Our Lizzie (41 page)

As the hours passed, she began to wonder why he was later than usual. It was well after midnight, from the distant chiming of the Town Hall clock.

When she heard the key turning in the back door, she tensed. Here he was. Probably soaked, chilled to the marrow and wanting his rations. He usually did want her body when he'd been out doing whatever it was he and Josh did together, and he was rougher with her at those times, too. Apart from the fact that she hated him even touching her, she worried now that she might get pregnant again and not be able to run away.

When he came into the bedroom, Lizzie pretended to be asleep, but he shook her awake. “If the police come, I've been here with you all evening.”

She didn't protest, just lay there in the dark, wondering what had happened now.

“The soddin' bobbies nabbed Josh tonight,” he said abruptly, taking off his soggy clothes and dropping them on the lino with wet flopping sounds. “I don't think he'll give me away, but you can never tell.”

“They—they might not believe me—if he does tell them about you being there,” she whispered.

Sam grabbed her arm, holding it so tightly she gave a squeak of protest. “You'd better make sure they do believe you.”

For once he didn't want to touch her. Which was a small mercy.

*   *   *

The next day Sam didn't go to work. Lizzie could have wept in disappointment. She had intended to sort through her things, deciding what to take and what not to take. Instead, she had to do her housework with him sitting there, glowering at her.

“Won't they think it's funny—you not going to work today, I mean?” she asked at last.

“Sod what they think!” He went to get himself a bottle of beer from the cellar.

Lizzie decided to clean out the front room to get away from him. They never used it, for they had no visitors at all nowadays, but she still liked to keep it looking nice. He came to peer through the doorway an hour or so later, but to her relief went away again without saying anything. When she had finished cleaning, she decided to go shopping. Anything to get away from that lowering gaze. “What would you like for tea, Sam?”

He pursed his lips, head on one side, thinking. Just as he was about to speak, there was a knock on the front door.

They exchanged glances, then he gave her a shove. “You go and answer it. If anyone asks, I'm poorly.” He tiptoed up the stairs and stood at the top, flapping one hand at her and hissing, “Go on, you dozy bitch. Answer that bloody door.”

Heart thudding in her chest, Lizzie went, her hand trembling as she turned the handle. She let out a soft “Oof!” of relief when she found not a policeman but a scruffy lad on the step.

“Message for Mr. Thoxby.” He glanced down the street, as if he expected someone to be following him.

She held the door open. “You'd better come in, then.”

He doffed his ragged cap and came inside, staring round at the hallstand, the mirror on the wall, the bright new carpet runner, as if he wasn't used to such luxuries.

“It's a lad with a message for you, Sam!” she called up the stairs.

He came clattering down. “Fred! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Dad got a message out. He said you'd give me sixpence for bringing it an' sixpence for the fellow as passed it on.”

“After I've heard it.”

Lizzie knew better than to linger so she went into the kitchen but pressed her ear to the door. If something was wrong, she wanted to know at once. The boy's voice was shrill and carried clearly, thank goodness.

“Dad says he'll hold off telling them till tomorrow. But no longer. He says you'd better get away while you can.”

Sam swore and thumped one massive fist into the other. “Hell, fire and damnation! Can't he even keep his big mouth shut?”

“He said to tell you they already knew who was with him. They've been watching you for a bit.”

“How did they know?”

The lad shrugged. “I dunno, Mr. Thoxby. A fellow as was in for drunk and disorderly brang the message round to our 'ouse. I'm just passin' it on to you. Oh, ta!” He slipped the two sixpences into his pocket and edged towards the front door.

Sam slammed the door shut after him and came to fling himself down at the kitchen table. He cocked one eyebrow at Lizzie. “You heard that?”

She nodded. No use denying it. “What will you do?”

“I don't know. Have to think.” He picked up the newspaper, shook it open, then stared at it. A minute later, he exclaimed, “Oh, hell! That's it.”

Lizzie paused in her preparations.

He let out a string of oaths.

She began to sidle towards the scullery door, afraid of him turning on her.

“Don't go!”

She swallowed hard and stayed where she was.

He looked at her, a sour expression on his face, then gave a snort of bitter amusement. “Well, this'll please all the old biddies who've been stopping me in the street and telling me to enlist. It bloody will an' all!”

“What do you mean, Sam?”

He flicked the newspaper with one fingertip. “I mean, there's only one place where the police won't bother to come after me—in the bleeding Army.”

Lizzie could only goggle at him.

“So you'd better put your hat an' coat on, Mrs. Thoxby. You're just about to escort your dear husband down to the Recruiting Office. And unlike your Percy, I'm fit as a flea, so the buggers will welcome me with open arms.”

“Are you s-serious?”

“Of course I am. Do you think I'd join the bloody Army for any other reason?”

*   *   *

They walked into town arm-in-arm. Half way there they met Miss Porter, a spinster lady of uncertain years who'd made it her mission to confront those unmarried young men who hadn't enlisted and urge them to join up. She had a particularly shrill voice and men had been known to dive into alleys or crouch behind motor cars to avoid her.

Today Sam stopped her in the street. “Well, Miss Porter, you're looking at a man on his way to the Recruiting Office. I've got things sorted out at home now, so I can go an' do my duty.”

She beamed at him. “Good man! Good man!”

He tipped his bowler hat to her and sauntered on.

Lizzie glanced back and saw Miss Porter already in conversation with one of her friends, pointing after them and nodding her head emphatically.

Sam's fingers bit into her arm. “Try to look more like a proud wife, eh? You're not going to a bleeding funeral.”

Lizzie was having difficulty hiding her exultation. He was leaving! He really was leaving!

At the Recruiting Office, Sam let go of her, went to the head of the queue and pushed his way inside.

“Here, join the back of the line, you!” one man called. “We've come in from Wallingby today to join up.”

“An' half you buggers'll be sent back to Wallingby again, too. You couldn't raise a good sneeze between the six of you.”

There was muttering, but no one else challenged him.

The Recruiting Sergeant's eyes lit up at the sight of Sam. “You look like a strong young fellow. You've come to the right place, lad.”

Lizzie, who had followed him in, noticed her husband's smile go a bit glassy, then she heard him breathe deeply and say, “Well, where do I sign?”

She couldn't hold in one long shuddering sigh of relief. Then she had control of herself again.

*   *   *

That afternoon, Sam sat morosely in front of the kitchen fire. “Last night of freedom.”

“Yes. But—but you're doing the right thing, Sam, I know you are. I mean—we are at war and—and they do need men.”

“Hah! Last thing I wanted was to join the sodding Army.” He spat into the fire, then took another slurp of beer from the jug he'd sent her to fetch from the Hare and Hounds.

Usually Lizzie hated fetching him beer, but tonight she didn't care about anything. He was to leave tomorrow. She could take her time about running away now. Maybe—maybe he'd even get killed. Men did in wartime. But guilt shot through her at that, followed by a cynical thought that wicked men didn't get killed, only good ones.

Later, as she was carrying a second jug of beer back up the street, a policeman stopped her. “Is it true, Mrs. Thoxby?”

“Is what true?”

“That your husband has enlisted.”

“Yes.”

“When does he leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Ah. Well, personally I'll believe it when I see it, but my Sergeant will be very interested in that news, very interested indeed. I reckon we'll all come to see him off.”

When he let go of her arm, Lizzie hurried on. Not as stupid as Sam thought, the police.

*   *   *

At the house she mentioned the encounter, but Sam only grunted and said, “It's stopped them coming after me, then.” She went upstairs and busied herself getting his things ready, laying them out on the bed in neat piles.

She spun that job out as long as she could, then came down. “Do you want to see what I'm packing? I've found everything on that list they gave you.”

“Whassat?”

She saw with dismay that he was already affected by the drink.

“I've got your clothes and things laid out, ready to pack,” she repeated. “Do you want to come and check them?”

“No, I don't want to come and check them. What I want is my rations.”

“But—”

He glared at her. “No buts. Get your knickers off.”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

When he had finished, he rolled off her and gave her a shove. “Useless bloody lump, you are. No good at pleasuring a man.”

Lizzie bit back the obvious response that she only knew what he had taught her—which was definitely not how to please one's partner.

When he was dressed, she poured him another beer and asked, “What shall I do for money while you're away, Sam?”

That made him think. “They say the Army will send on my pay, but I've seen no sign of that with other folk, so I'm not signing mine over to you. Besides, I'm going to need that money myself. There must be a few fiddles I can get in on, even in the Army.”

She stared at him in horror. “But what about me?”

“Oh, I'll give you something to keep you going. Enough for a few weeks. They're bound to let me have leave by then. I'll give you some more next time I come back.”

“But what if they don't—”

He cracked her across the face. “Bloody well shut up and let a man enjoy his last night of freedom, will you?”

Eventually, she went up to bed, leaving him still drinking, but she couldn't sleep. After a while, she heard him go into the front room. He seemed to be in there a long time, then there was the sound of a bottle clinking. Her heart sank. He must have been fetching the rum he kept for special occasions.

She crept to the top of the stairs, shivering with cold but worried about what he would do. When there had been no noise for a while, she tiptoed down to find him snoring in front of the dying fire, with the bottle of rum standing by his feet, nearly empty. She banked the fire up carefully with a big cob of coal and some slack, then went back to bed, to sleep uneasily.

*   *   *

In the morning, Sam was sitting in the kitchen when she went down, scowling into a blazing fire. He didn't even look up to greet her. “Have you got my stuff packed?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Get me a good breakfast while I have a wash.” He glanced at the clock, then back at her bruised face. “You'd better not come with me into town today. And stay indoors till that mark has cleared up. If anyone asks, tell them you had a fall.”

As if anyone in the whole town would believe that! But she nodded anyway.

A little later, she gathered her courage together to ask, “What about the money, Sam? I need something to live off.”

He nodded. “I've got it out for you. There!” He pointed to the mantelpiece.

As Lizzie went to count it, she wondered where he'd got it from. She knew he didn't keep that much on him, because she often had to clear his pockets out before she hung up his things. So he must have a supply hidden somewhere. “There's only five pounds, Sam. That won't last long. I'll have the gas bill to pay and the coalman and—”

“Make it last. Women don't eat as much as men. I'll send you some more later.”

She didn't dare argue.

At half-past eight, he stood up, collected his suitcase from the hall, then turned at the door to waggle one thick finger at her. “If I hear you've so much as spoke to another fellow while I'm away, I'll do more than mark your face. An' tell your family to stay away from my house.”

And that was his farewell.

When the sound of his footsteps in the street had died away, Lizzie fumbled her way towards a chair and sat down with a thump. The house felt empty. Delightfully empty. She couldn't believe he'd gone, that she'd be on her own in that big bed tonight, that there'd be no one to shout at her.

She looked at the five crumpled pound notes on the table. They wouldn't last long.

Then she realised suddenly that until she saw him go, actually saw him leave Overdale, she'd not really feel secure. She hunted for the old shawl she wrapped round herself in winter when she sat reading in bed, draped it carefully over her head so that it hid most of the bruise, then slipped out through the back yard.

Hidden behind the corner of the Town Hall, she watched as half a dozen men were lined up outside the temporary Recruiting Office, Sam among them, then ordered into an open-backed lorry where some other men were already sitting.

As it drove away, she sagged against the wall. He'd gone. He'd really gone. She was free, for the first time in over a year.

She couldn't understand why she was weeping, but she couldn't stop and had to lean against the wall, so shaky did she feel. When someone touched her arm, she jumped in shock, then saw it was Peter Dearden staring at her.