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Authors: Lindsay Ashford
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“Did they make you do it?”
“No.” She laughed. “They didn’t make me. I could have done something else—if I’d wanted to.”
“Well, pardon me for sounding dumb,” he said, “but why would you choose a job like that? I mean, where I come from that’s the kind of thing they make colored folks do—the men , that is, not the women!”
Eva took a breath and sat down on one of the wooden benches stacked against the walls of the shelter. “It’s a long story,” she said.
“Well, I’ve got time if you have.” He settled down next to her, curiosity furrowing his forehead.
“My father worked on the railway,” she said, biting her lip. “He was a signalman. He died a couple of years ago. Our house was bombed and . . . ”
“Gee, I shouldn’t have asked.” He drew in his breath and looked at the ground.
“No, it’s okay.” She swallowed hard, wondering if she would ever be able to talk about it without getting a lump in her throat. “We had to move here, to a new house, and it was too far from the place I used to work. And anyway, my old job—in a library—suddenly seemed pretty useless. They said they needed women to do men’s jobs. I thought it’d be good to work on the railway, like Dad did. I suppose it makes me feel he’s still around, somehow.”
He took her hand and she stared at the wall, thinking of all the things she couldn’t tell him. Like how marrying Eddie had been a kind of antidote to losing Dad. And how she’d cried every morning the first week on the rail gang. Cried for Dad, cried for Eddie, and cried for David, handed over bewildered and frightened to the uniformed women at the nursery.
She felt his fingers stroking hers, and she turned to look at him. “I bet you miss your family, don’t you?” she said. “Being so far from home, I mean.”
“I guess,” he nodded. “At least, I miss my mom and my kid sister. Never knew my father.”
“Oh.” Eva hesitated. “Is he . . . ?”
“No, he’s not dead,” Bill said quickly. “Well, I don’t know that for a fact, but I don’t think he is. Last Mom heard, he was living in Chicago.”
She looked into his eyes. The words had come out casually. Too casually , she thought. “It must have been hard for you,” she said, “growing up without a dad.”
He shrugged. “What you’ve never had you don’t miss.” But there was a flicker of something behind the defiant gaze. He was holding something back, just as she had been.
He took her in his arms again, kissing her neck and moving his hand slowly down her back. She arched her spine, pressing against him, her body aching for him. If he tried to take things further now, in the private gloom of the shelter, would she have the will to resist? She felt his fingers slipping under her blouse.
“Bill,” she whispered, “I . . . ”
He pulled away. “I’m sorry: I thought . . . ”
There was an awkward silence. What did he think? Eva wondered. That she was easy? Was that how all Americans saw English girls? Theirs for a bar of chocolate and a meal out? She wanted to reach for his hand, kiss him again. But if she did that now, what sort of message would she be giving?
The music came to her rescue. Striking up suddenly after what must have been the interval, it was another American number she didn’t recognize. In an instant Bill was on his feet.
“Do you know this?” He pulled her up. “It’s ‘Drum Boogie’!” he beamed at her puzzled face. “Come on, let’s dance!”
Dilys came creeping into Eva’s room as she was getting undressed that night. Their reflections were captured in the dressing table mirror—one redhead, one brunette—so different they looked like strangers, not sisters.
“Where have you been?” Dilys hissed. “I thought you were going to the pictures!”
“Shush! You’ll wake David!” Eva glared at her sister and glanced across at the cot where the child lay with his arms stretched out above his head like a
“No.” She laughed. “They didn’t make me. I could have done something else—if I’d wanted to.”
“Well, pardon me for sounding dumb,” he said, “but why would you choose a job like that? I mean, where I come from that’s the kind of thing they make colored folks do—the men , that is, not the women!”
Eva took a breath and sat down on one of the wooden benches stacked against the walls of the shelter. “It’s a long story,” she said.
“Well, I’ve got time if you have.” He settled down next to her, curiosity furrowing his forehead.
“My father worked on the railway,” she said, biting her lip. “He was a signalman. He died a couple of years ago. Our house was bombed and . . . ”
“Gee, I shouldn’t have asked.” He drew in his breath and looked at the ground.
“No, it’s okay.” She swallowed hard, wondering if she would ever be able to talk about it without getting a lump in her throat. “We had to move here, to a new house, and it was too far from the place I used to work. And anyway, my old job—in a library—suddenly seemed pretty useless. They said they needed women to do men’s jobs. I thought it’d be good to work on the railway, like Dad did. I suppose it makes me feel he’s still around, somehow.”
He took her hand and she stared at the wall, thinking of all the things she couldn’t tell him. Like how marrying Eddie had been a kind of antidote to losing Dad. And how she’d cried every morning the first week on the rail gang. Cried for Dad, cried for Eddie, and cried for David, handed over bewildered and frightened to the uniformed women at the nursery.
She felt his fingers stroking hers, and she turned to look at him. “I bet you miss your family, don’t you?” she said. “Being so far from home, I mean.”
“I guess,” he nodded. “At least, I miss my mom and my kid sister. Never knew my father.”
“Oh.” Eva hesitated. “Is he . . . ?”
“No, he’s not dead,” Bill said quickly. “Well, I don’t know that for a fact, but I don’t think he is. Last Mom heard, he was living in Chicago.”
She looked into his eyes. The words had come out casually. Too casually , she thought. “It must have been hard for you,” she said, “growing up without a dad.”
He shrugged. “What you’ve never had you don’t miss.” But there was a flicker of something behind the defiant gaze. He was holding something back, just as she had been.
He took her in his arms again, kissing her neck and moving his hand slowly down her back. She arched her spine, pressing against him, her body aching for him. If he tried to take things further now, in the private gloom of the shelter, would she have the will to resist? She felt his fingers slipping under her blouse.
“Bill,” she whispered, “I . . . ”
He pulled away. “I’m sorry: I thought . . . ”
There was an awkward silence. What did he think? Eva wondered. That she was easy? Was that how all Americans saw English girls? Theirs for a bar of chocolate and a meal out? She wanted to reach for his hand, kiss him again. But if she did that now, what sort of message would she be giving?
The music came to her rescue. Striking up suddenly after what must have been the interval, it was another American number she didn’t recognize. In an instant Bill was on his feet.
“Do you know this?” He pulled her up. “It’s ‘Drum Boogie’!” he beamed at her puzzled face. “Come on, let’s dance!”
Dilys came creeping into Eva’s room as she was getting undressed that night. Their reflections were captured in the dressing table mirror—one redhead, one brunette—so different they looked like strangers, not sisters.
“Where have you been?” Dilys hissed. “I thought you were going to the pictures!”
“Shush! You’ll wake David!” Eva glared at her sister and glanced across at the cot where the child lay with his arms stretched out above his head like a
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