“Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes”

The wind had picked up again by early evening, sharp and restless, pushing cold, damp air along Brentwood Road and making the streetlamps seem to tremble in their fittings.

Margaret stepped out of her parents’ house with her scarf pulled tight, the raw air abrading her cheeks. Behind her, the wireless murmured in the kitchen — Perry Como’s voice warm and smooth, drifting along the hallway — as her mother washed up.

Don’t let the stars get in your eyes…

She closed the gate quietly. Her mother didn’t like her going out after dark — not now, not with things the way they were — but Margaret couldn’t sit in that warm, tidy kitchen any longer. Not with that song playing and her mother’s eyes flicking toward her every few seconds, as if checking she hadn’t finally shattered.

She walked quickly, heels tapping on the slick pavement. The wind tugged at her coat, carrying the smells of wet concrete and coal smoke. A bus swished past, its windows steamed, the blurred shapes of passengers behind the glass. Its lights were briefly reflected in a puddle as it turned the corner towards the station.

The shops along the parade were already shut, their windows dark, blinds drawn. A newspaper poster outside the newsagent flapped weakly in the wind:

EAST COAST DEAD TOLL RISES
CANVEY STILL WITHOUT POWER

She walked on, trailed by the fine mist of her breath. The wind toyed with her scarf and  slipped its icy fingers down her collar. A few cars cruised past, raising small waves that broke in the gutter. Otherwise the street felt empty, as if everyone had retreated indoors.

The public telephone box outside Romford Station glowed faintly, its glass panels streaked with condensation. The station behind it hummed with distant movement: a train idling, a guard’s whistle, the clatter of footsteps on the footbridge.

She pushed the call box door open. The smell hit her immediately: cold metal, damp wool and old cigarettes. The floor was gritty with dried mud. Someone had left a greasy thumbprint on the dial.

She lifted the receiver. The line gave a low, steady hum. Coins in hand, she waited.

The hum cut off abruptly, replaced by a click and a woman’s voice: “Operator. Number, please?”

 “Canvey Island, please. The parish hall. Number two‑one‑oh‑oh.”

A pause, punctuated by paper rustling. “And is the party expecting your call?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “He said he’d be there between six and seven.”

The operator’s voice softened slightly. Everyone knew someone who’d lost someone. “Hold the line, please.”

A brief crackle, then the double-burst ringing pattern, rough edged and distant.

Margaret pressed the receiver to her ear. Her breath made the glass panel even foggier. Outside, a train rumbled over the bridge, vibrating the ground beneath her feet.

After a long pause, the line clicked. A breath of static, then his voice: thin and hollow, sounding so far away.

“Will speaking.”

Her breath caught. “It’s me.”

A moment’s hesitation, then his voice changed. Not warmer, exactly, but gentler. “Maggie. You all right?”

“I’m managing.”

They both knew she wasn’t. But this was how they spoke now: carefully, as if grief were something that might spill if handled too roughly.

“How is it there?” she asked.

“Cold,” he said. “Wet. Smells awful. But we’re getting on. Got the mud out of the front room today.”

She pictured it: the ruined house, the waterline on the wallpaper, the broken pram in the garden. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.

“Are you eating?”

“When I can.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

The line crackled loudly and she feared they’d been cut off.  But she could hear voices in the background:  men calling instructions, a door banging, the distant churn of a pump.

“Your mum looking after you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She keeping busy?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

She hesitated. “Trying.”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thin and fragile.

A couple hurried past the call box, the man’s voice loud and intrusive. The woman’s laugh in response was brief and quickly snatched away by the wind.

Margaret closed her eyes. “Will,” she said quietly, “when will you come up?”

“Soon as I can. They need every pair of hands down here.”

“I know.”

“I’m doing it for us, Maggie.”

“I know.”

Another crackle. Another silence.

She wanted to tell him she missed him. She wanted to tell him she couldn’t sleep in her old bedroom, that the house felt too small, that her mother’s kindness was suffocating, that she kept waking thinking she could hear the baby crying. But none of those words could be spoken aloud.

Instead she said, “The shops have started putting up coronation bunting.”

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

“People want something cheerful.”

“Can’t blame them.”

The line hummed like electricity running through a wire in cold air.  Their time was nearly up.

“Will,” she whispered, “you won’t… forget me, will you?”

“What? Don’t be daft.”

“It’s just...”

“Maggie.” His voice was firm now, the way it used to be when he held her hand on the seawall. “I’m here. I’m doing what needs doing. That’s all.”

She nodded, though he couldn’t see. “All right.”

“You can ring again on Wednesday.”

“Be careful.”

“You too.”

The line clicked. The hum died.

She lowered the receiver slowly, her hand trembling. For a moment she stayed inside the box, breathing in the cold, metallic air, letting the damp glass hide her face.

A man with angry looking eyes started tapping on the pane with a penny clenched between nicotine stained fingers. She stepped out into the night, giving him a brief nod of apology.

The wind seized her and almost swallowed her in its embrace. It seemed to croon into her ears...

 Don’t let the moon break your heart…

Someone must have been playing the record in one of the flats over the shops.

She pulled her scarf tight, squared her shoulders and started to walk... not home, not really... but at least the song faded behind her.