Home Sweet Home (21 page)

The ringing of the telephone was as bad as seeing a magpie diving on a nesting sparrow. Bettina's lovely thoughts on the day were instantly blackened, almost as though a cloud had passed over the sun.

There were few telephones in the village, most people writing letters if they kept in contact with anyone at all. The doctor had one and so did the baker, the latter installed by the Ministry of Food.

Michael, Bettina's nephew, had persuaded her to have one so he could keep a better check on her now he was in England.

Back inside the house, her hand shook as she reached for the telephone. Was it Michael? She had considered urging him to get a desk job after his escapade with a burning Lancaster bomber but had held her tongue. Michael had warrior written all over him. He wouldn't thank her for her caution and would always do what he wanted.

Steeling herself to hear the worst, she brought the telephone slowly to her ear.

‘Bettina? It's me. Ruby. Have you heard the news?'

Fear clutched at Bettina's heart. Ruby sounded anxious and very afraid.

‘No. What is it? It's not Michael, is it? You haven't heard from Mary?'

‘No. I haven't. It's Charlie. He was rushed to hospital last night with suspected diphtheria. Dad went with him and was dropped off at four this morning by some American GIs. After that he went up to bed, but he's not there now. I went up with a cuppa. You haven't seen him, have you?'

Bettina could hardly speak. Her mouth had turned quite dry, her tongue suddenly seeming to have swollen to twice its normal size.

‘No. I haven't seen him,' she said at last. ‘What did the hospital say?'

‘Only that it would be some time before they could say for sure and that Dad should go home. He walked part of the way but was lucky some American soldiers were passing by in a Jeep and brought him home.'

Bettina felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Charlie was such a darling little boy and the apple of his grandfather's eye. She forced herself to stop her voice from trembling. ‘I haven't seen your father since yesterday.'

Ruby thanked her. Bettina put the telephone down. The ache in her joints seemed suddenly to come back with a vengeance. As pain gripped her knees and hips, she sank into a chair.

Diphtheria! She'd seen what it could do, the back of a child's throat thickening over, blocking the windpipe. The neck swelling until the outline of the jaw was barely discernible. And the deaths. Thinking back to times long gone, she most of all remembered the deaths. The majority had been children.

Stan must be very worried. A while back, he'd told her that the clinic in Warmley had sent him a letter inviting him to have Charlie vaccinated. There had been a fee, of course, not that Stan had objected to the cost. At least he could afford it. It was the thought of stabbing young Charlie with a needle that he'd baulked at.

This is no time to be tearful, thought Bettina, though her eyes moistened anyway. Her thoughts were many, but first and foremost she was feeling for Stan. Somehow she had to be strong for him, to reassure him that everything would be fine and that Charlie would pull through.

‘Well. There's nothing to be done by sitting here,' she exclaimed.

Placing both hands on to the arms of the chair, she pushed herself up and headed for the hallstand. Her favourite coat, a pale grey-and-blue checked affair, was a little warm for the day, but there was no time to be lost searching for what might be more suitable. She had to find Stan. She had to help him through this, and she thought she knew where she would find him.

It was early for anyone to be in St Anne's churchyard, though the vicar, the Reverend James Johnson, had to admit that the colour of the sky, the smell of things growing and the chattering of the birds made the place more appealing than usual. It couldn't help but make everyone experiencing its delights feel glad to be alive. So far the only other person he could see was hunched over beside a headstone. He recognised the baker Stan Sweet.

‘Good morning, Mr Sweet. Lovely day.'

The man kneeling on one leg beside the headstone failed to acknowledge him. Stan wasn't one to be rude. The vicar frowned, thought about greeting him again, but stopped himself. Sometimes people needed to be alone with their prayers, loved ones or thoughts without interference from anybody, even a vicar.

Reverend Johnson didn't mind being ignored. A priest should be sensitive to when people wanted the solace of a man of the cloth and when they wished to be solitary.

The reverend turned away, heading for the church door, where he was waylaid by another member of his congregation. His attention drawn to the village baker, he hadn't seen the other figure sitting in the church porch on a stone ledge. As he got closer, she stood up and nipped sharply in front of him.

‘It's about the flower-arranging committee, Vicar. I'd like to apply to join it.'

The Reverend Johnson was lost for words. It wasn't that people volunteering to provide and arrange flowers weren't appreciated, it was just that he knew the other people on the committee wouldn't want Gertrude Powell among their number.

‘Mrs Hellfire and Brimstone,' one of his parishioners had called her. He couldn't be drawn to comment one way or another, but judging by popular gossip, Mrs Powell spent more time inside church – and not just St Anne's – than he did.

However, he could hardly refuse her. All kinds of saints and sinners had to be tolerated. Not that he had ever analysed which category Mrs Powell fitted into. It was just that she was a little peculiar, though he saw her as a creature to be pitied rather than avoided.

He made a mental note to explain to the rest of the flower-arranging volunteers that they should open their hearts to Mrs Powell's odd ways.

‘I dare say the other ladies will be pleased to have you join them,' he said, though he knew it was a white lie. The fact was he so hated for people to be disappointed or to feel themselves unwelcome.

‘Right. I'll be along for the Tuesday meeting, then. I'll bring some flowers. Looks as though you could do with some fresh ones.'

It was cowardly not to stick up for the women who had gone out of their way to pick wild flowers for the church displays. Wild flowers were now the norm since most gardens had been turned over to growing vegetables.

Mrs Powell, her attire as black as the crows that preyed on the churchyard songbirds, stalked off, an unbending figure who had cast a shadow over the reverend's day.

He didn't feel happy until he was inside his church. After soundlessly saying a swift prayer, he made a mental note to be absent from the Tuesday meeting, citing a sick parishioner or the Sunday sermon as being in need of his urgent attention.

Gertrude Powell was feeling pleased with herself, smiling stiffly as she headed for home.

What did it matter that she lived alone? What did it matter that she had no close family to be responsible for now, and nobody she regarded as a friend? Spiritual satisfaction! That was the thing, though a few worldly things also satisfied her. She had her shop and soon she would have a valued position in the church. No more wild flowers and a few marguerites and marigolds brightening the darker corners of the church. Lilies were the thing, arum lilies especially that gave off funereal scents and reminded the sinners of this village that judgement day was at hand and they'd better not forget it.

It did not occur to her that since the outbreak of war few people grew flowers. As far as she was concerned, they were feeding their bodies and neglecting their souls. She, on the other hand, would not fall into Satan's trap. Food for the soul was far more important than food for the body.

Her triumphant mood might have continued if she hadn't seen a figure on the other side of the church gate, walking towards her. The woman was instantly recognisable from her pale blue coat and the fact that she walked with the aid of a stick.

Gertrude gritted her jaw. Today had been quite wonderful up until this moment. Since the time her daughter Miriam had left to live in the Forest of Dean with her grandmother, Gertrude had made efforts to avoid Bettina every time their paths had crossed. However, on this occasion there was no escape: the two of them must pass through the same gate.

On spying Gertrude, Bettina stopped and leaned on her stick on the other side of the gate. Her jaw tightened and her eyes, sparkling behind her spectacles, narrowed.

Gertrude Powell was far from being her favourite person. There never had been anything very amenable about her, and time had only made her more bitter, more eccentric in her beliefs.

Bettina braced herself for what might be coming. Gertrude couldn't help making snide comments. She tended to target some people in the village more than others. Bettina was one of them. She could make a comment first, of course, but she would not. Today was such a beautiful day – or had been until news of Charlie had ruined it. And now here was Gertrude to blacken the day further.

Let her cast the first stone …

Not today, Bettina decided. I will not be distracted or enraged by this stupid woman.

With her free hand, she pushed at the gate, resigned to her mission. It was Stan she was seeking, not an argument with this dreadful woman.

Gertrude's face visibly soured on sight of a woman she'd known since they were girls. Determined to get through this as quickly as possible, Bettina spoke first and even managed a weak smile. ‘Good morning, Gertrude. Out enjoying the morning air, are you?'

Gertrude's thin lips tightened so much they almost disappeared. Her black eyes seemed to sink further into their deep hollows. ‘This is the first time I've seen you near a church, let alone inside one,' she said, her voice full of malice.

Bettina threw back her head and laughed. ‘At least the Good Lord isn't likely to grow tired of my company – unlike yours.'

Gertrude bristled with pent-up indignation, her inhaled breath hissing between her teeth. ‘He wouldn't recognise you if you did visit! The Devil knows his own, Bettina Hicks! The Devil knows his own!'

Bettina shook her head. ‘And the Devil finds a home in an empty heart, Gertrude. And your heart has been empty for years!'

Just for once, Gertrude Powell didn't have an answer. Bristling with indignation, her face like thunder, she stormed through the church gate and pushed rudely past Bettina. She was almost knocked over, but thanks to her walking stick regained her balance. Not without sympathy, she watched Gertrude march off. The woman Gertrude had grown into bore no relation to the girl she had once been. Bettina wondered at the happenings in the woman's life that had changed her into what she was today.

No matter, she thought to herself. You can't give solace or friendship to somebody resigned to being hostile.

Carefully picking her way over flagstones slippery with moss and heavy dew, she resumed her path.

Stan was exactly where she'd guessed he might be.

She paused at the sound of his voice, leaning on her stick and feeling something of an interloper. Her heart ached at the words and the sight of Stan Sweet, the man saying them.

‘It's my fault, Sarah. It's my fault. I should have had him vaccinated. If anything happens, I don't think I can ever forgive myself.' Stan Sweet's voice trembled with emotion and he was clearly angry at his own stupidity. ‘I hope to God he pulls through and I promise you, I really do, that I'll be going to church this Sunday. In fact, I'll go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life if he pulls through.'

On becoming aware that a shadow had suddenly fallen over the headstone, Stan looked up to see Bettina gazing down at him with sorrow-filled eyes.

‘You know what's happened,' he stated in a flat tone.

Bettina took a deep breath and adopted the most confident of expressions. ‘Ruby told me. She's looking for you. She was worried.'

‘No need to be.' Stan shook his head. The words on his wife's tombstone glared at him.
Sarah, beloved wife …

‘I couldn't bear to see another stone saying “Charlie, beloved grandson”,' he said to her.

‘Oh, Stan,' said Bettina, her voice heavy with feeling. ‘Don't talk that way. You won't have to bear it because it won't happen. Charlie will get better. He will come home. You have to believe that.'

‘I should have been more sensible and less squeamish. I remember those bloody great needles they used to stick into us in the Great War. I saw more than one bloke faint right away. The medical officers had so many to do, they carried on regardless, stepping over the lads that had fainted.'

‘Stan. That was a long time ago. They can work wonders nowadays.'

He nodded. ‘I'm hoping they can. But what if it's too late? What if the stuff they can inject beforehand doesn't work after, once somebody's got diphtheria? What then?'

Bettina's heart ached for him. She had to do something to help, no matter how small an effort it might be.

‘How about you take a walk up to the doctor's and ask him what his chances are? He'd know better than I would. I take it you haven't asked him directly.'

Stan shook his head.

‘Has he dropped by to convey his fears?'

Stan shook his head again. ‘No. Not since last night.'

‘If the writing's on the wall, old Dr Foster comes calling beforehand – or didn't you know that?'

Of course he knew it. Everyone in the village knew it. Everyone knew it was bad news if one person had a visit from the doctor when they knew somebody living in that house was in hospital. Nobody went willingly into hospital, especially the old folk, who took the view that once inside they were unlikely to come out. But this was a small boy they were talking about.

It seemed her reassurance might have had some effect. Stan Sweet had broad, square shoulders. Bettina was familiar with them enough to know that some, though not all, of the tension had left them.