It Had To Be You (2 page)

Soon after arranging with Lila to meet the following morning, Emma saw her friend out, then she put the kettle on for another cup of tea. She hurried upstairs and hung the black astrakhan coat that had once been her grandmother’s in her own wardrobe. It was freezing in the bedroom and she wasted no time carrying the cardboard boxes from her granddad’s room downstairs to the kitchen.

She leant over to the wireless perched on a shelf in the alcove next to the fireplace and fiddled with the knobs until she recognised the signature tune of
Workers’ Playtime
coming from a factory somewhere in Britain. It was a programme that had started during the war to encourage productivity and still featured famous singers, musicians and comedians of the day. Her granddad had really enjoyed singing along to the music. She felt the tears
well up again and this time she allowed herself the luxury of a good cry. Then she mopped her face and drank her cooling tea before turning her attention to the boxes.

Each had a label stuck on with the contents written in her grandmother’s neat hand. It had been heart-wrenching watching the old woman slowly succumb to the painful form of arthritis that had eventually affected her heart and killed her, but her grandmother had never complained.

Emma took the top from the old chocolate box with a pair of fluffy white kittens depicted on its lid and soon discovered that the contents were a mishmash of old bills, postcards from various seaside resorts, and letters. Perhaps her granddad had rifled through them after the death of her grandmother and that was why they were in such disorder. The ink had turned to sepia on some of the letters tied up with yellow ribbon. There weren’t many of those and they proved to be addressed to ‘Ma and Pa’.

As she began to read them Emma realised that they had been penned from the front by her dead uncles during the Great War. She read no further, unable to bear their poignancy. She did not want to dwell on the sadness in her grandparents’ lives right now. They had suffered so much, first in losing both their sons and then their only daughter, who had been born late in life to them. It was a relief to turn to the next box which proved to contain
more bills going back years to the last century. It was interesting discovering the different prices of goods but she knew that she must not waste time.

She reached for the next box and here she found birth and death certificates, as well as her grandparents’ marriage certificate. There was no sign of her parents’ marriage certificate or her own birth certificate. What she did find were the deeds to the house, which proved to be an interesting document. Apparently the house had been used as a shop and tea room in her great-grandmother’s day.

Emma rose and placed the document on the table, knowing she had to keep it with all the certificates in a safe place. Then she returned to her task of sorting. Now she came across birthday cards, some addressed to her mother, Mary, during her girlhood, others belonging to her grandparents and uncles, and there were several that were addressed to Emma. One was made from stiff card and appeared to have been hand-painted. It was in the form of a number three with tiny teddy bears, dolls, flowers and birds filling up the space. It wished her a happy birthday and was signed
l
ove Daddy
with three kisses.

Her heart seemed to flip over. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, thinking that her father must have made this himself. Had he been here for her third birthday, or had it been sent from somewhere else? There was no envelope. She sat, clutching it against
her and wishing she could remember him. What kind of man could make something like this and yet part from his wife and never send his daughter another birthday card?

She rose from the chair to place it on top of the deeds and certificates before continuing with her task, listening with only half an ear to the jokes of Charlie Chester on the wireless. Shortly after, she switched off the programme and made another cup of tea before resuming her place and taking the last box onto her knee.

It was at the very bottom of a pile of old newspapers, one dated 1918 proclaiming that the guns had fallen silent along the front, that she found a single letter. It was dated August 1940 and began
Dear Mrs Harrison
…

The address on the top right-hand side was in Liverpool. The paper was stained as if at one time it had been affected by damp and yet the newspapers above it were perfectly dry. Had someone cried over this letter? Her gaze went swiftly to the bottom of the page to the signature of a Mrs Lizzie Booth. Emma’s heart gave a peculiar lurch. Could this letter be from her father’s mother? She began to read its contents and soon realised her mistake.

Emma had to pause and take several deep breaths before rereading that last sentence again and continuing.

Emma reread the letter twice through a blur of tears. So it was true that her father was dead! How long after her mother’s death had he married again? How old was her half-sister? Perhaps it had
been one of those quick wartime weddings. Yet it seemed her father had not forgotten about Emma after all and had wanted to see her again. Why had her grandmother kept this information from her? His widow must have badly wanted to fulfil his last wishes if she had persisted in writing to this address despite her previous letters being ignored.

Emma felt hurt and angry, believing it was too late now to do anything about it. She wondered if her granddad had known about the letters. Somehow, she thought not. With trembling fingers she folded the letter before putting it on top of the birthday card her father had sent her. Or was it too late? Aye, it was too late to get to know her father but perhaps it was not too late to meet her
half-sister
and stepmother. Maybe that was why her grandmother had not destroyed the letter but had intended her to find it one day?

Emma knew that she could not ignore her discovery. How odd it felt thinking about having a stepmother. It reminded her of those stepmothers mentioned in fairy tales. Yet the little she knew about Lizzie Booth from reading her letter convinced Emma that she was in no way similar to the wicked stepmothers in
Cinderella
or
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

A faint smile twisted Emma’s lips. It was possible that Lizzie Booth had given no more thought to her when she had not received a reply
to this letter. But what if she had not forgotten her? What if Emma went to visit the address in Liverpool and explained matters to her? She felt a stir of excitement as well as trepidation at the thought of visiting the city. The furthest she had ever travelled was to the Lake District and Blackpool, and always in the company of her grandparents.

Of course, it would cost money to go to Liverpool. Could she afford the trip? Probably not, and yet she felt that she must go. She glanced towards the window and saw that the snow was still falling. Obviously it would be sensible to wait until the weather improved. It might also be a good idea to talk to Lila’s parents about her mother and father before making the journey to Lancashire’s premier port.

The next day when Lila called round to the house, Emma asked her whether she had mentioned her father to her parents. ‘I did as it happens,’ said Lila, smiling.

‘What did they say?’ asked Emma eagerly.

‘Mam said that your da’, William Booth, was a handsome devil and could charm the birds from the trees. Apparently he spoke just like them announcers on the wireless. He never actually lived here, you know.’ Lila’s grey-blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment at dropping this gem of information. ‘Although, it turns out that his great-grandparents were from this area. They were married in the parish church but lived up the hill in Wiswell. When
the mill at Barrow closed down for a while during the last century, they left in search of work and they ended up in Liverpool.’

Emma was stunned. ‘So my dad came from Liverpool?’

‘Apparently.’

Emma was silent, thinking about her stepmother’s letter. ‘I’ve met a few Scousers on the fells and they certainly didn’t talk BBC English.’

‘There are bound to be posh areas in Liverpool as well as slums,’ said Lila. ‘Think of shipowners, doctors and the like.’

‘Even so,’ muttered Emma, frowning. ‘How would an ex-mill worker make enough money in the big city in Victorian times to end up speaking posh? Anyway, Gran and Granddad Harrison certainly weren’t well off.’

‘Your granddad owned this cottage, so he wasn’t on his uppers.’

‘No, but it was left to him, and Granddad had to continue working until he was an old man and he didn’t have that much in the way of savings. He had to eke out his money with living so long.’ She gnawed on her lip, digesting this new information. ‘If my dad was from Liverpool, I wonder how he and Mam met? Did your mam say?’

‘She was a bit reticent about that. I mean, I think she would have told me if Dad hadn’t given her a look.’

Emma pondered on that nugget of information and then said firmly, ‘I must talk to your parents. I found something yesterday and I’d appreciate their thoughts on what I’ve discovered.’

Lila smiled. ‘Well, you’re in luck. Mam’s changed shifts and will be home this afternoon.’

‘I’m made up about that,’ said Emma, her eyes lighting up. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

‘What did you find by the way?’ asked Lila curiously, watching her friend put on the Great War-style black astrakhan coat trimmed with rabbit fur over the shop-bought black jumper and skimpy black skirt that Emma had bought for the funeral of her grandmother. Lila knew that her friend had not had any new clothes since then, although she was not alone in that. Their families had all had to make do and mend during the war and its aftermath.

‘A letter from my stepmother.’

Lila’s jaw dropped. ‘What stepmother?’

Emma glanced at her over her shoulder. ‘The one my dad married after my mother died and who lives in Liverpool with my half-sister.’

‘Blinking heck, Em, I’m sure Mam doesn’t know anything about a stepmother. What was she doing writing to you?’

Emma pulled on her black beret and flicked back her chestnut hair. ‘She wrote to Gran, telling her that my dad was killed at Dunkirk. By the sound of it she and Dad had written before and their letters
had been ignored. Apparently my dad wanted his daughters to grow up knowing each other.’

‘Blinking heck, who’d have believed it!’

‘I’m thinking of going to Liverpool to look them up.’ Emma reached for her bag and put it over her shoulder.

‘I’d do the same if I were in your shoes,’ said Lila, almost enviously.

‘There’s the cost of the fare, of course,’ said Emma, grimacing. ‘So perhaps it would be more sensible just to write to her.’

‘But it’s an adventure, Em! Just think of going all the way to Liverpool! I wouldn’t mind going there myself, only me mam and dad wouldn’t let me.’

‘Then in that case, your mam’s hardly likely to encourage me to go,’ said Emma dryly.

Lila puffed out her rosy cheeks and then let out a long breath. ‘It’s different for you. You’re going to see relatives, not just to have fun.’

‘You’re right. I’ll see what your mother has to say,’ decided Emma, ‘although we’re both old enough to do what we please.’

‘I know we are but it’s difficult to go against your parents when they’ve brought you up and you’re their only chick,’ said Lila.

As they trudged through the snow along the road in the direction of Wiswell, both girls were silent. Emma was conscious of the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She tried to imagine
what it must be like living in a bustling, crowded, smoky city without a field or hill in sight and where people were strangers to each other, but she found it difficult because it was beyond her experience.

At last they arrived at the Ashcrofts’ house and Emma could see Lila’s father’s face at the window. Pity for him touched her heart. He seldom went outside the house because he had difficulty walking. They went inside and he gave Emma a nod. She murmured a greeting and hung her coat over the back of a chair and sat down whilst Lila went in search of her mother.

Emma glanced about the overcrowded room at the various knick-knacks and wooden models set on every available surface before her gaze came to rest on Mr Ashcroft again. He now seemed completely unaware of her presence and she watched his slender fingers working with glue and matchsticks. He spent most of his days either gazing out of the window or making models from matchsticks whilst listening to music on the wireless. A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray at his elbow.

Emma thought his models were brilliant but Lila had told her that her mother was getting fed up of them, complaining that they would soon be running out of space to display them. Right now it appeared he was making a model of the nearby ruined abbey before it had fallen victim to Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. At the moment the model was
a creation of delicate tracery and beauty. There was a box of matches on the coffee table close to hand and Emma picked it up to see how many there were left in it.

‘So, Emma, Lila tells me you want to speak to me,’ said a woman’s voice, startling her so that the box of matches slipped from her fingers and disappeared from sight.

Emma looked up and saw Mrs Ashcroft standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. Her hair was several shades darker than her daughter’s and she had determined, strong features with a hooked nose.

‘That’s right. What’s Lila told you?’ asked Emma in a rush.

‘Apparently you’ve got a stepmother and a younger half-sister living in Liverpool. Well, I know what I’d do, lass, I’d stay where you are. I’ve only been to Liverpool twice in my life. Once to catch the Isle of Man ferry to go on my honeymoon and secondly to meet the troopship that brought Jack here home from Burma. It’s noisy, dirty and there’s so many people you wouldn’t believe it. There’s prostitutes, thieves and drunks staggering about, aside from the sailors from all parts of the world. It’s not the kind of place for a well-brought-up country girl, as your mother—’ She stopped abruptly.

‘What were you going to say about my mother?’ asked Emma swiftly.

‘I didn’t intend saying anything,’ said Mrs Ashcroft, sitting down in a chair. ‘But now I’ve started I suppose I’d better tell you.’

‘Jane!’ Mr Ashcroft gave his wife a warning look.

‘It’s too late for that, Jack,’ she said. ‘Emma should have been told years ago and then it wouldn’t come as a shock to her.’

‘What should I have been told?’ asked Emma, paling. ‘Is it that my parents weren’t married and that I’m-I’m—’

‘Of course not!’ said Mrs Ashcroft, looking shocked. ‘I was going to say that your mam ran away to Liverpool when she was only eighteen, and when she came back it was with you and she was already suffering from the consumption that would kill her. I will add that she was wearing a wedding ring, as well as a lovely diamond-and-emerald engagement ring.’

Emma’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘So I’m not a bastard child.’

Mrs Ashcroft clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘No need to use that word in this house, but you understand, Emma, why you’re best staying away from such a sinful place.’

‘Surely there must be some decent people there?’ protested Emma. ‘Lila told me that you met my father and that he spoke posh.’

‘Of course there are decent people there, but
how will you be able to judge which ones they are when you’ve had no experience of life in the big city? You could end up in trouble.’

‘Stop frightening the lass, Jane,’ said Mr Ashcroft. ‘Liverpool’s not as bad as you make it sound and at least she’ll find plenty of life there. I met several Scousers in the army and I got on with them OK. We used to have a good laugh, despite them coming from a poor background.’

‘You’re a man and so it’s different for you,’ said his wife scornfully. ‘Emma might be twenty-one but she’s an innocent girl. So there is life in Liverpool, but it’s not the kind of life Emma’s used to. Her mother, Mary, soon found that out when she started mixing with actors, artists and musicians and the like.’

‘You make it sound like Sodom and Gomorrah,’ said Mr Ashcroft. ‘It’s a city like any other and there’s talent there. The comedian, Arthur Askey, came from Liverpool and so did John Gregson, the actor, and Tommy Handley from
ITMA
on the radio. You should let the girl find out for herself what it’s like.’

His wife’s lips thinned. ‘She’ll regret going there if she does. Mark my words,’ she said darkly. ‘Her grandmother would have wanted her to have nothing to do with her father’s second wife and daughter, otherwise she would have told Emma about them.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Mr Ashcroft, his lean face stern. ‘Her grandparents are dead and the lass needs to learn to make her own decisions.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ashcroft, for your advice,’ said Emma, despite feeling inadequate to make grownup decisions after all that his wife had said. ‘And you too, Mrs Ashcroft,’ she added hastily. ‘But what did you mean when you said that my mother mixed with actors, artists and musicians?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it but I suppose I must,’ said Jane Ashcroft, folding her arms beneath her bosom.

Mr Ashcroft swore beneath his breath.

His wife glared at him and then turned back to Emma. ‘Your father being an artist wasn’t of any use at all to your mother. I’m sure nobody was buying paintings during the Depression.’

‘But you said that she had a lovely engagement ring,’ protested Emma. ‘He must have earned some money.’

‘Maybe he did but your mother ended up having to sell that ring.’

‘But my father must have had some talent,’ insisted Emma. ‘I found a lovely birthday card from him that was hand-painted. You met him and so he must have visited my grandparents’ cottage.’

‘But he didn’t stay, did he?’ said Mrs Ashcroft. ‘Forget about him, Emma. He’s dead and picking over the past will do you no good.’

Emma found her fists clenching. ‘Why did my mother leave him and come back here with me? I know she was ill but—’

‘Perhaps she realised her mistake in marrying him. He was a charmer, as I told our Lila, but it was your grandmother who cared for you and Mary in her final days. Your mother knew she’d be forgiven just like the prodigal son because your grandparents were good, caring Christians. You should let that be the end of it. After all, he mustn’t have wasted much time finding someone else if he had another child before he was killed at Dunkirk.’

‘Enough, Jane,’ warned Mr Ashcroft. ‘One would think you had something against the man. Now, put the kettle on and make the lass a cup of tea before she has to go out in the cold again.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Ashcroft,’ said Emma in a low voice, shrugging on her coat. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea when I get home. Right now I need time to think, so I’ll go now and see you again sometime.’ She left the room.

Lila hurried after her. ‘I’m sorry about that, Emma. Mam really sounded like she had a knife in your dad. I can only think it’s because she knew your mother well before she ran away to Liverpool.’

‘Maybe that was it,’ said Emma, her face serious. ‘As it is I’ve learnt quite a bit about my parents this afternoon.’ She tucked her scarf inside her coat. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She opened the front door and went outside. Before she had set foot inside the Ashcrofts’ house, she had been dithering about going to Liverpool because of the expense. Now she was determined to see her stepmother and half-sister. Surely Lizzie Booth would be able to provide her with some answers about her parents? After all, her father must have talked to her about his first marriage for her to know about Emma. She would wait until the insurance companies paid out what was due to her from her granddad’s policies and the snow was all gone before making a move. In the meantime she would need to find more bookkeeping work in order to support herself.