Her Ladyship's Girl (28 page)

‘I’m not saying that at all.’

‘Well, that’s what you seem to be saying.’

The solicitor kicked Alan in the shin and he shut up.

‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding . . .’

The sergeant growled back at him.

‘Obviously.’

‘I think Mr Lane and I should return to London and see if we can work out the terms of a reconciliation.’

‘Good idea.’

The two of them left with their tails between their legs. The sergeant finished his tea and currant cake, then doffed his hat to my mother before replacing it on his head and following them out
into the street.

Three days later my father died.

The curtains were immediately drawn and his body was washed by a
corff golchwr
¹⁹
and laid out on a table in the main room of the house. White
sheets were draped over the walls and the mirrors were covered for reasons of respect, as was the custom. Sweet-smelling herbs were brought in from the garden and placed on the counterpane that
covered him and candles were lit and stood either side of his head. Mourners came to pay their respects right up to the day of the funeral and the whole village brought cake and ale and spice-wine
to be offered round. There was a constant flow of visitors, coming in through the front door and out through the back door, stopping to eat and drink on the way. Some sang songs and others said
prayers and I’m sure many of them came more than once.

On the burial day, the chief mourner was a man who did it for all the deaths in the village. He came to the house covered in crêpe and hung his head. Black gloves were handed out to me and
my family and strips of crêpe were draped round our shoulders. The water and cloth used to wash my father’s body were kept in a bowl under the table and only thrown out into the street
when the funeral party left the house. The whole village was gathered on the road outside and they sang a hymn before the coffin moved off, carried by Walter and three other men and led by the
local preacher.

Everybody filed in and walked behind the coffin to the cemetery on the hill, about half a mile away. Gwyneth came up from Cardiff and she walked with me and Mother and Bronwyn
at the front of the procession. I wheeled Charlotte in her pram.

The gravediggers stood by with their shovels as we arrived at the graveside. Another hymn was sung while the coffin was lowered down.

Then the preacher said prayers while the gravediggers filled in the consecrated pit and the coffin disappeared under the clay. The prayer went on and on and Mother cried, so did Gwyneth and
Bronwyn. Me and Walter didn’t.

When it was over, many of the people came back to the house and the curtains were opened and the covers taken from the walls and mirrors. They ate and drank and sang songs into the late
evening.

That night, in bed with Charlotte beside me, I said my own prayer for my dearly beloved father.

Alan Lane came back at the end of May. This time he came alone. He was sorry for what happened in Woodbridge Street, but he’d managed to find a nice flat in Finsbury for
us and I wouldn’t have to go back there any more. He knew we could be happy together if I’d agree to come back to London. In those days, there were few one-parent families and a
woman’s place was held to be by her husband’s side, no matter how much of a rogue or rascal he was.

A woman on her own with a child was viewed as loose and wanton, even if the opposite was true, and I’d been getting funny looks from the village people since my father died. So I agreed to
go back. Gwyneth had already returned to Cardiff and Bronwyn was back teaching in Maesteg and Walter was working and with his new family, so it was only me and mother – and she was still
doing whatever bits and pieces she could to make ends meet. Once my savings ran out, she couldn’t afford to have me and Charlotte living there and me not bringing anything in. I thought of
going to see Monica Reynolds and asking her to find me something local, like she did before. But it would be impossible with a baby and I couldn’t leave Charlotte with my mother to mind. So
it was the right thing to do, going back with Alan.

At least, I thought it was at the time.

What I didn’t know was, Alan was back gambling in the casinos again and he’d given up his accountancy job. His short stint of employment had convinced his father’s executors
that he was a reformed character, and he’d made amends with the private clubs where he was a member and they’d allowed him back in after his year in the wilderness – on condition
that he didn’t bring me with him.

The flat was on the top floor of a three-storey town house. There was no lift and I had to hump Charlotte’s pram up and down the stairs. Alan was kind and attentive for a couple of weeks
and he climbed on top of me and grunted and pushed a few times and I fell pregnant for him again. After that he came and went as he pleased, just like before, and he rarely had any money to give me
for food. That didn’t bother him, because he was always running round to his mother’s when he was hungry. The rent was paid from his father’s estate, so there was no danger of
being evicted, but he gambled away the rest of the monthly allowance left to him under the reinstated terms of his father’s will, and there was never anything left for me and Charlotte.

Things gradually became more desperate and I eventually had no other option but to take on cleaning jobs to feed my child and the one I was expecting. When Alan wasn’t around, I went with
Charlotte in her pram and cleaned the houses of the authors and artists who lived in the affluent areas of Bloomsbury and Holborn, which were within walking distance of the flat in Finsbury. The
work involved washing floors and windows and dusting and polishing and brassing and buffing – cleaning kitchens and bathrooms and dining rooms and it was much the same as skivvying, only I
could go home when I was finished.

Alan and I didn’t have sex any more – he wasn’t all that bothered and I didn’t want to do it while I was pregnant, in case it harmed the baby I was carrying. He
didn’t seem to care either if I was in or out when he came and went. I didn’t tell him I was working because he’d only have wanted me to give him my money so he could gamble it
away along with his own. I think he thought I was just out walking to get away from the boredom of the flat, and I got on with the cleaning for as long as I could.

I had to stop when I was eight months pregnant and, instead, I took in washing and ironing like my mother used to do, right up until I went into labour. My son, Daniel, was born on 8 March 1943.
I had him at home with a midwife, just as I did with Charlotte, who was now thirteen months old, and I had two babies to feed. As soon as I could manage it I had to go back out cleaning the houses
again. I put both children in the pram that I had to lug up and down the stairs and it hurt my foot every time. It was very hard during that summer of 1943, living on the top floor of the town
house with two young children and a war on. Almost everything was being rationed by then and there was no sign of it all coming to an end.

After the Americans joined the war in 1942, London was full of GIs, as they called their soldiers. GI stood for government issue and it was a kind of joke that the soldiers called themselves
that. They brought their own culture with them and they seemed to have plenty of free time and money to spend, and they brightened up gloomy old London that had been struggling through austere
times for what seemed so long. One day, I was coming back from work when I encountered a small group of these GIs near Gray’s Inn Road. They were exploring the area and I must have looked
like I was ready to drop, pushing the pram and limping along.

‘Are you OK, ma’am?’

‘Yes, I’m all right.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

They offered me cigarettes, which I declined, and chocolate and stockings, which I accepted. The stockings were called nylons and were made of a new material that was sheerer and more
hard-wearing than either silk or rayon. We got chatting about which dancehalls were good and which were bad and they were impressed that I knew so much about the subject. They brought their own
dances with them across the Atlantic – like the jitterbug and the balboa and swing and jive and boogie and I longed to be able to go hopping with them, like in the old days, before I got
married.

As they were going in my direction, they asked if they could walk with me and I could give them more information about the London dance scene on the way. I found them to be well-mannered and
very polite and respectful gentlemen. They even wheeled the pram for me and carried it up the front stairs. Just then the door opened and Alan stuck his head out to see what all the laughing and
joking was about. He said nothing when he saw the American soldiers – until I got inside.

‘So that’s how you’re making your money.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bringing back Yank soldiers.’

‘I didn’t bring them back.’

‘Oh no? Then what were they doing here?’

I tried to explain that they were only being perfect gentlemen and trying to help me, which was more than he ever did. But he wouldn’t listen. He flew into a rage when I took the chocolate
and nylons they’d given me out of my pocket and he tried to hit me. I’ve already said that Alan was no fighter, and he was older and smaller than me. So I avoided his swipe and punched
him straight on his previously broken nose.

Blood began to flow and he looked at me in disbelief for a moment, before storming out of the flat and slamming the door behind him. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or him. He came
back later that night, having been to see his old bat of a mother for some sympathy, no doubt. But it started a period of sustained mental harassment by him. He became insanely jealous and
suspicious to the point of being paranoid. He’d leave the flat and pretend to go off somewhere but when I went to do my cleaning he’d follow me at a distance and spy on me. I always
knew he was there, but I pretended not to notice and, if I even said hello to someone, he’d start an argument when I got home and accuse me of all sorts and even that the children
didn’t belong to him.

He knew he couldn’t beat me in a fair fight, face to face, so he’d have a brainstorm and sneak up on me from behind and try to strangle me. I’d reach back and grab him by the
goolies and we’d both be screaming like Saturday night slatterns, and the neighbours would rush in and separate us. He’d apologise and say he didn’t know what came over him
– until it came over him again.

The war ended on 8 May 1945. Charlotte was three by then and Daniel was two. The whole of London celebrated and danced and drank and sang and went wild. More than a million people took to the
streets and crowds assembled in Trafalgar Square and along The Mall and outside Buckingham Palace. It was a warm, bright day and the King and Queen and Prime Minister came out onto the balcony and
everybody cheered. There were parades and marching bands all over London and street parties up in Finsbury and the pubs stayed open to help christen the celebrations. Flags and bunting flew
everywhere and girls kissed soldiers and sailors kissed each other and children ate cakes and drank lemonade. Kings danced with pearly queens, and queens danced with pearly kings, and it was all
over at last and everyone was truly thankful.

But the war between me and Alan went on.

He continued to follow me around, even after all the GIs went back to America. He’d hide behind cars and around corners and sometimes he’d come into the house where I was cleaning
and kick over a bucket of water or run away with my washing rags. I’d run after him and trip him up or throw something at him and he’d go and tell the old bat and her ugly daughter.
They came round the flat to complain once, but I was in no mood to listen to their lectures. I told them they could have him back, because he was no use to me – in any way, shape or form.
They threatened to stop the rent payments and I told them to go ahead, I’d pay it myself and Alan could find somewhere else to live. But he wouldn’t leave the flat and the rent
continued to be paid.

His antics became more and more bizarre and I often thought about having him committed to a lunatic asylum. I read somewhere that Sigmund Freud’s daughter, Anna, was taking the theories of
psychoanalysis further than her father and new treatments for sexual aggression were being developed every day. Maybe they’d be able to cure Alan if he went in somewhere for a while. But,
when I thought about it, I knew they’d never believe me and might commit me instead. Then he’d take the kids and move them back in with his mother. And I couldn’t have that.

He continued to sneak up behind me when I wasn’t looking and try to strangle me, and I continued to grab him by the goolies and the neighbours continued to come in and pull us apart. We
didn’t sleep together any more, but I always kept one eye open, in case he crept into my room in the middle of the night with a carving knife. He never did, but I kept a rolling-pin under my
pillow just in case and I’d have clouted him with it across the side of his schizophrenic head if he came anywhere near me.