The Homecoming

The Homecoming

It seemed to Rose thinking of the time before she, as she put it, became herself, that life was dark and struggling: father absent, mother sad and distracted. And England at war.

The first time she knew who she was, she was standing between Grandma and Grandpa, wearing the coat made from an old pair of her father’s trousers.
In the last month of summer Mummy had sat listening to the wireless, turning the handle of the sewing machine, guiding the material under the needle. Then she would stop, look critically at the garment, call to Rose to come over. She would stand and be fitted with a sleeve, a collar, some part of the unfinished coat.
When it had become real and not just mysterious sets of brown tweed attached to each other in strange ways, Mummy told Rose to open the sewing tin. Rose put in her finger and touched buckles, pieces of ribbon, little fancies of lace. ‘Oooh,’ she said.
‘Careful,’ Mummy smiled though she still had her cross look. ‘Look, a lovely piece of braid. We’ll add that to the coat. It was on a jacket of mine that’s too shabby now.’ Mummy’s sigh made Rose wonder what she’d done wrong.
‘Help me choose the buttons.’
‘Those,’ said Rose, pointing to some big shiny ones.
‘No,’ Mummy said. ‘Not red. We need ones that go with brown.’
‘I like those,’ said Rose, bold for a moment, wanting to wear the bright colour of the buttons.

‘No,’ Mummy sighed again. ‘Maybe later I’ll put them on a dress for you. These match your coat.’ Mummy picked out some small, dark-looking, leathery buttons that made Rose feel sad. Her lip trembled. Mummy shook her head. ‘No need for tears,’ she said
When the coat was finished, Rose wanted so much to wear it, in spite of its buttons.
‘It’s for winter,’ said Mummy.
‘Winter,’ Rose repeated. ‘Is it winter after tea?’
Mummy almost smiled. ‘Oh Rose,’ she said making her watery laughing sound.

Rose wore the coat for the first time on the day she realised who she was. Years later Rose could recall the moment: that understanding that she was a unique individual, separate and different from everybody else. I am me she thought as she stood between her grandparents. This is my Grandma, that is my Grandpa. I am wearing my new coat. Soon we’ll go out. I am me, here in the house where I live with my Mummy. I have a Daddy, but he is being soldier. I am me. Rose remembered almost shuddering with the realisation that she was who she was. The looking down at her shoes and her thick stockings, the feeling of the wool of her gloves against her skin, the waiting between her grandparents for her mother to appear; the murmur of talk from the grown-ups as they stood, tall on either side of her in the dark wooded hall: all of it part of who she was and the way she was.

When her children asked what it was like during the war, Rose answered in different ways, depending on how she was feeling. In truth, she did not know. She couldn’t differentiate between the war and her time as a pre-school child when she’d believed that everybody lived in a dark house with a preoccupied mother, that fathers were absent. Life, she understood, meant food and
clothes rationing. It meant queuing at the butcher, the greengrocers, the fishmonger, the baker. It meant black curtains at the windows at night and sitting with adults who talked in hushed voices about missing men, men who’d died, men who’d ‘never be the same again’.

I should have been spoiled, Rose would ponder, the only grandchild to two sets of grandparents. Her father’s parents seemed to Rose old and strangely remote. She called them formally, Grandmother and Grandfather. She remembered the dry herby smell of their house, the squeak of clean linoleum in the hall, the soft deep tick of the clock on the mantle-piece that told her to move slowly, talk quietly.
Grandmother poured tea and passed bread, covered with pale pink almost non-existent jam, followed by thin slices of cake.
‘I’ll give you the recipe, dear,’ she said to Mummy. ‘It doesn’t use much in the way of rations.‘
Grandfather spoke to her twice, once when they arrived: ‘How’s my favourite girl?’ Then he picked Rose up, kissed her with his moustache, as grey and bristly as the scrubbing brush that lay in the scullery bucket at home. He put her down and let out a little puff of air between his teeth. When they left, he kissed her again, saying: ‘You look after Mummy till Daddy gets back.’ He stood at the door, next to Grandmother and waved as Rose and Mummy walked up the path and down the road. By the time they turned the corner, the door was shut.
Between the time of arriving and the relief of leaving, Rose sat in a big squashy chair in the drawing room listening to Mummy and Grandmother. They sighed when Daddy was mentioned; Stanley they called him. They shook their heads when they spoke of rationing. Their voices went low when they talked of other families and their losses.
When tea was over Grandmother took a book from the shelf. ‘Here Rose, you look at this while Mummy and I do the dishes. Look after it mind, it was your Daddy’s when he was little.’
Rose opened the book with scared fingers; worried she might make a mark or, worse, tear the pages. But she liked the pictures with their faded colours and the strange black squiggles that Mummy said were words. Rose pretended to read the squiggles, telling herself a story under her breath, not wanting to disturb Grandfather. His newspaper was folded over his face, rising and falling to the rhythm of the noise his nose was making and which Mummy said was called snoring.
Each visit was, as Rose remembered, just like the one the week before.

Rose was happiest with Grandma and Grandpa, Mummy’s parents and with Kitty and Dulcie, her aunts. She loved to run into their house, calling ‘I’m here’. One of them would pick her up and swirl her round. She remembered arriving like this even before she could make sentences, only just able to walk. She remembered stumbling ahead of Mummy and calling some nonsense word; the swoosh as she was raised into the air, that made a tickle start in her throat and spread over her body; the giddy feel as she was swung about; calling ‘more’ when she was put down and raising her arms for a repeat.

Rose knelt on a chair at the kitchen table, helping Mummy make the cake. Daddy would be home tomorrow and they’d been saving their rations. Rose didn’t remember Daddy. She squeezed her eyes shut to see if she could find a picture in her mind.
There were photographs of him, one in a frame, more in an album. Rose liked to look at the photos. They started when Mummy was a girl. In the middle was a whole page with Mummy and Daddy together, smiling. Mummy looked different: not just younger, but fuller, as if she had a secret she mustn’t tell. Daddy had wavy hair and a big moustache that looked soft, not bristly like Grandfather’s. The last pages in the album were of the wedding, Mummy sitting down and wearing a frothy frock and Daddy next to her, being important. There were her grandparents, Kitty and Dulcie in their bridesmaid dresses, groups of people that Rose didn’t know. Then there were two blank pages and no more pictures, as if life was no longer worth recording once the wedding was over.
So Rose knew what Daddy looked like, but it wasn’t the same as remembering him. In the photos he didn’t move and had no colours, only black and white. Tomorrow he would be here, having tea at this table. Rose opened her eyes and gave the cake a big stir.
‘That’s enough,‘ said Mummy, ‘it’s ready now.’ She poured the mixture into the greased tin. ‘Is it all for Daddy?’ Rose asked.
‘No. Some for you and me and some to take for Grandfather and Grandmother.’ Mummy put the cake in the oven and stood up, arching her back, rubbing it with the back of one hand. All day Mummy had been busy; every room had been cleaned; floors swept, lino washed, wood polished and windows rubbed with newspaper soaked in vinegar and water. She’d made the big bed in her room with clean sheets and tided up the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.
‘Won’t it be nice with Daddy home?’ Mummy asked. But Rose saw the little flicky bits at the corner of her eyes and the way her mouth turned into a line.
Next day Mummy took Rose to Grandpa and Grandma while she went to meet Daddy. After lunch, they’d come to fetch Rose.
‘Will Daddy stay long?’ Rose asked Grandpa as she knelt on the path and dug with her trowel, helping with the vegetable plot.
‘What a question, girly, of course. He’s home for good now the war’s over.’
‘But what if…’ Rose stopped, lifted her trowel. Something made her feel it wasn’t the right sort of question. She shouldn’t be asking what would happen if she didn’t like Daddy living with them.
‘Maybe I should stay with you and Grandma,‘ Rose said instead, peering up at Grandpa. He frowned, leant on his spade and then looked down at Rose.
‘Rose love, it’ll be nice to have your Daddy home.’ He sighed. ‘Come on now, Grandma’s made soup for our lunch.’
Rose, back in the garden, lying on the lawn, looking up into the sky and singing a little song, heard Mummy calling. ‘Rose, come and say hello.’ Rose looked up. Mummy was standing by the back door. Next to her was a man: not tall. Almost the same height as Mummy. His hair was short and looked nearly red with the sun shining on it. He waved. That’s not my Daddy. My Daddy doesn’t look like that. My Daddy is big and tall and has black hair. She rolled over, humming.
‘Rose,’ called Mummy and Rose ignored her. ‘ROSE,’ Mummy called in big letters. Rose closed her eyes. She heard the footsteps on the path. They were strong and not her Mummy’s. Rose squished her eyes even tighter shut and let the humming get louder. Then came his voice, quite low and with a question in it. Rose could feel him leaning over her, blocking out the sun and making her shiver. His hand came down and touched hers. His skin felt dry and his fingers were hard and bony and could hurt. Rose wondered whether to start crying and sniffed in preparation. She’d stopped humming when she’d felt the cold of his shadow pass over her. ‘Come child,’ he said, gripping her hand.
‘No,’ said Rose, pulling away. She felt invaded. She felt panic. ‘Grandpa,’ she screamed. ‘It’s no good, Eunice,’ the man said. ‘She doesn’t want to know me.’ His voice was sad, lower than before. Rose opened her eyes and looked up at him. He smiled, but Rose didn’t like it. She wrapped herself into a ball and began to cry.
Grandpa came and gathered her into his safe, solid arms. He took her into the parlour, stroking her hair until the sobbing stopped. When she’d quietened, he said: ‘Now, girly, it’s hard for you. Someone you don’t know coming along. But it’s your Daddy, who loves you. Some little girls aren’t lucky enough to have a Daddy at home. Now will you be good for us?’
‘Yes, Grandpa,’ said Rose. But she wasn’t sure. Worse still, with the arrival of this stranger in her life, she was no longer sure of who she really was.