Home Sweet Home (3 page)

After placing the tinned things on to a dresser and the rest into a metal meat cupboard, she wandered back into the living room.

Downstairs, the cottage had only the two rooms, the kitchen and the living room. The large inglenook fireplace took up one third of a wall, and while the furniture was shabby and the carpets worn, the atmosphere was warm and cosy. The smell of polish lingered in the air, evidence that someone cared for the cottage and was doing what they could to make the old furniture last that bit longer.

Armed with a wax candle she'd found in a kitchen drawer, she made her way upstairs. The candle flame flickered in the draught as she explored the two bedrooms. The front bedroom, the largest, held a double bed with a plain wooden headboard and smaller, matching footboard. The floors were of bare wood, a rag rug in pink and red to one side of the bed, a smaller green one close to the window. The curtains were of a Paisley-patterned fabric in matching colours. A wine-coloured satin eiderdown sat on top of a faded candlewick bedspread that might once have been yellow but was now a very pale lemon.

The second bedroom had a small square window, a chest of drawers and a single bed with a patchwork cover. She opened the window at the exact same time as the moon chose to emerge from behind a navy blue cloud. The air was crisp and cold. The flat land of Lincolnshire was spread out before her like a patchwork counterpane.

The blackout curtains were not drawn. She wondered at that, then recalled that Michael had said something about the pilots using the escaping light from this cottage as a kind of marker buoy, situated as it was at the very end of the runway. ‘Against blackout regulations and all that, but we don't get many enemy bombers up here. Too far and not too much for them to bomb when they get here. Except us, that is.'

He'd laughed at his own joke, at least she'd thought it was a joke. Perhaps that business about bombers being able to see a light from ten thousand feet was rubbish.

The sight of the moon stirred a vein of anger inside her. She slammed the window shut and pulled the curtains, blotting out its silvery light. She didn't want to look at the moon, the bomber's moon, as Michael had described it.

‘It's great for navigation,' he'd told her. ‘The moon shines on a river, the water reflects light so we follow water or a river all the way to our target. Once we get there we can see everything.'

He'd been more reticent about adding that because they could more easily see the ground, those on the ground could also see them. After she'd challenged him, he'd admitted that there was a greater chance of being hit by an anti-aircraft gun on a clear night such as this.

Just for once in her life she found herself hating the moon, yet there had been a time when she'd loved it. She didn't know for sure whether the moon had been shining on the night Michael had been hit, but she couldn't help hating it in case it had aided his plane being shot down.

She managed to eat some of the toad in the hole, and left the rest for the next day. In the morning, she ate only a slice of toast and drank a cup of tea, and even had trouble keeping that down. Yes, there was the usual feeling of nausea, but this morning it was coupled with a sickening fear that lay in her stomach like a bag of rocks.

Closing her eyes, she willed it to pass and uttered a heartfelt prayer. ‘Please, God, don't let him be too badly scarred. Please!'

It was a day in autumn 1942, not long after Mary had left to join her husband Michael, when something happened that made her cousin, Frances, determined to find her mother. Perhaps it might never have entered her head if it hadn't been for her cousin Ruby's hand-me-down red dress and her friend Pearl – suitably armed with her ration card – insisting on calling in at ‘Mother' Powell's for a packet of Woodbines before they went to the dance that evening at the church hall.

Gertrude Powell's shop meant a bit of a detour, but Pearl had been insistent. ‘I can't go without a smoke, Frances. Sure you don't want to join me?' Smoking didn't appeal to Frances. The taste was bad enough; the smell of people who did smoke was even worse. ‘I've no wish to smell like an ashtray,' she'd countered.

Pearl was seeing a freckle-faced boy named Ty. He was from New York and kind of boastful because he came from the ‘Big Apple', as he called his home city.

‘He wants us to go the whole way before he heads for France,' Pearl whispered as they tottered on three-inch heels down Court Road to the village store.

Frances sucked in her breath. ‘Are you going to?'

‘I don't know. I want to, but … well … my mum would kill me if I got pregnant.'

‘So you won't let him.'

‘I didn't say that. I might. I mean, you know how it is. There are times when you just can't help yourself.'

Frances thought about Ed, his sweet words pouring like honey into her ear, the feel of his body against her, the boyish face and the touch of his hands … Although she was fond of him, she wasn't sure whether she was inclined to give in.

Mrs Powell looked up when they entered, her black eyes fixing them with a dull glare, her nostrils flaring. Her face was white and her hair and clothes as black as her eyes. She wore no discernible expression, said nothing and stood stiff as a poker. If they didn't know better, they might think she was made of wax, not real at all.

‘Five Woodbines, please. There's my ration book.'

Pearl slammed her mother's ration book down on the counter.

While Mrs Powell stamped her ration book and reached for the cigarettes, Pearl held her skirt some way above her knees and asked Frances if her stocking seams were straight. Not that they were real stockings, of course. Real stockings were hard to come by these days.

‘My little brother drew them with the brown from the box of crayons he had for last Christmas. The trouble was he wasn't wearing his glasses.'

Frances fancied that one seam was a little crooked, but not enough to worry about. ‘They're fine. Did you use gravy browning?' Gravy browning turned white legs a more subtle shade of brown, almost like stockings but not quite.

Dropping her grip on her hem, Pearl shook her head. ‘I got some of that natural brown stuff in Woolworths when I last went to Kingswood. I heard it doesn't go all streaky in the rain like gravy browning. What did you use?'

‘Bisto. But I think I'll get some of that stuff you've got when I'm in town next.'

‘Bisto does run something terrible. That stuff I got in Kingswood works okay.'

Pearl said ‘okay' with an American drawl that Frances found quite fascinating. It was as though Pearl was readying herself for a life with her American among the skyscrapers of New York.

Mrs Powell, who had progressed from wax-like stiffness to outright impatience, began tapping her fingers on the counter. ‘Anything else?'

Pearl didn't hear her, busily whispering in Frances's ear about her freckle-faced American. ‘He has such a nice body—'

‘Excuse me!' Mrs Powell's voice rattled into their conversation. ‘I have other things more important to do than wait on a couple of young floozies out to throw themselves at anything in trousers!'

Pearl's mouth dropped open.

Frances was taken aback but rebounded swiftly. ‘There's no need for that, Mrs Powell. We're paying customers!'

Glowering, Mrs Powell snatched the cigarettes back and threw the ration book across the counter, where it slid off the edge and on to the floor.

Pearl turned bright red. ‘What about my cigarettes?'

‘You'll have to do without,' snarled Mrs Powell. ‘Get some off your American friends. I dare say you'll be giving them something in return.'

‘I don't like your insinuation,' declared Frances. Although she was seething inside, she lifted her chin high and spoke with cold precision.

‘Insinuation? Insinuation?' Gertrude Powell, a middle-aged woman who looked older than her years, laughed, though not jovially. It conveyed nothing but contempt. ‘There's no “insinuation” about it! You come into my shop and keep me waiting while you hitch up your skirts and show your knickers!'

Pearl looked horrified. ‘I was only checking my seams …' She sounded as though she was about to burst into tears.

‘That's a disgusting thing to say,' snapped Frances. ‘She was just showing me her stocking seams that her brother drew on her legs. So let's have the Woodbines.'

‘I've told you, no,' said Mrs Powell. Her pointed features jutted forward over the counter, reminding Frances of a gargoyle on a church roof. ‘Now get out of my shop.'

‘No,' Frances said, her expression just as adamant as that of the shopkeeper.

Eyes unblinking and without sparkle, Mrs Powell ignored the ration book Frances was holding out to her.

‘As for you,' she said, looking Frances up and down, ‘you're no better than that fancy cousin of yours. Always with a different feller. Is that a red dress you're wearing beneath that coat? Yes, I can see it is. Well, that's no big surprise, is it? Given what your mother was like – a scarlet woman if ever there was one. I hear tell that she liked soldiers too, and the more the merrier!'

Up until this moment, Frances might have treated this whole affair differently. She and Pearl would probably have laughed about it all the way along the road. But she'd slighted Ruby and her mother. Frances could barely remember her mum, but she couldn't stomach the older woman's insults.

‘Take that back, you evil cow!'

Pearl gasped. She'd never heard Frances swear before – not in public, anyway.

Mrs Powell's coal-black eyes glared at Frances from deep sockets. Her spidery fingers gripped the counter top as though she were using it to keep herself upright.

‘I'll do no such thing! Your mother was a Jezebel! A scarlet woman. A whore, a slut and any other name you can think of that means the same thing …'

Tears stinging her eyes, Frances ran out of the shop, the strident words ringing out behind her, Pearl at her side.

Once outside, Frances took deep breaths and told herself to calm down, that they were just cruel accusations, that Mrs Powell was unhinged. She'd never used to be quite so bad, but that was before her daughter Miriam had gone away to live with her grandmother.

Their hurrying footsteps echoed on the chill night air, the light from Pearl's torch picking out the uneven stones that made up the pavement.

‘Frances? Do you think she's mad?'

Pearl's breathless tone interrupted the thoughts that Frances was trying to set into some order. As a child, she'd entertained the notion that someday her mother would come back for her. She'd grown up since then and her life at her uncle's had been mostly happy. Her mother had never figured prominently in her thoughts. Now, thanks to Mrs Powell's nasty comments, things had changed.

A yearning to know the truth had suddenly emerged like a buried spring bulb coaxed from the earth by incessant rain. Mrs Powell's words had brought all those old wishes back to the surface.

‘Do you think she's mad?' Pearl asked again.

‘As mad as a March hare!'

They had sped on in silence towards the village hall, Frances wondering how much Pearl had taken in and what she thought of the outburst. Even though she'd barely known her mother, it pained Frances to have her maligned. Surely she can't have been that bad? She didn't want Pearl to think so.

But Pearl had noticed. ‘Those things Mrs Powell said,' Pearl began, her voice hesitant. ‘Were they true?'

‘No,' snapped Frances, glad of the blackout. Pearl must not see that her eyes were moist with hot tears. ‘My mother was wild, but she was not a whore. She was not!'

The music was loud and the village hall was hot and stuffy. Just for a heartbeat, Frances looked down at her dress once her coat was hung up. Scarlet. The colour was scarlet.

She took Pearl by surprise, grabbing her arm. ‘You won't say a word,' she hissed. ‘Promise you won't repeat what that old cow said about my mother. I don't want the whole village to know.'

Frances's tone was insistent. She didn't realise how much her fingers were digging into Pearl's arm until the girl winced and asked her to let go.

‘I won't say anything. I promise. It's a secret. Right?' Pearl smiled nervously before trotting off to meet her soldier boy.

‘Can I share this secret?'

A handsome stranger – a Yank at that – emerged it seemed from nowhere. He had black hair, an inquisitive expression and held a cigarette in his right hand. His smile was an odd mixture of self-satisfaction and amusement.

Frances felt her cheeks warming. She couldn't be sure whether he'd heard or not. ‘It's none of your business!'

‘I was close by. I couldn't help it.'

His smile annoyed her. Was he just teasing her or had he heard what she'd said? ‘Then you should have made your presence known.'

‘But overhearing secrets is such great entertainment.'

‘It's rude!'

His smile grew wider and he raised his eyebrows.

Frances snatched her scarf from off her head. Her hair fell in a glossy veil about her shoulders.

‘I've heard tell a woman's hair is her crowning glory,' he said to her. ‘I was undecided up to now, but after seeing yours …'

‘Stop teasing me.'

‘I'm not. I'm being my usual most sincere self.'

Tonight had started badly and she was in no mood to cope with this. She was about to tell him to get lost when she caught sight of the look in his eyes. His expression had changed. Frances realised he meant exactly what he'd said.

‘Frances! I see you've met my friend, Declan O'Malley. Declan, meet my cousin, Frances.'

Ruby Sweet, Frances's cousin, looked a dream in a blue dress cut down from the bridesmaid's dress she'd worn at her sister Mary's wedding. Her hair was bundled into a black snood scattered with sequins. Ruby had crocheted it and Bettina Hicks, their father's dear friend, had sewn on numerous sequins from what seemed to them a secret haberdashery that she kept in her loft. Ruby had an elegance and confidence beyond her years. Becoming a Home Economist had a lot to do with it. Speaking in front of a room full of strangers had caused her to grow up quickly. She still looked her age, but there was something more commanding about her.