‘Your hair looks nice, Vi.’ Hari touched Violet’s bright curls. Violet had taken the only way out, saving her hair from the acid in the lead shells by dying her hair a proper blonde shade toned down from the garish yellow streaks made by the shell powder.
Vi’s smile was grateful. ‘I’ve put flour on my face mixed with a bit of the face powder my mam gave me, don’t look too bad at all now, do I?’
‘Very pretty, Vi, makes me feel like a frump in my low heels and thick stockings.’
Violet was wearing pretty shoes, second-hand shoes, shoes from a dead person. They were a perfect fit, and nice leather owned by someone much better off than Violet or herself. ‘Classy shoes’ Kate’s mother would have called them. In some ways Violet reminded Hari of Kate.
The thought brought a lump to Hari’s throat. There would be no more happy times round the table at Kate’s place, no children laughing, crying, no Hilda, no tangle of men, two men, both of them in love with Kate.
A pain like a knife thrust turned inside her; no more Michael, no more strong arms to hold her, no more loving until she thought she would melt, her passion incandescent like the sun, her love glowing bright throughout their intimacy. She had found love and she’d lost it again. Even before Michael had died over the fields of Wales, trying not to drop bombs on his people, shot down in his German plane mistaken for the enemy, she had lost him. Lost him to Meryl and that was the sharpest cut of all.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Vi said softly, ‘thinking of your man were you?’
‘I’ve got no man.’
‘You never know, he could be alive, he could be taken prisoner, your Michael could still be alive.’
‘I went to see where the plane crashed. It had landed on the common outside Swansea and buried itself in the ground and then it caught fire.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Michael is dead, there’s no point in hoping he’s alive.’
Hari noticed Violet stayed silent this time, there were no more protests. Hari felt tears in her eyes as she wondered why she wasn’t glad Michael was dead—if she couldn’t have him then no one would. And yet she knew that she’d rather Meryl had Michael than that he was gone from this world for ever.
‘Shall we go out for a drink tonight?’ she said at last. Violet agreed at once.
‘I think we could both do with a bit of relaxation.’ She shrugged her arm around Hari’s shoulder. ‘Look, love, there’s other men out there, lots of girls are like you, their men taken by the war. We’ll dance and sing and drink and let ourselves go.’
Hari shook her head. ‘I won’t be letting myself go, not in the way you mean, Vi.’
‘Why not, you’re not still… what do the posh folk say, “intacta” are you?’
‘I’m not a virgin, no.’ A thrill of joy went through Hari, she had given herself to Michael, he had made her a woman and she was fiercely glad she’d enjoyed his love if only once in her lifetime. She would never sully that memory by sleeping with another man.
‘Don’t sell yourself short, Violet,’ Hari said. ‘My dear friend Kate did that and I know she always regretted it.’
‘I won’t be selling anything—’ Vi laughed—‘I’ll be getting drinks and gifts and whatever I can from the Yanks but what they want I’ll be giving free and with gratitude for the attention.’
‘But you’ve never known a man, have you?’
‘Not intimately, not in the biblical sense, Hari, but perhaps I should snatch at the chance. Tomorrow I might be dead, who knows?’
Hari smiled. Violet was all talk. She’d been tempted by more than one soldier, sailor or airman; she was a good-looking girl with deep black hair and brown eyes and her figure was perfect, her legs long and curvaceous; even in the baggy skirt and overall she wore to work she looked gorgeous, and she’d kept her charms to herself up until now.
‘What I really want,’ Violet said, her features softening, ‘is the love of a good man. I want someone to care about me, me not my body; I want, just once in my life, some man to say he loves me. Am I asking too much, Hari?’
Hari kissed her cheek. ‘Of course not. You just hold on to that thought, he’ll come along you’ll see, and it’s a feeling worth waiting for.’
‘I believe you,’ Violet said, ‘thousands wouldn’t.’ Laughing, she hurried back to the sheds, her feet dancing along the acid-yellowed boards, her curls bobbing, her hips swaying.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Hari called. Violet turned her head a little.
‘Oh, is that what I am? I always wondered.’
Later, tired and heavy-eyed, Hari walked to the roadway and met Violet at the gate of the factory. The evening was dull, the clouds rolling overhead pushing aside the sun. She heard booted feet, the sound of marching and felt Violet draw her back against the fence.
‘It’s those Germans from the prison camp,’ Violet whispered, ‘I’ll poke one in the eye if he dares to look at me.’
Hari stared, fascinated. The men were singing a German song; they looked well fed and well dressed in officers’ uniforms. One was wearing a flying jacket, although it was still warm, and she stared at him.
‘Oh, my God!’ She put her hand to her mouth; she couldn’t believe what she was seeing with her own eyes. ‘Michael,’ she said. The man looked at her but his eyes were dull. His expression didn’t change. ‘Michael? she said, more uncertainly. He looked to the front and marched passed her and then he was gone jackbooting his way down the street towards Island Farm prison camp.
Hari sagged against Violet not knowing if she could believe the evidence of her own eyes. ‘I think I’ve just seen a ghost.’ Her voice was a mere whisper.