Maggie's Girl (11 page)

The interview had been going swimmingly until the officer stopped shuffling papers long enough to look at her properly.

‘You must be all of sixteen.' Holly could see sympathy in the steely blue eyes.

‘I never am! I'm seventeen and a bit!' The words rushed out before she had a chance to think.

‘I'm old enough to know my own mind. Why shouldn't I join up?'

The officer sighed, delved amongst the debris on her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.

‘Ask your parents to sign this consent form, and then we'll see.'

Her voice was not unsympathetic, but Holly found herself outside on the pavement clutching the consent form, her plans in ruins. Her mam would never agree to sign it!

Tears filled her eyes, plunging the world into hazy relief, so she didn't even see her tormentor from earlier follow her out.

‘Are you all right? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you …'

‘You didn't.' She wiped her eyes, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment for the second time that day.

‘I really would like to take you for a cup of tea,' he suggested and this time there was no mistaking the approval in his voice. His eyes, too. He had incredibly nice eyes, Holly realised. And she could murder a cup of tea!

The day took on a rosier hue.

Billy dipped the rag into the blacking tin and applied it
vigorously
to his pit boots, averting his gaze from the mirror over the fireplace. A black eye did nothing to improve his looks.

He wouldn't forget the face of the Tommy who'd delivered it, a thick-set man with fists to match.

‘Conchie!' he'd hissed, before drawing back his fist and letting fly.

Billy had wanted to belt him back, but that was human nature, wasn't it? His beliefs stopped him. Fighting was never the right way – wasn't that what this was all about?

That group of Tommies had had nothing better to do than go looking for trouble, and they'd unfortunately found it at the Peace Pledge meeting.

They'd coped with the heckling. They couldn't cope with the broken bottles, smashed crockery, chairs thrown across the room.

Someone across the road had called in the coppers. The biggest wonder was Billy hadn't ended up in a cell for the night.

Not all Tommies were like the one who'd thumped him, Billy knew. Many were prepared to live and let live, despite their passionate desire to beat Hitler.

Billy paused, his hands still for once, his worries crowding in. Were they right? What made one man disposed to let things be, while another—

The back door slammed, and he hastily averted his head, reapplying himself to his boots as his father came in. He'd managed to get out of the house before Peter was up this morning.

He watched in the mirror as Dad carefully removed his Home Guard tunic and draped it over the back of the chair. Did he have to make such a thing of his blasted uniform? If Hitler ever got over here, these old men thought they could see him off
single-handed
!

‘Good meeting, Dad?' He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Last night had upset him.

‘Aye, it was. Do you want some tea, lad? Nippy for September. I could do with a cup to warm me up.'

Peter turned towards his son, smiling brightly at his news.

‘Have you read the papers? The Russkis have tanked eight divisions. Good on 'em, I say.'

Billy's head turned, and Peter stopped.

‘What the heck's gone off?'

‘It's nothing.'

Peter's eyes narrowed. It wasn't just the black eye – the truth was, Billy hadn't been himself in a long while. Daisy was always grumbling she wished they could get to the bottom of it.

‘Has your mother seen it yet?' he asked sharply, and Billy lifted his eyes heavenwards. Did he think the roof would have remained in place if Mam knew her precious Billy had got a shiner?

‘Stupid question,' Peter conceded, pulling out a chair, all thoughts of tea, of the war, even, forgotten.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?'

‘Leave it, Dad.'

‘Is it a girl? You've got some lass into trouble? It's not the end of the world.' But he looked as if it was. Billy could read his father like a book.

‘We can sort something out. I'll talk to your mam!' Peter was gabbling on now.

‘It's not a girl, Dad!' If only it was as simple. His chest filled with pain.

‘Money, then?'

‘I've got no girl into trouble. I've no money worries.'

Peter leaned on the table and folded his hands together, watching his son contemplatively. He was stumped, and that was a fact.

‘Some idiot's been goading you because you're down the pit,' he began, nearer the mark than he realised. ‘As if you lads don't face enough danger underground! Where do folk imagine the war would be without the fuel to run it on?

‘Take no notice! Look how you were when Tony's was hit. I
know we never said as much, but me and your mam were really proud. People stopped me in the street to tell me what a hero you are!'

Whatever had given him the impression he and his dad were close? Billy removed his hand from inside the boot and laid it carefully on the newspaper spread across the table.

Yesterday's news. The war going on and on for ever, it seemed. He wished it would all stop, and he wished his father would stop going on about it.

The knowledge of who he was drummed in his head, and he looked up quickly.

‘I'm a conchie, Dad.'

The words fell from his lips and invaded the sanctuary of the tiny room. He hadn't been able to keep it in any longer.

‘What do you mean, exactly?' Peter asked quietly.

‘I mean I'm a conchie! A conscientious objector. Whatever you care to call it.'

Peter's eyes locked on his, seeking some kind of a denial. It couldn't be true!

‘Has it never crossed your mind?' Billy persisted. ‘All the conversations we've ever had! When have I ever said this war was right?'

The silence greeting his words spoke volumes. This was going to be as bad as he'd ever imagined.

‘I can't help the way I feel, Dad.' He must at least try to explain. ‘I hate this war. There are other ways than fighting.'

The war might well have moved, bomb and blast, into their back room, the way his dad was looking at him now.

‘You could at least try to understand?' Billy added.

‘What is there to understand?' His father had come to his senses at last.

‘You've worked down the pit, Dad!' he cried desperately. ‘It nearly crippled you, and it must have made you think, too. Isn't everything up here in God's good clean air too precious to be torn apart by war?'

He ground to a halt, unable to find the right words. He only knew what he felt was right.

‘If we can do anything to stop it, we have to give it a go.'

The colour was beginning to flood back into his father's face at an alarming rate.

‘Peace Pledger! Nowt but a bunch of cowards.'

‘You haven't understood a word!'

‘What's to understand? What else do you call yourself? Sheltering behind women's skirts!'

Billy knew he should have kept his mouth shut.

‘You've to accept it whether you understand or not. I'm a conchie! I'd go to jail for my beliefs, given half a chance.'

That was the final blow, crushing any chance of a compromise.

Peter stood up, catching hold of the table for support. He felt like an old man whose world had just crumbled into pieces. His precious son – the one being in the world he loved beyond all others!

‘You're not staying under this roof! Either come to your senses or get out. Or else you're no son of mine!' Tears sprang into his eyes. He saw Billy's face, white with shock, but it was too late.

Peter knew he'd never live this down, and suddenly that was terribly important. He'd never be able to walk round his own town with his head held high – because of Billy.

It hadn't turned out such a bad day after all. How could any day that saw Holly meeting Alec Browning be bad? Just wait until she told Maisie!

Despite her crushing disappointment, Holly's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Alec, eighteen, good looking, and fired by the daring exploits of the Commandos in Norway, knew just what he wanted to do when he'd finished basic training.

Not that she was in any way smitten, Holly concluded, hastily leaping down the two steps from the bus to the pavement. She gave the driver a cheery wave, swung her bag on to her shoulder and set off back down the road. Between now and the time she ought to be home, she was determined to visit Auntie Mary, who should be in, on her afternoon off.

She'd not seen much of Mary lately, she realised guiltily as she cut through the River Gardens. She walked on briskly, paying scant attention to the men hodding bricks and mortar up the new chimney at Bradshaw's. The rigid drills of winter
vegetables
replacing the flowers were all too familiar now.

Thinking of Mary had naturally brought her thoughts to John, and how much she still loved him. Thwarted love was so romantic.

She hurried on, more than happy, she felt, to spend the rest of her life alone, bearing a solitary torch for John and meanwhile keeping an eye on Mary. Because everyone knew what Auntie Mary was like.

She waited an age for Mary to answer her knock.

‘I was beginning to think you weren't in!' Holly breezed into the small living-room and threw herself thankfully down on the sofa, scarcely drawing breath before regaling her aunt with a detailed summary of the day's events, enjoyably embellished.

‘Aren't you going to make me a cup of tea?' she asked
plaintively
, running out of steam at last.

There was no answer. Instead of the admiration she'd expected, Mary sat quietly in the armchair, miles away, not listening at all.

Holly looked at her properly for the first time. Had she been crying? It looked as if she had.

Holly glanced round the untidy flat; clothes draped over the furniture, papers and magazines, dirty cups and saucers …

‘Are you all right, Auntie? You don't look it. Please tell me what's wrong.'

To her dismay, tears ran down Mary's face.

‘I'm not going until you tell me,' Holly persisted. Why hadn't she noticed there was something wrong?

Mary pulled a hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan, and wiped her eyes.

All her worries, all her sleepless nights, came crowding in on her all at once. She was desperate to unburden herself.

‘I'm pregnant.' Mary couldn't hide away from it any longer.

‘Oh. But that's good, isn't it?' But then Holly looked startled as she realised. Her young face flooded with colour.

‘Oh, Auntie Mary, you can't be! I mean – John—'

Her voice trailed away. Mary's husband hadn't been home for a very long time.

The tears rained down Mary's face unchecked.

‘That's the whole point, isn't it?' she said. ‘John isn't the father!'

‘I
f the Mayor would care to cut the ribbon, I'll declare the factory open!' Silas accepted the cheers of the crowd as the resplendently robed figure of His Worship Arnold Diggory, Mayor of Castle Maine, cut the pink ribbon round the new gates.

The site foreman swung them open, and Silas's workers streamed through, followed by the town dignitaries.

Silas could scarcely disguise his delight, and Adèle, at his side, clutched his arm. How proud she was of him!

It had been amazing seeing him stand on that barrel, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat, head and shoulders above the rest where he most liked to be – a vibrant, stocky figure unbowed by advancing years or Hitler.

Even now, after all this time, his enthusiasm still amazed her.

The bomb that destroyed his factory would have broken a lesser man, but Silas had achieved resurrection in less time than anyone would have believed possible.

The factory was back, fully functional, the massive chimney rebuilt, and the better for it, Silas opined. All was right in his world.

Adèle was frowning a little now as Silas rubbed his chest.

‘Come and have some champagne.' He turned to her and held out his arm.

There was a buffet, too, not quite all Silas would have wished,
what with rationing, but goodness knew where he'd found champagne.

Castle Maine wouldn't have seen such a spread in many a long while.

‘Silas, you're doing too much,' Adèle warned, seeing, as others did not, his high colour.

The brass band drowned her words, and there was no point trying to tell him, in any case. When had Silas taken notice? Her grip on his arm tightened as they walked on.

On her way up to Billy's, Daisy Bridges heard the cheering and the faint strains of music rolling up the valley. She did so love a brass band!

Eagerly, she put down the basket she carried and leaned over the wall above the valley, enjoying the unexpected warmth of a February sun on her back, and looking down with surprising fondness towards the factory chimney.

She'd always hated the factory, but she couldn't bear to see the skyline without that chimney.

A feeling of the rightness of things coursed through her bones as she walked on, her mind dwelling pleasantly on the new additions to the family, sending a sudden rush of love spinning through her compact little body.

One of each! Trust Mary never to do things by halves, she mused happily. It must be from John's side!

A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. Silas Bradshaw no doubt had twins falling off his family tree. There was a man given to excess!

She'd reached her destination, the end cottage in a
raggle-taggle
row leading on to fields with a wooded copse beyond.

It belonged to friends of Billy's in the Peace Pledge Union. Mr
and Mrs Walters were grateful for the rent and Billy, after the
fall-out
with his father, had been desperate to put a roof over his head.

His objection to the war had shocked Daisy, of course, but he was still their son; she still loved him.

She pushed open the little gate and walked up the path, lingering to enjoy the view and the faint music. Then she rounded the rosebushes, and pulled up, shocked.

Billy was on his hands and knees, scrubbing frenziedly at an angry daub of red paint on the cottage door.

Traitors!
it read.

‘Oh, Billy, whoever's done this?'

He sprang up at once.

‘Some idiot! I was hoping to get rid of it before Berni gets back with the children.'

‘How can they do this? They must know there are children in the house.'

Bristling with indignation, she grabbed the brush, rolled up her sleeves and set to.

They worked steadily, one taking over as the other flagged, not stopping until the wretched thing was completely gone.

Daisy stood up, satisfied at last, and went to empty the pail of pink water into the grating.

‘Take no notice!' she scolded. ‘They're not worth it.'

‘I'm used to it, Mam. We all are.'

How resigned he sounded! She couldn't bear to see the look on his face – sweet, gentle Billy, who'd never hurt a soul. How cruel folk were.

‘I'll put this inside.' She picked up her basket, which contained a cake she'd risen early to bake. Powdered egg, a week's ration of sugar – not much of a cake, but she'd wanted to bring him something.

He watched as she bustled about the kitchen.

‘You mustn't mind.' She folded the cloth and dropped it neatly back into the basket. ‘I'm catching the bus to the hospital. Why don't you come, Billy? It would do Mary a power of good to see you, and I'd love the company.'

He ran his hand along the edge of the table, his eyes never leaving her face. Trust Mam to smooth things over, and pretend it never happened.

‘I'm worried about her, Billy. She's not herself,' Daisy persisted.

‘She's just had the bairns – of course she's not herself.'

‘She's missing John, I expect. You'd have thought they'd give him leave.'

John was with a new squadron now. Daisy had telegraphed to the address Mary had given her, but they'd seen neither sight nor sound of him. He hadn't even written.

Drat this war! The poor lass must be worried sick.

‘You could come home for a bite to eat after?'

There! The nub of the matter, and they both knew it. He pulled a wry face.

‘I expect my father'll be in?'

‘One of you has to be big enough to make the first move,' Daisy pointed out.
And it'll have to be you,
was what she didn't say.

She'd never known Peter so stubborn. Folk with sons and husbands away fighting, while that lad …

It was always ‘that lad' now, as if their Billy was someone to be ashamed of.

‘Our Billy's helping the war down the pit, whether he wants to or not,' she kept pointing out.

‘You should never have registered, Billy!' she said now. ‘Your dad's worried everyone will know.' 

‘Do you think I mind that, Mam? I want everyone to know!'

Daisy buttoned her coat.

‘Come to the hospital?' she coaxed, and to her joy he smiled, the roguish smile she remembered from when he was a lad. He knew he'd got her wrapped round his little finger!

‘I'll fetch my coat, Mam.'

Next day, Daisy found time to cook Peter a bit of dinner before hurrying on up to Maggie's. Perhaps Holly and Harry would like to accompany her to the hospital. Without John, someone had to keep Mary's spirits up.

Harry was upstairs, laying some second-hand train track Peter had got somewhere. Holly was hunched in the chair by the fire, listening to Flanagan and Allen on the wireless, and
rereading
a letter from Alec received in the morning's post.

She sprang up as Daisy came in, stuffing it into the pocket of her skirt.

‘It's nothing, Gran!' she said defensively. Gran always read too much into these things. Alec's were chatty, informative letters. He missed her. He hoped she missed him.

‘I never said it wasn't! Run and get your coat, there's a good girl. We'll go and see Auntie Mary and the bairns.'

Holly's happy face clouded.

‘What's the matter, pet?'

‘Nothing at all.' If Daisy had even the slightest idea of the pickle their Mary was in!

Luckily, there was a knock at the door.

‘I'll answer it!' Maggie ran downstairs, humming happily. She'd returned to shift work at the hospital that week, and she felt better for it.

‘Stokes!'

Silas Bradshaw's chauffeur was on the doorstep, cradling his cap, looking at her sheepishly.

‘Mistress wants you up at the house, Maggie. I'm to take you, if you'll come.'

Assuming she would, he went back to wait in the car.

Why should Adèle wish to see her? She knew Maggie was pressed for time, so it must be something important.

Adèle had been kindness itself when Maggie was ill, bringing her things to tempt her appetite, fruit from the glasshouse,
titbits
from the kitchen, even the odd book from Silas's library.

‘I'm not going in Silas Bradshaw's car. I'll walk,' she told Daisy.

‘Aye, and I suppose you've forgotten the last time he sent it for you?'

As if she needed reminding that Silas had sent the Daimler on her wedding day!

A vivid picture unfolded in Maggie's mind. She was walking up the aisle on Peter's arm, all of a tremble, and Hughie turned towards her, his eyes full of love …

She turned quickly away, blinking back tears, knowing her mother had seen them anyway.

‘I'll go and get changed.' She went to find a clean blouse. At least she could make herself presentable. She stood in front of the mirror and brushed her hair.

‘You're still a fine woman, Maggie Bates …'

Hughie's voice! A soft murmuring like a summer's breeze … She spun round, for one sweet and blissful moment hoping to see him, though she knew it was impossible.

This feeling of Hughie's presence used to happen often, but not of late. She'd felt so little of late; with her illness, everything had shut down. The shock of losing Tony, she supposed.

Winter sunlight enveloped the room in a warm, buttery glow, making Maggie shiver with something approaching happiness. Hughie wouldn't want her to be unhappy, nor Tony either.

She stood, brushing with measured strokes, still feeling the ghost of a smile somewhere near. Hughie was urging her on, wanting her to make the best of her life.

Maggie had been enjoying rattling through the well-loved streets of Castle Maine, thinking of the drive back from church with Hughie, how deliriously happy they'd been.

And then the car manoeuvred through the ornate
wrought-iron
gates and she saw all the daffodils lining the driveway, marvelling at their beauty and craning her neck to look back.

Then Stokes spoiled it all by taking the side drive round to the back of the house. Did he think she was still the nursemaid here?

Colour flooded her face. She'd been invited. She was blowed if she was creeping in the back way!

She scrambled quickly out, straightened her coat and walked smartly past a surprised Stokes, round the side of the house and up the steps to the front door.

She pulled the bell and waited. She had every right to be here.

The door swung open, and Stamps bowed to her, his face impassive as ever.

‘Good afternoon, Stamps!' She smiled, her eyes twinkling. ‘I'm here to see the mistress.'

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bates. If you'd care to come this way.'

Inside, Maggie shed a good fifteen years. Everything was exactly as she remembered. The parquet floor, the potted plants, the chair next to the telephone where the mistress liked to sit when she was waiting for Silas – or where Adèle used to sit. Her grandmother.

It even smelled the same; pot pourri, lavender polish and beeswax.

She followed Stamps upstairs, and was brought up short by the portrait on the landing.

Ned Bradshaw, her father, boyishly good-looking, his arm thrown carelessly round his brother's shoulders, looked out with amusement – sizing her up, as she was sizing him up.

Was she like him? Her hand stole to her cheek. Was she
imagining
the similarity? Should it matter, when she'd always considered herself Peter Bridges' daughter?

A discreet cough brought her to her senses. Stamps stood impassively at the head of the stairs, and wouldn't he have a tale to tell! She tore herself away reluctantly.

‘There you are, Maggie, dear. Do come in!' Adèle stood aside at her sitting-room door, her eyes full of suppressed amusement. Intrigued, Maggie stepped past her into the room.

‘Oh!' She gasped. A frail white-haired figure sat on the sofa. Sharp lines carved tracks across her face, but there was still no mistaking who it was. Eyes sharp as ever regarded Maggie with a warmth she'd rarely seen.

‘Don't be standing there with your mouth open!' Nanny Coates scolded, her head nodding. ‘I expect you thought I was busy pushing daisies up long since?'

The voice, still so vibrant, took Maggie straight back to the nursery, when she'd spilled the milk or left the laundry cupboard untidy or let little John Bertram run wild.

‘Oh, Nanny!' Delighted, she reached for the trembling hands, bunched with arthritis, cradling them gently between her own.

‘Nanny came to see the opening of the factory!' Adèle laughed. ‘She's been simply longing to see you, haven't you, Nanny?'

The other two women didn't answer, busy gazing at each other.

‘I'll organise some tea,' Adèle murmured, and stole out, not sure if either had even heard.

‘There, don't take on. Let me look at you!' Nanny's hands broke free, patting Maggie's with surprising tenderness. She endured a keen and searching gaze.

‘Too thin by far!'

‘Yes, Nanny,' Maggie admitted.

‘You've been ill!' It wasn't a question. Nanny had made up her mind.

‘I'm better now, though.' Maggie realised that she still wanted more than anything to please this cantankerous old woman.

‘I was sorry to hear about your young man.'

Nanny had lost her young man, too, Maggie remembered. She'd told her about it that day she'd given her time off to see Hughie when they'd fallen out.

Nanny shifted in her chair.

‘I hoped marriage would improve you. You always were an addle-pated girl; I imagine time's knocked some sort of sense into you?'

‘Nanny, I was never addled,' Maggie protested hotly, and the old eyes narrowed in delight.

‘And you always did have a mite too much to say for yourself! I always wondered where you got it from, you know. That's never come from a miner, I used to think.'