Mrs
Bagshaw lived for disapproval. Not that
she wanted anyone to disapprove of her.
Her behaviour was of course exemplary.
Otherwise she wouldn’t be qualified to offer out her opinions on the way
that other people ran their lives.
Everyone else was doing it wrong.
But Mrs Bagshaw had a husband, two children, a full washing line and
front doorstep that gleamed, even on a foggy day. Of course she was doing everything right. But her across the road at number 12, well! She was a different kettle of fish
altogether.
It
was in the war when her at number 12 went wrong. Women of her sort used the war as an excuse
for all sorts of ridiculous behaviour.
First of all she married that pilot.
She went silly over the uniform.
And if anybody was going to get themselves killed it was a pilot. The marriage didn’t last a year before he
went down in the North Sea. And what had
she done in the meantime? Got herself
pregnant. Talk about setting yourself up
for sorrow. So, there she was – no husband,
a kiddy that won’t stop crying because it’s got an unfit mother and no food in
the cupboard. No time to grow anything
she said – even though she’d a lovely patch of soil round the back. So, she fetched round the ARP warden to see
about growing some potatoes – and ends up growing much more into the
bargain. Another baby no less. The ARP Warden went running back to his wife,
saying that there was no proof that the blighter was his.
But
the real disapproval started at the end of the war, when young Peter Bagshaw
turned 19. Just the day after his
birthday, he was caught sneaking out of number 12 at 1 o’clock in the
morning. Peter got a red ear but he
never lost his grin. Local opinion was
divided on whether number 12 had done it out of spite to Mrs Bagshaw, or
because she just genuinely couldn’t resist a strapping young lad. Either way, when there’s a war on, you take
your pleasure where you find it.
*Title
inspired by a line from Human Voices
by Penelope Fitzgerald
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