on my head as I have on my legs and under my arms I’ d be doing alright.

She also hated the way her nose tilted, Like a pig’s. but there was nothing she could do about that. Her hair was a bit thin and of a non-descript mousy colour, but her Mum had tossed a couple of Women’s Owns magazines at her. Here girl, look through them. Maybe the pictures in them’ll give you a few tips on how to glam yourself up. and Marigold had read them, studied them assiduously, and then when she’ d started work for the Gordon’s had subscribed to one or the other every couple of months and gradually built up her knowledge and skill.

On her pay day, she would by a bit of powder, or a lipstick. She even managed to get hold of some hair curlers to try to give her hair a bit of a lift. She didn’t like them, they hurt. Metal, flat and hard, she’ d wind them into her damp hair. Then she’ d bend her head down to the fire ’til her neck ached in the hope that it would dry before she went to bed. At bed time she’ d cover her head with an old scarf tied in a turban to stop the curlers from falling out whilst she slept.

Sleeping in them was misery, as they dug into her scalp, and she would bash and mould her pillow, trying to find the most comfortable way to support her head.

She’ d drop off eventually but from sheer exhaustion.

In the morning her hair curled quite sweetly, though the curls would have dropped out before ever she got to work, particularly if it was cold and she had to wear a scarf, or windy, or raining, or hot and she sweated. In fact she had come to the conclusion she wasn’t going to bother any more when her friend introduced her to the trick of rinsing her hair in sugar water. It attracted the bees and wasps like mad in the summer and she didn’t dare lay down on the grass in the park for ants, but it worked and at least she got a day out of her curls.

Now it was 1939 and she’ d been with the Gordon’s just over two and a half years and in that time she had started her periods.

All her doctors had told her that if she did conceive she would never carry a child to full term because the twist in her back had also caused complications inside of her. They didn’t go into detail and neither she nor her mum had asked. Being childless hadn’t meant much to her then, particularly as most people, Marigold included, thought it highly unlikely she’ d ever marry.

The work in the house had made her stronger and although she still suffered from pain in her back and twisted foot, she managed most of the chores, only