Our Lizzie (38 page)

“You won't take another fare?”

“I've said I'll wait, haven't I?” He got down and went to slap one hand against his horse's neck. “An' Betsy here doesn't mind the odd rest.”

Polly ran across the road to a stationer's, bought a postcard and borrowed a pencil to scribble a note to Mrs. Frost. She gave it to the driver and tried to offer him another sixpence for his trouble, but he brushed that aside with a gruff, “You go an' look after your poor sister.”

Polly sighed in relief as she watched him drive off. One thing accomplished.

She was so eager to get back to Lizzie that she didn't see Sam stop at the corner and frown in puzzlement at the sight of her. What was Polly Kershaw doing here in town in the middle of the day? And looking so anxious, too. He watched her go into the station, then decided on impulse to follow her and find out what was going on. It never hurt to be in the know. When she stopped at the ticket office, he sidled up to the nearby corner and got close enough to hear her book two tickets to Rochdale.

Two? “The bitch must be running away!” he said aloud, as the solution suddenly dawned on him. He turned round to look for Lizzie, but couldn't see her.

When Polly turned away from the ticket office window, she saw Sam and froze in horror.

Then he knew that he was right. He went across and took her arm, giving her a shake. “Where is she?”

She tried to push him away. “Get off me!”

A gentleman stopped to frown and call out, “Hey, you! Stop that!”

“Mind your own sodding business!” Sam snarled, without even turning his head.

The man hesitated then walked on, shaking his head and muttering.

Sam dragged Polly into the main station and no one came forward to help her. He caught sight of his wife, sitting hunched up on a bench, looking half dead, and threw Polly aside. “Ah!”

When she looked up and saw him, Lizzie screamed once then fainted.

He bent to pick her up and Polly darted forward to stop him.

“Gerroff!” He aimed his boot at her.

“You leave her alone, Sam Thoxby! She doesn't want you any more.”

“She's my wife!”

A couple of bystanders stopped to watch.

“Don't let him take her!” Polly screamed at them, but no one came forward to help.

Sam thrust his face close to hers. “You think yourself lucky I don't give you a taste of my fist, too, you interfering bitch. You'll not set foot over my doorstep again.”

Polly began to weep. “You've nearly killed her once, you rotten bully! Are you taking her back home to finish the job?”

“What I do with her is none of your bloody business. She's
my wife
. She belongs to me.” When Polly didn't move, he pushed her away so hard she fell over, then he picked up Lizzie and walked away without even a backward glance.

For a moment, Polly could only lie there on the ground with tears trickling down her cheeks watching him. As she moved to stand up, she became aware of a hand stretched out to her and a young man hauled her to her feet.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded and tried to wipe away the tears, but they would keep flowing.

“How about a cup of tea?”

She gulped and stared at him. Thin, not much taller than her, but with kind eyes. She found herself nodding agreement.

“Is she his wife?”

“Yes. She's my sister.”

“How did she hurt her face?”

“He bashed her.”

He sucked in his breath in shock. “That's a bit much.” Then he flushed and said, “I expect you think me cowardly for not interfering, only I've never been good with my fists and he's a big chap.”

Polly picked up the shopping bag full of things she had meant for Lizzie, then turned to accompany him to the station café. As they walked along, she saw he had a limp. “Have you hurt your foot?”

He shook his head. “No. Broke my leg when I was a little 'un. It healed wrong. Doesn't bother me much.”

He opened the café door for her and followed her inside. “Not much cop, this place, but I have to keep an eye out for my train. Now, what can I get you, miss?”

She watched him walk across to the counter, feeling better to have someone to talk to. He had such a kind face. And she couldn't go back to work and face Mrs. Frost, who would have to be told the truth about today if Polly were to keep her job. Not yet.

*   *   *

Lizzie woke up to find herself at home, in bed, with Sam sitting beside her looking grim. She couldn't help a squeak of fear.

“You're not leaving me,” he said immediately. “You're mine.
My wife
. You're not leaving me, not now or ever.”

She could hardly speak for sobbing. “If I—s-stay, you'll only—k-kill me. Let me go, Sam! Please. Now, while you can.”

He took several deep breaths, then went to stand looking out of the window. “I'm sorry, lass, really sorry I hurt you, hurt our baby—”

“Killed our baby. You
killed
it!”

There was silence. Then he said, “I won't do it again. I promise I won't. But you're
not
leaving me.”

Too weak to argue, Lizzie closed her eyes and began to weep silently. When he came and put his arms round her, holding her close and making shushing noises, she shuddered, but didn't dare try to pull away.

“I won't hurt you again, lass,” he promised. “I won't.”

She didn't bother to refute that. They both knew he would. It was just a question of time before he hit her again. And a question of how hard, too.

Chapter Twenty-One

August 1914

For a long time, Lizzie couldn't seem to pull herself together. Engrossed in her own fears, she spent the days listlessly doing housework, all the time dreading Sam's return from work, then the evenings trying not to upset him. Without money, she couldn't run away. Without money, she was at his mercy. And sometimes she felt herself without hope, too. But then the flame of rebellion would flicker into life again. She was not, definitely not, going to stay with him for ever. She would find a way to leave.

In the four weeks she had been home from hospital, he hadn't hit her, not once. But that didn't stop her expecting a blow, and a few times, on the days something had obviously gone wrong at work, she had seen the veins in his temples bulge with suppressed anger and his hands clench into fists.

One day she'd plucked up her courage, defied Sam and gone round to the back door of Redley House, asking to speak to her sister. Polly, who had outlasted most other maids, was now on excellent terms with the housekeeper.

“You come in for a cup of tea, lass,” Mrs. Frost said, staring with undisguised interest at the yellowed remains of the bruising on the visitor's face.

“Thank you.”

“Take the weight off your feet and I'll fetch your sister.”

Polly came rushing into the servants' tiny sitting room, beaming.

“Is it all right me coming here?” Lizzie whispered as they hugged one another.

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Frost understands.”

“I owe you some money for the train tickets, but I can't—”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I promise I'll pay you back one day.”

Polly patted her hand. “I just wish we'd got you away from him. And if you need help again, you've only to ask. I've plenty of money still.”

Lizzie shook her head. “No, I'll do it on my own next time.” She exchanged a long, serious glance with her sister. “And there will be a next time, I promise you.” Only not until she had pulled herself together, stopped feeling so tired. Even if she got away at the moment, she would be hard put to fend for herself.

“I'm so glad! I was worried that he'd—well, beaten you into submission.”

Suddenly the old Lizzie was there, eyes flashing, “No. He'll never do that.
Never!
I didn't realise what he was like when I married him—my own stupid fault. I was such a child then, but I've grown up fast since.” She stared blindly into space for a moment. “I have to do it right next time, though. I think he'll kill me if I don't.”

Then she sighed and the fire vanished from her face, leaving only exhaustion. “I'd better go. If he finds out I've been to see you, he'll go mad. I just wanted to thank you, to let you know how I was.”

*   *   *

Polly watched her sister leave, then came back in to find Mrs. Frost holding out an envelope.

“The post just came. Who do you know in Outshaw? You've never had a letter from there before. Your sister Eva hasn't moved, has she?”

And Polly couldn't help turning bright, rosy red. For that was where the young fellow she'd met at the station lived. Eddie, he was called. And though he'd promised to write, she hadn't expected him to, hadn't even dared hope. She took the envelope and examined it carefully. Large, round handwriting. “Miss P. Kershaw,” she whispered to herself. Then she saw the housekeeper looking thoughtful and slipped it into her pocket. “Just a friend. She lives in Outshaw now. I knew her when we were kids. I met her again in town the other day.”

“You must invite her round to tea the next time she's in Overdale. You're always welcome to bring your women friends into the servants' sitting room.”

“Thank you. I'll go and do the bedrooms now, shall I?”

Once upstairs, Polly pulled the sheets off the mistress's bed and plumped up the feather overlay, then, unable to wait a minute longer, drew the envelope out of her apron pocket and opened it carefully.

Dear Miss Kershaw

I really enjoyed our little chat at the station, so am taking the liberty of writing to you. I hope you've got over your upset now and that your sister's all right.

I came back to find myself an uncle again and my sister recovering nicely from giving me a niece—I've already got two nephews and fine lads they are, but we all wanted a little girl this time. They live just across the street from us, so we're always popping in and out to see one another. My brother's ten years older than me and my sister five, so I'm the “baby” of the family. Though there are only two of us now that my sister's gone to live in Australia.

I wondered if you'd be able to get some time off one Sunday? We could meet in the park if it's fine, or sit in a café and chat if it isn't. (Even if the tea is awful!) Hope you don't think I'm being cheeky asking you to meet me!

Perhaps you could let me know? I shall wait impatiently for a letter.

Eddie Scordale

Polly stood for a moment with her mouth open in shock. No lad had ever asked her to walk out with him before. Well, she was plump and if not ugly, definitely not pretty. She re-read the letter, then stuffed it into her apron pocket and got on with her work. But there was a warmth inside her that hadn't been there before. Eddie Scordale wanted to see her again. He really did. He seemed such a nice lad and he'd been ever so kind to her. And she didn't care about the limp. It was his kindness and his gentle smile that Polly liked.

“I'll go and meet him,” she whispered, clutching a pillow to her bosom. “Why not?”

*   *   *

Once her body had healed, Lizzie kept trying to make escape plans, for she had no faith in Sam's keeping his fists to himself for much longer. Fortunately he seemed very busy with his other interests, going out often in the evenings and coming back late, using the back door.

She didn't care what he was doing so long as he wasn't with her. She didn't seem to care about anything lately and she still had headaches, still wept at every reminder of the baby she had lost.

So when Sam came home from work one day and asked, “Have you heard?” she only blinked at him and tried to think what she'd done wrong.

“Heard what?”

“We're at war with Germany.”

“What?”

He spoke with heavy sarcasm, as if she were too stupid to understand. “England—has declared war—on Germany.”

“Oh.” She didn't know what to say.

“Is that all you can say? Oh?” He mimicked her cruelly, then could not resist giving her a shake for good measure.

Lizzie hated her own cowardice, but she couldn't help shrinking away from him. With a muttered curse he let her go and took a step back, thrusting his hands behind him.

“I—I don't know what to say,” she admitted when he still seemed to expect some comment. “War seems unbelievable, somehow. In this day and age.”

A gloating expression made his face even more unattractive. “There's money to be made in war, my lass, good money, and I mean to get some of it.” It wouldn't be long now before he could tell those buggers at Pilby's where to stuff their job. He and his friend Josh had been making plans, doing night jobs to build up their funds, going quite far afield sometimes, or selling stuff for others, which also brought in a nice bit.

“Will you have to go and fight?”

Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Not me! Let them fools as want to get theirsen killed do the volunteering. I'm not that daft. I'll stay behind and look after me and mine, thank you very much.”

Lizzie nodded. She had known that he would say that. So it was still up to her to get away.

He went upstairs to change. Only then did she let out her breath in a long, shaky sigh of relief. What had sent him home in such a bad mood today?

As she finished cooking the tea, it suddenly occurred to her that other men would volunteer. Their Percy probably would! A pang shot through her. Her brother was so gentle, she couldn't imagine him fighting even, let alone killing anyone. No, surely he wouldn't volunteer? He was the breadwinner for Mam and Johnny. What would they do without him? But a lot of other men were going to go away and get killed. Lizzie shook her head in sorrow. War was a terrible thing. She scowled up at where Sam was bumping about, getting changed. So was violence of any sort.