( Chapter Three: ITTY BITTY WINNIE )
TO SET THE SCENE: Olive Freebury was knitting something or another as she sat on the whittled family rocking chair, with silvery spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. Robin Winifred was sat on the floor with a music box in hand, lamenting about something one of the Americans had said or done. Cyril Hamilton bumbled around, requesting to go to the town's next toy-exchange and urging his nanny to wind up the music box again and again, often stretching out on the floor and thoroughly enjoying the tinkering sound.
Olive's knitting needles clicked together. She said in a hearty Scottish brogue, "I wouldn't say they do anything for me, personally, but a couple of given the little'uns some bits and bobs like chewing gum and American candy — which is nice for Cyril, since his mother only lets him have cough sweets. But other than that, I'm sure the young lassies down at the dance hall also find them quite a treat."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Robin huffed. They were nattering about the Yanks — or, well, Robin was doing the bulk of the ptalking, and Olive was nodding along mutely, only half listening — and how Aldbourne was teaming with them and their suave accents and American tans. She continued, "I truly wish they'd keep to themselves and not come roaming onto our grounds. One of them picked me up yesterday, you know — tossed me over his shoulder like a sack'a potatoes. As good natured as it was ... I would have appreciated it more if he'd given me some warning and a fair amount of time to prepare myself."
"Charmed you, then?"
"Not in the slightest. I'd like to say I have much better things to do, but those US Airborne boys wouldn't take a fancy to a plain Jane like me, not when Millicent is still on the market — I'm nothing compared to her, truly."
"And thank God for that!" Olive burst with a chortle, taking her ball of yarn and placing it into her lap. Embellished onto her face was a jocular smile. "That blonde bimbo wouldn't know common sense if it slapped her in the face — take it from me, Winnie, she's all lipstick and no substance. Any man would be more than lucky to have you as his future wife; whether they're in the US Airborne or not."
"How come you never got married, Olive? You have a pretty penny behind you, and you're quite a dish, if I do say so myself. Any man would be lucky to get his feet under your table."
Olive wore a locket around her neck, and where Robin expected to see a forbidden lover in military getup, she saw a picture of two women and a child, but neither really looked like Olive, with her grey hair and high cheekbones. For some reason or another, she'd then decided that it was probably the Scottish Royal Family.
"What a load of rubbish! You do flatter me greatly, Winnie, but I'm far too old to have any place in all that youthful business of yours. Where are you from, anyway? Surely you had a sweetheart before you came to work here."
"Oh, no, never a sweetheart, especially not from up in Yorkshire. I was stationed up there when I worked as part of the Women's Land Army. Trust me, the title sounds more glamorous than the content — all we did was shovel dirt clods and kill rats for the farmers. But in terms of courting, it wasn't easy pickings, especially being up there with so many other women of my age. They all looked as bonny as pin-ups — and then there's me, all gob and no grace."
"Eh, looks always fade. Whoever those Yorkshire men are, they don't know what they're missing out on. You're a complete corker, Winnie, and I think it's safe to say that you'll make a wonderful mother when the time comes."
"Goody."
With a pompous clatter, it could have only been one person who burst into the nursery at full force; Miss Millicent Hamilton barrelled through the double doors with a mauve pashmina swathing her upper torso. The pearls around her neck clinked together and she jogged in, tottering in her heels. She smacked her perfect lips and said, "Here's the wheels, Robin Winifred — as long as your ball and chain lets you off the hook, we're going to the pictures tonight."
"You and I? Tonight?"
"Who else? We're the youth of this household, you don't want to spend another evening with your boring ol' grand-pàpa, do you?"
"I suppose not, but —"
"Then it's settled. We can leave here in an hour or so, at around seven, which mean's we'll leave Reggie's Reels and be home safely in time for curfew."
"But why curfew? Everyone will have their blackout curtains pulled by then — we'll be walking back blind as bats."
"Nevermind why —! Everything will be fine. Mother won't let me go unless I have someone responsible with me. She doesn't trust me not to run off and get knocked up by one of the Yanks."
"Someone responsible? And she picked me?"
"No, I picked you."
"OK, well, what's screening up there?"
"So you're coming."
"If it is my duty to do so."
"Thanks Robin Winifred, you're a real brick. We'll go and see Sweet Rosie O'Grady, it's in technicolour, too. A real treat, no?"
"Why — all of a sudden, — do you want to go to the pictures?"
"Wayne asked me there on a date."
"I'm sorry, who?"
"Private Wayne Sisk asked me there, and you may be my chaperone."
"What happened to Shifty Powers?"
"Agony Aunt says to keep your options open. I want to assess any possibilities before I settle with my final choice."
"So when did he ask you?"
"He caught me after my bookkeeping class. He told me I looked like Betty Grable and I said there was a film starring her playing in the theatre just around the bend, and the rest is history ... come on then, Robin Winifred, I need to doll you up before Private Sisk thinks that my only friend is a plain Jane who appeals to men less than a plank of wood."
"Alright," Robin gave in.
"Yippee!"
Why didn't boys ask Robin on spontaneous dates like the way they did with Millicent? Why didn't they simply pull her over and tell her she looked like Judy Garland? Perhaps, someone would miraculously propose to her in the streets if she looked really pretty one day — possibly, but she didn't expect that it would happen anytime soon. Maybe to Millicent, but not to her.
She was whisked away from the nursery, and propped up onto the plump eiderdown chair in front of Millicent's dressing table. It had a lovely ivory finish, and garish lipstick colours in little cases lined the edges of the table, branded with the cursive word Maybelline. There a polished oval mirror set into the wood, and it held Robin's attention. There was a monochrome magazine clipping of Leslie Howard circa Gone With The Wind tucked into the edge of the woodwork — that, and the mirror was so much more pure and clean than the one that she had at home, where the walls around it were a dirty nicotine stained yellow and hadn't seen a fresh lick of paint in years. She drank the beauty of it in as Millicent removed Robin's Alice band and took one of those paddled hairbrushes to her hair.
For Robin, being dolled up would have been fine, if not for the fact that Millicent was brushing far too aggressively and the horsehair of the hairbrush was sandpapering down at the nape of her neck. The well-off girl groused continuously about how hair had to be in waves that were soft enough not to pass for the crested waves of previous decades, but not bone straight, as hair like that was not fashionable.
The brunette didn't quite see why, though: she'd seen plenty of girls with little cropped hairdos that were slicked back, with small circlets framing their faces, and they didn't look much like call-girls at all — but Robin felt like one now, with her dark hair combed up in pompadours, and her lips carved out with a stark red. Millicent said it looked vivacious, Robin said it looked like a gunshot wound to the mouth. Millicent said to stop being so morbid, and slathered her dark hair with setting lotion.
Robin did see the reasoning behind this; Millicent wanted Wayne Sisk to know that she had friends other than the gaggle of plump bookkeeping friends that often trotted out of the building with her on a Saturday. However, there was less of an appeal when Robin began to feel hesitant towards touching her face, in fear of ruining the rouge or any portion or the masterpiece that Millicent had spent the latter half of the hour working on. The line was drawn when the blonde offered up complex girdles and slips she'd fetched from the clothes horse that she intended for the latter girl to wear. Robin politely declined and received an eye roll from her words, deciding that she'd prefer to just wear the clothes she'd chosen to go to work in that day.
Beneath the apron that was double-bowed around her waist, she was clad in a cream blouse with puffy sleeves, and a russet skirt. The chiffon material was a little tight and synched awkwardly around the waist, but it sat finely upon her body, with the silver hatpin tucked lovingly into the breast pocket. Once upon a time, back in '40, the blouse had been in the possession of her sister, way back when Hermia Hubbard had been eighteen and as slim as a pipe, not engaged to an African airman and knocked up into the club with her second child.
It had shocked their father, but she was of no interest to him once she started diverging from the devout church-girl look that the Hubbard sisters had often been known to don. Besides, Wartime Britain was pretty much just one huge military base, full of soldiers from all over the place; America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Africa, India, France, Poland, Norway, and many more places that couldn't be counted on one hand. Hermia was bound to fly the nest one day, to found her own local W(oman's) I(nstitute), and to leave itty bitty Winnie all on her own with their perverse father.
"If I didn't know you properly, I might just be worried about you being able to seduce my date, Robin Winifred," Millicent snorted, smoothing down a pearly-coloured cashmere cardigan to her bust. Robin didn't so much as smile in response, which caused Millicent to harrumph. No matter how much of a pompous princess she was, there was something so rich about her, so fulfilling and rounded. Not just that, but there were enough Vogue issues stacked up beside the chaise lounge's clawfoot edges to make her seem like an interesting and well versed woman. The least she expected from Private Sisk, was for him to dote on her like all the other Yanks did: like Shifty, and Alton More, and James, and William.
That, and there was no doubt a pretty penny behind her, especially due to the inheritance of so much wealth from ancestral nobility. It was the Hamiltons who owned the most opulent house in the whole of Aldbourne, and Harold drove one of the few vehicles (other than army Jeeps) that was often spotted on the winding village roads. Robin knew him from the beady little headlights and the white rims on the edges of the wheels. Sometimes he honked the tiny horn when he drove past her on the pavement, and waved.
Many were covetous towards the Hamiltons. They skipped the ration, and held the highest priority in the village. They were serviced by three cooks, a nanny, a tutor, and a maid — although, the downstairs workers lived far different lives to the upstairs workers; and even Robin Winifred lived quite a substandard life when she was back at home, with the carrolade juice and the wartime ration of five-inch bathwater and nicotine-stained walls, in the single terraced house that she shared with her elderly grandfather.
Millicent reached over Robin Winifred for the desktop clock that was placed neatly on the dressing table and tilted it towards herself, giving the younger girl an intense waft of her Tabu by Dana perfume. She knew which it was from the violin-shaped bottle that she so often sniffed and gawked at. Millicent gasped, "Boy! Look at the time, Robin Winifred. We best be heading off, before we're late and it looks like I've stood my date right up."
"Are you wearing scent?" Robin questioned in an off-coloured voice. The strong odour had gone right through her nose and to an extent, she could taste it in her throat. Impulsively, she grabbed her skirt and pulled it up to plug her nose, childishly exposing half a bare leg. "That's intoxicating. I feel like I'm being gas attacked, Millicent."
She tossed her honeyed curls over her shoulder, her words seeming like a glib. "That means it's working. It belonged to me grand-mère — she got plenty of chaps in her time."
USING A ROLLER THAT HAD AN EXTENDED ARM, a local British man was using a watered-down adhesive to apply a Red Cross nursing enlistment poster beside one instructing civilians on how to put on a gas mask and another that said: careless talk costs lives! This particular piece was of a red-haired woman in combat khakis and an M1 steel pot helmet, her arm was extended out, and beneath her was: MORE NURSES ARE NEEDED! and then, smaller: ALL WOMEN CAN HELP — LEARN HOW YOU CAN AID IN ARMY HOSPITALS.
Robin's nursing class tuition was due to start after Christmas, and she was on cloud nine; having been part of the Women's Voluntary Service prior to her transfer to Aldbourne, she was more than enthusiastic to do her bit. Millicent could natter about how her Aunt Joan was an live interpreter for the BBC all she wanted, but in Robin's innocent little eyes, nothing could compare to being part of the Red Cross, not even having a nationally recognised voice when translating the stations to French and having them broadcasted over into occupied France for people to listen to in secret.
The line of her eyes hypnotically followed the poster as they strode past, and it got to a point where the blonde was practically dragging Robin Winifred along the pavement as she looked back at it over her shoulder. Clocking on with the idea that Millicent wasn't as enraptured by the article, she asked, "Does it not entice you spectacularly, Milly?"
She almost cut her words short, but left it hanging on the tip of her tongue, suspended awkwardly in the air. Milly, she'd said. She was sure to receive a slapping on the wrists for that. How indecent the Hamiltons saw nicknames was out of her control, and regrettably, she didn't know where Millicent stood on these grounds. There was a hesitant pause between the two girls.
"Not at all. I'd rather work in a butcher's shop," responded Millicent, and to Robin's surprise, she had little objection to being referred to as Milly. "Besides, what's your rush? We've already sacrificed enough to become part of the war effort — the War Office is insisting on nicking our front gates and melting them down for one of those Spitfires. We don't need to lose you as well, especially not to the lust of the front lines — I hear about that enough already, all the conscriptions and domesticities and things."
The brunette's eyebrows drew closer together as she hugged her goose-pimpled arms around her torso to conserve warmth, "Do they talk about it a lot? The Americans?"
"Well ... I suppose that they just want to do their part; all the men do," Millicent reasoned as they trooped down a side road that Robin Winifred had never diverged towards before. She hoped that Millicent knew where she was going and wasn't just going on a whim of something an American serviceman had told her. The blonde pursed her lips, "We both know how disheartened father was when the War Office didn't conscript him, not even for Officer Candidate School. Although, I still don't know why he wrote them such a passive aggressive letter in response to the draft. It's not their fault that he's too overweight and too overage to join in on the young'uns ..."
The movie theatre was called Reggie's Reels, and was in a denser part of Aldbourne, further into town from where the manor was, on the outskirts. Here, the most was a token department store and a few family-owned businesses for necessities; a barbers, a butchers, an antique shop, a library, etc. The occasional military Jeep still rumbled on the tarmac but other than that, the streets were fairly sparse. From the look of things and the lack of loiterers outside of Reggie's, the film had already begun. Millicent swore beneath her breath.
They dipped past the usher who punched holes in their tickets. Millicent expressed how Wayne Sisk had suggested that if the movie stars and he's not present that she go in, since it's probably because his CO was being a tosser and had extended his time on latrine duty. He claimed that he'd try and get there as quickly as possible, as to not stand the blonde up. With a quick sweep of the theatre, it was apparent that Private Sisk wasn't there. But to their luck, the title credits were just rolling, and in technicolour, too.
Robin was marginally surprised by the turnout. She had expected more people to be inside, due to the fact that Sweet Rosie O'Grady had only been sent to the local cinema the week before. However, there were only a couple of people, discounting Millicent and Robin Winifred: a sleek-looking girl from Millicent's bookkeeping class called Kitty with a man in a garrison cap, and platinum-haired Ms Bonneville from the bakery.
It wasn't long before she took the hatpin out of her pocket and started to fiddle about with it, the metal nice and cool against her fingertips. It hardly occurred to her at the time, but short after the title credits had rolled and the movie had got into full swing, a man in dress greens and a garrison cap bumbled in. Under the impression that this was Private Sisk, Robin was quite hesitant when he shuffled straight past Millicent and sat in the vacant seat to the left of Robin, more so, when the hand on his knee began to touch hers.
It's fine, was what she automatically sifted through her head, even if her hands were trembling around the hatpin that she was clutching so dearly. It'll be worse if you say something, was what she was conditioned to believe — she suddenly felt feverish and flustered but she didn't nothing in terms of movement; the brunette didn't so much as budge. She was transcending hideously through memories of years of torment, and how her sister had left her so willingly behind.
"Gah! Shit! Was that a fucking bayonet or something?!"
Her silver hatpin was sticking out of the back of Wayne Sisk's hand, and he was howling. She had no recognition of what she was doing and now he was bleeding, waving his arms around and swearing. Indeed, he had mistaken bland ol' Robin Winifred for the exotic and vivacious Millicent Hamilton in the lowlight of the theatre, but the least he had been expecting was for her to puncture his skin when he had, in fact, not been trying to reach up her skirt, but had been reaching into his own pocket to grab his handkerchief and had accidentally grazed the corner of her thigh on the way.
Consecutively, the three of them were kicked to the curb for misconduct and disruption of the movie, and at long last, Millicent had started to really snap her cap at the latter woman. She'd been bracing for it for the majority of the evening, and rightly so, being the unwanted company that she was. She knew the night wouldn't be plain sailing as soon as Millicent had burst into the nursery on Olive and Robin that afternoon.
There were some foreign boys having an arm wrestling competition on the outside seats of the Blue Boar, or as the locals called it, the Yank's pub (aptly named, given the American residents never really seemed to scram); and coincidentally, some contenders in the said competition were those friends of Millicent's: James and Alton More were both there amongst other men, whom had rather obscure things like Malarkey and Muck tacked to the breasts of their jumpsuits. They all angled themselves towards the kerfuffle that was commencing outside of Reggie's Reels.
Robin Winifred was finally able to get herself a nice good look at Private Sisk. He had brown hair, brown eyes, a cleft chin and marginally sticking out ears. Safely, she tucked away the hatpin into her breast pocket. Her breathing was excessively laboured as she reached out towards Private Sisk and fawned, "I am so sorry, sir, if there's anything at all that I can do please let me know —"
Millicent smacked the brunette's hand away from her date tersely, her neat eyebrows angled downwards. Fear rose and curdled inside the cavity of her chest, and she was suddenly afraid that Millicent would to all tattletale and tell Mrs Hamilton all about their evening antics and how Robin Winifred had skewered her date onto her hatpin. As Wayne cradled his hand, the blonde pressed herself into his side and seethed at Robin, "Go home, Robin, now! Get out of my sight! Don't you think you've done enough already?! Won't you just bugger off!"
She's shouting at me, Robin whimpered internally, as she backed past a cigarette dispenser and down the pathway that they came, I don't know what to do. The wind whistled bitingly down the streetwise channel that the terraced houses created, and it gushed against her scarcely-clad arms. She blurted out, "Golly, Millicent, I don't know the way! I'll get caught by one of the ARP wardens!"
That was true. The Air Raid Precaution wardens were always out on patrol after curfew, eager to catch wayward adolescents in the act. Because of this was marginally afraid of being caught and receiving a hash mark against her name; sometimes, people were fined, but that was only the talk of the town.
Quite fancying himself a knight in shining armour, Millicent's soldier friend James beckoned her attention away from Wayne and Millicent herself, whom had both disappeared into the Blue Boar to seek medical attention. He said, "I'll walk you back. If one of them wardens asks what we're up to, I'll just say I'm walkin' you home like a good fella should."
"Attaboy, Moe!" one of the other servicemen jeered, but Robin couldn't identify the speaker, as she had already started to walk, her heeled shoes making clicking noises against the flagstones. She wanted to get as far away from Reggie's Reels and Millicent Hamilton as possible, hence her rush.
James jogged to catch up. Robin wondered why someone had called him Moe. A beat of silence passed, and it occurred to her that she probably looked as dolled up as one would to be on a date, with her florid lipstick and fashionable hairdo (or, well, the attempt that Millicent had made at trying to do something with Robin's pin-straight locks). The corner of her mouth twitched, "I should thank you for this, I'm just ... I'm sorry, I'm as thick as two short planks. Excuse me."
She slumped down onto the curb after the last word left her mouth, unbuckling her little brogue heels and sliding them off her already sore feet. Without giving it a second thought, Robin hiked up her handsome auburn skirt and the man turned away with a certain abruptness that made Robin flush. He faced the brick wall of Aldbourne's Cobbler Street whilst she unhooked her garters and tugged off the silly nylons that she honestly couldn't wear for a second longer.
He whistled lowly to himself and began to make even small talk as she bundled up her underthings. "So what were you doing over there? With, uh, Skinny and Mildred?"
"Millicent," Robin corrected with a grin as they began the walk back. Perhaps the blonde wasn't as memorable as she thought ... all curls and no content, "I had to accompany her to see Sweet Rosie O'Grady at the pictures. I suppose it was to keep an eye on her and check she didn't spend the duration necking on with her new beau — but instead, I went and I impaled him through the hand, didn't I? Oh, applesauce, will he file against me? All because her mother wouldn't let her go unattended ... she's absolutely bizarre, that woman, hates me to a T indeed, sending me to pilot Millicent from above like that."
General light discipline was supposed to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, but there were enough slackers for James and Robin to be able to see where they were putting their feet as they made off towards the Hubbard's house.
"Eh. Skinny ... he'll be fine, right as rain within a day or so. Boy's got a tough outer shell — real hard boiled, and everything. Anyways, I'm sure that Millicent of yours will find a way to make him all chipper again, yeah? Check everything still works, you know. Kinda like a ... a pick me up."
He cast her a lopsided smile, with an impressive set of white American teeth. She sank her semi-aligned incisors into her bottom lip. Perhaps those were artificial ... word was that Mr Maloney traded the single gold tooth in the front of his mouth for an obedient Thai wife back in the 20s. What about Cyril's tutor, Olive? She had dentures. Robin wondered how much a set of fake teeth could be sold for — she wondered if a sum like that would he able to fund her nursing classes.
The brunette thought incessantly about the upcoming lessons as she rambled over onto a tangent, "I'm not sure what you mean by that. Ms Freebury and I heard that coriander poultice can be quite medicinal, actually. Although, I'm not sure I'm the best source when it comes to medical knowledge. My grandpa always said that I wouldn't hurt a fly, but I couldn't save one either! I must move in different circles, I think. I must be a bit backwards, compared to the Hamiltons — I must know better than anybody how much of a goose I can be sometimes. But! I'm sure I'll be more versed once I finally start my nurse training and finally get my caduceus. I'd like to think that one day I will be a nurse, albeit, not a fantastic one, but I will be fair, I hope."
James set the russet end of a cigarette between his lips. Despite the harsh smell, his words were soft and the secondhand smoke was quite gentle. It satisfied Robin, actually. She felt quite safe. He smirked, "You really do like to talk, huh?"
"Oh, I don't. But it takes me a whole lot of something to stop me when I'm nervous. Especially, but not limited to, when I'm around the friend of a man whom I just punctured with my grandmother's best hatpin," she almost stopped in her tracks as she reached the epitome of her thought process, "Perhaps I ought to send over a bunch of flowers and a note of apology. Do you know where he's billeted? Will his mother be upset? Will Mrs Hamilton be upset?"
"Not to worry. He's just bein' a peewee, it's probably just a flesh wound," he blew some smoke into the clammy October air, and angled his head to spare her a glance. His jaw was soft and fairly wide and Robin inclined her head also. "So who's this Mrs Hamilton?"
"She's ... she's like the boss man of the place I work at," indifferently, Robin shrugged, "She constantly gives the downstairs folk the cold shoulder and acts quite horridly towards us. Olive said that it's directed so predominantly towards to me because I'm not so familiar with the house and the way it works just yet."
Coincidentally, they passed by the iron gates of Hamilton Manor just as Robin spoke of the inhabitants. The Hubbard residence was a couple of streets past the gravelled driveway, a narrow terraced house that was sandwiched all hodgepodge between the cranky widower of a highly-respected Navy Officer (which was something that she never allowed anyone to forget about) and her four babbling children, and an elderly couple who always turned up their wireless loud enough for the Hubbards to be able to hear every word from the other side of the wall.
"So you ain't been working there long?"
"Just over a year, actually ... but I suppose I don't spend much time in the company of anyone other than Cyril," the brunette giggled uneasily; that ought to have been fine, had it not sounded so artificial and foreign as it spluttered obnoxiously past her lips.
He half-smiled. "You mean that little blonde kid?"
"Indeed," Robin nodded curtly, her mouth fidgeting to smile at the thought of the lad. There was a short pause as she contemplated an idea, and she continued, "I'm taking him out tomorrow with a kite his father had commissioned for him. Harold loved to see Cyril and I make use of all the gifts he gives ... would you care to join us, James? It can get awful lonely out on the hilltops with just a six-year-old for company."
"Oh, that sounds swell, Robin Winifred. I'd rather that than laze about with the riff-raff the bar all day," he admitted, "And also, you can call me Jim. James Alley's my Pa."
"In that case, I prefer to be called Winnie. Or, well, that's what I'm called when I'm out of work," she responded cheekily, as they arrived at Robin's house. She came to a halt at the waist-high gate and said, "This is me."
"It was nice talkin' to you."
"And you," she answered coyly, "Thank you for walking me back."
Each of them expected the other to say something else or do something else, but neither of them did. They held eye contact for a little while longer, and Robin was the one to turn away first, making her way down the flagstones and towards her front door. She turned back just before she opened it up, saluting him for a trivial second before she disappeared.