Around midday the sun came round to the gap where the Masonic Hall had been and shone into the church through the two remaining panes of stained glass; not all had survived the blast. Those that had, split the sun into a beam of multicoloured light spread slowly up the aisle, catching the grain of the wood in the pews and flinging motes of dust through the air.
To its right and left the nave remained a shadowy
monochrome, the floor a dull chequerboard; but in the path of the light, liquid
shapes of red and pink and yellow and blue wavered on the black-and-white
tiles. Sometimes Margaret’s mother would wait for this hour to do the
hymn-books. Then she clapped them against each other to remove the
dust, because she knew Margaret liked to see the clouds rise from them and
catch the sunbeam. But now she was on her knees in the aisle, scrubbing away
the dried mud left by the boots of those who had come to Evensong after it had
rained the night before.
Lionel Walden (1862-1933), Cardiff Docks (1894)
The pews were empty but for Margaret, who sat in the back
one beneath the organ-loft; she had a book her mother had got her from the
library. She kicked her legs gently back and forth.
In the organ-loft stood the vicar, a small man with large
eyebrows. With him was the organist, an elderly dispensing chemist with very
hairy ears. Margaret couldn’t see them but could hear their voices, and that of
the vicar’s wife’s; the latter was not loud, but was as sharp, clear and cold
as a winter’s morning.
The vicar said something largely inaudible, but she caught
the words: “Really, Edna, she cleans well and does no harm.”
“Well, I say she’s a
damn trollop,” she said. “Her with a child out of wedlock, and from one of them,
too.”
Her husband’s rejoinder could not be heard.
“Come now,” said the organist. “It wasn’t unusual. With our
own chaps away for the duration and everything.””
“I don’t care,” said the
vicar’s wife. “They’re all the same, these little tarts. She should have it
sewn up.”
There was the sound of heels click-clacking on the tiles at
the back of the nave, and then the vicar’s wife was gone, the heavy church door
clunking-to with a snick of the latch.
The vicar sighed. His footsteps went to the front of the organ-loft. “Mrs –
er, Miss Simpson?” he called.
Margaret’s mother was on her knees with a cloth, facing the
altar. She turned and, still on her knees, looked up at him across her
shoulder; the coloured light from the stained glass danced on her face.
“I fancy you may need
to finish early,” the vicar called out. “There is a choir here at half-past. I’ll
leave your money in the vestry as usual.” He turned back to the organist. “I
can never quite get used to calling her Miss,” he said, “what with her having a
child.”
“Such a pity,” said the organist. “Of course, the nuns send
a lot of illegitimate children to the Dominions. But I suppose they won’t take
a coloured child. Was it a Yank?”
“No, he was from the
colonies. I believe from the West Indies,” said the vicar. “He was in the RAF.”
“Not aircrew?”
“No,” said the vicar. “A fitter or rigger or suchlike. It
was an accident. I’m told he fell off a bomber and onto a hard-standing.” He
was silent for a moment. “Actually,” he said, I believe they planned to marry.”
“Well, the girl is a half-caste.,” said the organist. “A
wedding would not have changed that.”
“No. I suppose she’s – what? – eight now. I wonder what will
become of her.” The vicar sighed again. “Hard for the family. And the
grandfather with his chest.”
“Gassed, wasn’t he,” said the organist.
“Yes. At Loos,” said the vicar. “When our own gas blew back,
if you remember.”
“Oh dear.” The organist was silent for a moment. ”Well, I’d
better rehearse the Gloria.”
There was silence then, broken only by the sound of Margaret’s
mother’s mop as it went in and out of the bucket. At length the cloud came and
the sunbeams went, to be replaced by a flat grey light outside the
stained-glass window above the altar, one pane of which was still patched with
cardboard.
“Shan’t be a minute, my love,” her mother called out. She
came past Margaret, and paused to kiss the girl on the top of her head before
going into the vestry to leave the mop and bucket and collect the four and
sixpence that the vicar had left for her. Then she took Margaret’s hand.
The child looked up and saw her mother smiling at her.
“Granny’s told me to get the meat ration. So we’ll go to the
butcher’s and find out what they’ve got for our tea. Do you want to see the
trains on the way?” She paused and bent down to button Margaret’s coat.
They went down the steps of the church. Opposite them was a
bomb site where a workshop had been; it has been the same parachute mine that
did for the Masonic Hall and blew in the stained-glass windowpane. The blasted
walls had been knocked down for safety and the bricks salvaged, but the plot
remained rough and scattered with bits of mortar and masonry. In summer it was
a jungle of weeds and wild flowers and Margaret liked to play there while her
mother cleaned the church. But now it was bleak. There was an east wind. They
climbed the iron steps of the footbridge that led across the main line and into
the city centre. The wind grew stronger as they reached the top and started
across the railway lines. It was a long, narrow footbridge. In the distance, to
one side, they could see the clouds of smoke and steam from the afternoon down
express from King’s Cross; to the other side, a grime-encrusted engine
approached at a gentler pace with a train of coal wagons. The clouds of steam
billowed upwards then merged into the grey-white winter afternoon sky.
“Mam,” said Margaret, “what’s a trollop?”
Her mother stopped and looked down for a moment, then said:
“That’s not a very nice word, darling. I’ll tell you when
you’re older.”
“Oh,” said Margaret.
They walked on.
“Mam,” she said, “what’s a half-caste?”
Her mother stopped again, and this time she bent down and
hugged Margaret to her. She seemed to hug her very tightly. There was a
piercing whistle and the express passed below, followed a moment or so later by
the coal train; for a few moments they were enveloped in steam and smoke and
then the trains were gone, leaving the air thick and sulphurous. At length she
let Margaret go, and the girl looked up at her and said:
“Mam, are you sad?”
“No,” her mother said. She passed her wrist across her eyes.
“No, my love, I got a silly smut in my eye from the train.”
She smiled.
“Now, come on, let’s go to the butcher’s. Shall we see if
he’s got some sausages? Grandad would like that, wouldn’t he?”
“Oh yes,” said Margaret. “Let’s get some sausages. Sausages
and mash! Sausages for Grandad!” And she skipped along, holding her mother’s
hand.
Read more of Mike's short fiction: https://mikerobbinsnyc.blogspot.com/2025/11/short-fiction-from-mike-robbins.html
Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
