Liverpool, September 1939
Three days after war was declared, Maxine Grey walked slowly down the aisle, her fingers nervously gripping her father’s rigid arm, towards the man she had promised to marry – her best friend, Johnny Taylor. In spite of the bad luck she’d warned him it would bring, Johnny had turned at her entrance, and now he gave her his wide smile and a cheeky wink. She knew it was meant to reassure her, but if anything it made her more conscious of the huge step she was taking. The strident notes of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ from the organist almost took her by surprise, making her pause, her ears hum. She pulled in a deep breath to slow down her heartbeat. Her father gave her a quick glance and patted her hand.
She could hear the swish of the satin-like material of her dress; feel it catch at the back of her legs with every stride. It had taken her a month of evenings and half-days off from the hospital to make the simple cream dress which swept the floor, and the little matching cropped jacket, from a McCall’s pattern – the same amount of time Johnny had given her when he’d persuaded her they should get married. There was definitely going to be a war, he’d said, and it would probably come sooner rather than later. She swallowed. How right he’d been.
Another step, then another, and another. She took a deep breath but the scent of the flowers left over from last Sunday’s service was cloying and she pulled her stomach in tight to stop herself from feeling faint. A final step. She’d reached him. Her father nudged her forward and a little to the right where Johnny stood waiting for her, watching her every movement. His smile had faded now as if it had finally dawned on him too that this was a serious event. How different he looked in his grey suit. Older. Not like her Johnny.
Her fingers reluctantly left her father’s arm and she was alone. But of course, she wasn’t alone. Johnny was here. They were going to be married. Every bride was nervous on her wedding day, so her mother had said when they’d shared a pot of tea that morning. It was to be expected. She wasn’t to worry. Johnny was a good boy. He’d always look after her, her mother had said.
‘Johnny’s who we always wanted for you, Maxine. Your dad’s so happy. He can die in peace knowing he’s left you in good hands.’
It was no secret that her dad had a dicky heart. Oh, he probably had another year or two left, Dr Turnbull had assured them – maybe more – but he’d encouraged the family to enjoy as much time together as possible. And now she was leaving him in the hands of her mother who constantly fussed over him, making him feel closer to death’s door than he probably was.
She took her place next to Johnny, her shoulder only inches away from his, and tried to draw his easy confidence into her own body, now taut with the thought of the unknown.
As the vicar started to address the congregation, Johnny turned towards her and Maxine noticed the same concerned expression he’d had only a few weeks ago, when they were sitting on their favourite park bench feeding the pigeons.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Max,’ he’d said then. ‘I’m joining the army. I think I can be of use with my medical training.’
At his words her heart had turned over. Johnny. If anything should happen to him … She daren’t think further.
‘So what say you and I get hitched?’ He’d coated the words with a mock-American accent. It had taken her completely by surprise. Yes, she loved him. More than anyone in the world. He was the one she’d run to since she was a little girl, right from when he and his parents had moved next door but one. Being a boy of eleven, he hadn’t wanted to be bothered with an eight-year-old, and a girl at that, but she’d badgered him until he’d sometimes nodded and allowed her to accompany him when he went off birdwatching, or climbed trees in the nearby woods. Best of all she loved it when he’d take her down to the docks. She’d hand over her pocket money to Johnny and they’d go a couple of stations on the ‘Dockers’ Umbrella’, the overhead railway which followed the seven miles of docklands. She could have watched the ships come and go for hours, her eyes stretching all the way across the Mersey. Luckily, he was every bit as fascinated and would tell her where the ships had come from and where they were going.
He’d always been her teacher and her ‘bestest’ friend, as she used to call him when she was a child – sometimes still did, to make him laugh – but her lover? She’d never once thought of him in that way, and had suddenly felt almost embarrassed when he’d made his proposal.
‘You’ve been watching too many cowboy films,’ she’d answered, trying to make light of his clumsy proposal, not wanting to hurt him by saying she didn’t think she loved him in the way a wife should love her husband. She saw his face