Orphans of War (32 page)

‘What’s the point? You’re leaving…you just said.’

‘Oh, not yet. How can I? Not till everything is in place to your satisfaction, though why I bother, I don’t know.’

‘You’ve become hard. Go now, if you’re so discontent.’

‘I might just do that,’ Plum shouted as she fled through the door. How she needed a cigarette!

In the noise of the kennels she calmed down. Sweeping out the muck and exercising the bitch in the field, staring across to the limestone crags was soothing. She felt oddly serene now all that venom was out of her system.

I love this place, she smiled as she drew smoke into her lungs. I love the old house, the space around it, the gardens, the trees. It’s my home too–so why should I leave?

In the cool fresh air their quarrelling seemed so silly and childish and so bitchy.

Perhaps it was all this wretched sweating and hot flushes giving an edginess to her mood.

Poor old Pleasance was slowing down and she couldn’t defend herself against Plum in full flow of righteous indignation. Brooklyn and all it stood for was her pride and joy, a sign of her status in the district.
She was losing everything now. Everything Mother’d wanted to achieve was in these old stones: the grandeur of the sweep of stairs, the fine marble on the hall floor, the silver. This was all she had. Selling it would be disastrous since house prices were so low. No one wanted to take on such a big place.

Plum pulled off her gloves and saw her reflection in the window. She’d let her hair go uncut and frizzed at the edges, her collar was grubby and she did look a mess. Pleasance was only trying to give her some home truths. Now she felt mean and sorry that they’d argued so much. Time to go inside and make a soothing cup of china tea with Grace’s special ginger biscuits on a Spode plate as a peace offering.

When she strode through the hall there was a strange noise, a funny groaning coming from the drawing room, and Plum rushed in to see Pleasance slumped across the sofa, her face lopsided, her lips drooling with distress.

Plum cried out, made her comfortable and rang for the doctor.

Sergeant Gregory Byrne read Plum’s letter on the ship home. They’d docked briefly in the Med in Gibraltar. He’d climbed the rock to see the monkeys and the view. He fingered his post with interest–Plum was his only link with civvy street now.

Since the war ended his regiment had been all over Europe on mercy missions, opening kitchens in displacement camps. He’d seen such sad stuff: camps with people in rags; children with swollen bellies, too
feeble to beg; families living under tarpaulins, filthy; beautiful cities razed to the ground–enough horrors to last a lifetime–and now they were on their way home.

Old Ma Belfield had had a stroke. She was in bed and couldn’t move much. It sounded as if Mrs Plum was rushing all over the show just keeping things ticking over. No change there then.

Her husband, the posh bloke who no one ever saw, had returned to see his ma but she was hanging on for dear life. That sounded just like the tough old bird who’d shouted at them for mucking up her carpets all those years ago.

Maddy had come home briefly from Leeds to see her gran. She was a student but she couldn’t stay at home long either. She’d met up with Gloria Conley again and they were still pally. No change there then either.

Greg wondered what those two birds looked like, skinny mallink and the ginger knob, no doubt. Plum said Maddy was quite bonny these days, and loved cream slices and pies. In other words, Greg smiled, she’d grown fat.

How far away was that cosy world now. Gloria and Maddy would be strangers, grown up but still kids. He’d had one letter from Gloria, along with a photograph of her posing, trying to make herself look older.
Was she still all red hair and freckles? And as for Maddy, doing shorthand and typing, getting fat and eating cakes…that wasn’t the Maddy he remembered. Perhaps her eye had turned again…Poor kid, stuck with the oldies in that big house.

They were just names on paper to him now in a faraway one-horse town in Yorkshire. He’d seen the ruined cities of Europe in all their glory, lived so long in barracks he’d forgotten what a real house was like.

The war had taken the shine off him, hardened his features and muscles to granite, and turned him into a first-class mechanic, stripper, fitter, ducking and diving. When he got out he was going to do something about making money from all he’d learned. There was a whole new opportunity waiting in Blighty and he was going to make himself some dosh one way or another.

One day he’d have a Brooklyn of his own, with a paddock and pony for his kiddies, and a wife who thought he was Mr Universe. But it would have to be in Yorkshire, in the hills, quiet and grand.

Funny that he’d seen mountain ranges, volcanoes, Alpine peaks, but he couldn’t wait to see that green grass of the Dales again–but not until he could possess some of it for himself. It might take one year or five, but he knew what he wanted. He’d not gone through the bloody battlefields of Europe to end up in some dead–end garage pit looking up the arse of some Austin Seven Ruby…no way.

If he worked on anything it would be a Daimler or Roller or a Fangio racing car, something with class,
speed and fury. Perhaps he could get into a racing team, making tea, carrying spanners at first, but he wanted to see his heroes at close quarters and his women would be top-notch birds too, classy and clean. He’d seen enough scrubbers and sad acts to know what he was looking for, but perfection didn’t come cheap. The army had given him skills. There was no engine he couldn’t fettle up. He fancied his chances in the building trade, doing up ruins for a quick profit; with all the bombs dropped there was bound to be scope for rebuilds and slum clearance. Even if he had to start as a builder’s mate, it was worth a try.

Maddy came when summoned, hugging her smart new briefcase and some overnight clothes. Miss Meyer had asked her to redo some accounts while she was away.

‘You’re all over the place, Madeleine. You sit with us, but I think your concentration has gone to Timbuktu.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘My grandmother is sick and I’m worried. I need to go home, she’s very ill.’

‘Of course, you must see to that, but I must have your work in on your return, dear. Life has to go on even when the ones we love are passing over,’ said Miss Hermione, patting her hand.

I don’t love Grandma, I never have, thought Maddy with guilt, but she would go back to Brooklyn. The last phone call to Miss Ffrost’s house had been a reprimand from Aunt Plum: ‘She won’t last long. I need you here, Maddy. Please come home.’

Maddy had taken to wearing a tight corset to hide
her six-month bulge. Her pot belly was showing so she’d found a sort of gymslip without the belt, and a long jumper, and tried to look hip like the girls in the jazz club that Bella had taken them to after college. In the dark smoky basement, she could forget all her troubles in the smooth rhythms of the music.

How she longed to trust them with her condition, but she couldn’t bear to see pity flood into their eyes. Ruth and Thelma would want to pray for her, and Pinky was too wrapped up in going to see Malcolm and lambing to even notice that Maddy was not her usual self. If only she could trust one of them, but they were only college mates not confidantes. The only friend she had was Gloria, and lately she’d shoved her away too. There was always the fear that she might blab her shame all over Sowerthwaite in a careless moment of chatter.

Aunt Plum was distraught about Grandma and nursed her with devotion. She kept saying it was all her fault. Grace Battersby was running the household in her cheery way, and Mrs Hill in the cottage nearby came to do the laundry and shopping.

Now Maddy must go home one last time.

She’d not gone back to Dr Klein or the Welfare Offices. Better to carry on and get her exams passed, get her speed certificates, but she was all fingers and thumbs, making silly mistakes, and her grades had plummeted. She had calculated her birth date. If she could make an excuse for an absence on holiday, perhaps she might conceal the truth and come back with a baby?

No! She just couldn’t think so far ahead. It was all so unreal. The doctor said one thing and she wanted to do the opposite, in her usual disobedient fashion. Perhaps she could pay Gloria to be her mother’s help, but with what? She needed every penny to buy clothes for her baby, a pram and other expenses. She must find a room, but all the ads in the paper for places she could afford said ‘No children’.

Where would she deliver without going into a home?

Now she must screw her face together, pull in her stomach and trust no one noticed her condition when she got home.

Everyone was tiptoeing around at the Brooklyn.

The vicar came and went, smiling at her. ‘How are you, young lady? We’re so glad you’ve come. Mrs Belfield will be pleased to see you.’

Oh, no, she won’t, thought Maddy My shameful news would kill her off at once.

Plum rushed round the corner, carrying a tray. ‘Oh, darling, do take this up to the nurse. She needs a break. Just sit with Granny for a while. She’ll know you’re there…I’m rushed off my feet. Uncle Gerald’s out on Monty. He’s up from London to make his peace…It’s not looking too good.’

Maddy carried the tray into the big bedroom with the four-poster bed facing the window overlooking the moor. The room smelled of Lysol and smoke: the scent of the flowers on the dressing table made her feel sick for a second. The dark brocade curtains were draped back so the old lady could be propped up to stare out on to the fell, an uninterrupted view. She looked about
a hundred, her face pinched and crooked, her eyes glassy and a dribble coming out of the side of her mouth.

This wasn’t Grandma; Pleasance Matilda Belfield, the famous old battle-axe. In her place was this little pixie of a crone from a fairy-tale illustration straight out of Grimms’, a shadow of the woman she once was.

Maddy recoiled at the sight of her. The day nurse, in her starched cap and apron, smiled, took the tray and retired to the dressing room next door to smoke while Maddy touched Granny’s hand. It was like a bony claw.

The hawk eyes turned in her direction.

‘Just me, Madeleine…’ she smiled.

The old lady tried to speak but it was a garbled mess of noises. How terrible to be trapped in such a feeble body, unable to move or speak, just a wizened little half-smile and a sigh. So Maddy rattled on about Miss Meyer and the girls at college, about Miss Ffrost’s awful dinners, how cold it was and sooty and smoky in Leeds city centre. She patted Grandma’s hand, trying not to cry, for it was a shock to see such a sad end to such a proud life. Everything was fading away like the corners of the curtains bleached grey by the afternoon sun.

The nurse came back into the room and Maddy was relieved of her post. She sped to her own bedroom, suddenly achy and weary. The journey had been long and her back ached. Exhaustion overcame her again. She lay staring up at the familiar plasterwork on the ceiling, willing her bump to lie quiet within and give her some rest, but the fluttering inside made her want
to scream, I don’t want to feel you. I don’t want to know you’re there. Go away!

The atmosphere at dinner was strained. Plum and Gerry were being extra polite. The night nurse was ready to go on duty.

This extravagance was Uncle Gerry’s idea and Plum didn’t protest about the expense. She looked so tired and washed out with worry. Her hair was scraped back into a bun and she wore a grey twinset and grey flannels and pearl earrings, but suddenly Maddy saw that her aunt looked jaded, middle-aged and so unhappy.

Any fleeting hope of confiding in her was quashed. Plum looked at the end of her tether, strained with keeping up appearances and caring for her sick mother-in-law. Maddy wondered how long the old woman upstairs would last. This nursing had been going on for weeks and it was clear there would be no recovery. Her heart would decide when it had had enough or another stroke might see her out of this world.