Our Lizzie (47 page)

When the others got back, Meg was snoring gently and Polly, who'd been uneasy about leaving her mother in the house alone, felt relieved to see this hadn't been a ploy. Her mother was looking a lot older lately and had stopped wearing such girlish clothes, settling now for dark garments and calling herself “a poor widow” in a tremulous voice whenever she wanted to make people pity her.

It was a relief to everyone when Percy said it was time they caught the bus home.

“Your mother's quietening down,” Eddie said, coming to put his arms round his wife after everyone had left.

“She's still a nasty piece.” Polly frowned. “I wonder why she wanted to come here? She hardly even looked at our Billy.”

“Likely she wanted to be able to boast to her friends about visiting her daughter.”

Polly sighed, but didn't contradict him. His family were so loving that he always thought the best of others. But she wouldn't trust her mother as far as she could throw her. Still, no harm had been done by this visit.

But when there were no more visits, not even a hint of her mother wanting to come and see them again, Polly began to worry. She grew more and more certain that Meg had had some ulterior motive and kept worrying about whether it was something to do with Lizzie. Eddie said she was being silly, but she knew she wasn't. She just knew it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Autumn 1917

Sam went back to face the Third Battle of Ypres, which people were afterwards to call by the name of its final objective: Passchendaele. Mud, blood and boredom, they said, and made up little jingles about it. Even Ronnie's cheerfulness was dimmed by now, and for all of them each day, each hour, of this interminable conflict was a matter of grim endurance, worse than ever before somehow. If they had any doubts about who would win this marathon, they didn't voice them, though, just tried to hang on.

In another part of the same battle, James Cardwell was injured—badly enough to be sent home to Blighty, but not badly enough to threaten his life. A bullet thumped into one forearm, breaking the bone, and another bullet zipped a furrow in his cheek.

“You've been lucky, my old son,” the doctor said cheerfully. “They seem to like hitting you in the arm. I prescribe two months back home with your wife. There's nothing complicated about your injuries, though you'll be left with a scar on that cheek. You just need time to heal and you might as well do that at home.”

Afterwards, James lay there quietly on the narrow hospital cot, but it wasn't his wife he was thinking about. The two of them seemed even farther apart than before, and not because of the war—mainly because he and Edith were chalk and cheese. If it weren't for the children, he'd leave her tomorrow. If it weren't for the scandal, and the money he brought in, Edith would leave him, too. She had never tried to write him letters, just sent postcards with love from the children, and he sent only postcards, too. Sometimes the children wrote, though, funny little notes, which he kept in his wallet and re-read often.

He had heard from other sources that Edith had been seen in mixed groups, driving round the countryside in fast cars, drinking in isolated hotels. He simply tossed away the letter from the anonymous “well-wisher” that hinted at worse. Who was he to cast the first stone when he longed, absolutely longed, to be unfaithful to her? Though he would, he decided grimly, draw the line at bringing up another man's child.

He nurtured a faint hope that Edith would meet someone whom she could love, but it was only faint because he wasn't sure she was capable of loving any man as much as she loved herself. Still, if she did meet someone, he might have a chance of a divorce … he did not allow himself to dwell on that hope. Well, only in bleaker moments, when he needed something good to think about.

When he got back to Overdale, James spent a couple of days lying around, enjoying the peace, the decent food, and the wonderful lack of lice, battle noises and cries of pain. Most of all, he enjoyed the company of his children. Young Frank was twelve now, a sturdy lad who looked very like James's father but hopefully had more backbone. And Doris, his “little princess,” was ten. Surprising how Edith's heavy features could be transformed into prettiness and how her daughter could have such a sunny nature.

On the third day, he grew bored and decided to go and see how his business was doing.

“What'll people think?” Edith stormed. “Home because you're wounded, but well enough to go to work. Let
her
see to things. That's what you pay her for, isn't it? Though a poor job she's making of it, I can tell you…”

Letting her shrill voice trail him down the hallway, he walked out of the house without a backward glance, not even bothering to close the door. The fresh, clean air felt wonderful, though the sun had lost its warmth now and the leaves were beginning to turn. He didn't hurry, just strolled through the streets, enjoying Overdale's smallness, the cosiness of its two low hillsides full of houses, and its single street of shops. Most of all, he enjoyed the fact that none of these houses had been reduced to rubble and that folk still had a relatively cheerful look to them. To him, this town was a microcosm of what they were all fighting for: the right to live a decent life in a free country.

He didn't mind how many times he was stopped for a chat as he strolled along. He felt expansive, relaxed. Home was this town, not the house he shared with his wife. Best of all, he was going to see Emma again, dearest Emma, to whom he didn't even dare write for fear of people gossiping, though he had sent regular postcards addressed jointly to her and Walter at Cardwell's.

When he walked into the office, she was busy dealing with a customer, so he sat down in the waiting area and listened to her low, musical voice explaining the obvious for the second time. He grinned. If it'd been him, he'd have been a lot sharper with old Mr. Barton.

As the customer left, Emma came to the doorway with him out of politeness, saw James and turned bone white.

He stepped forward hastily, greeting Mr. Barton, distracting his attention and gesturing to her to return to the office as he showed the man out and answered yet more stupid questions about life in the trenches. As if a returned soldier wanted to talk about that!

When he went back to join Emma, she was waiting just inside the office, leaning against the wall as if she hadn't the strength to stand upright. She was still pale, but with such a glow in her eyes that the world receded to a great distance and there seemed to be only the two of them together in an oasis of joy.

Her voice said, “I heard you were back.” Her eyes, though, said a whole lot more as they raked him from head to toe, as if she needed to make sure of every inch of him.

His voice said, “Yes, I came back a few days ago.” But his eyes, too, spoke of his feelings, he knew, for the love was welling up in him even as he was reaching out for her with his good arm, pulling her towards him, kicking the door shut with his left foot.

Then he had hold of her and could crush her against him and kiss her as he'd dreamed of doing during all those long nights in the trenches; nights where you dreaded yet longed for the morning, whose assault might well see your last moments of life. “Where's Walter?” he whispered as they drew apart for a moment to catch their breath.

“Out on a job.”

“Any appointments?”

“No.” It was a breath of a word only.

“I'll go and lock up, then.”

“Your arm—”

“Doesn't matter.”

She didn't protest, just subsided on the edge of the desk as if her legs were no longer strong enough to hold her up.

When he came back in, she simply held out her arms to him and gathered him to her breast with a sob of thankfulness, tracing the new red scar across his cheek with one tender fingertip and pressing kisses on it. He was home, he still wanted her and that was enough for the moment.

It was an eternity later, as they were lying back spent, that he realised. “Oh, hell! I didn't do anything to protect you.”

Emma hadn't even thought of that. “I dare say one slip won't hurt.”

He planted a kiss on her cheek and shifted awkwardly to favour his broken arm. “I'll get something before tomorrow.” He grinned. “But you'll have to put it on for me.”

The next few weeks were a golden interlude. Edith complained fretfully that he was never home, or if he was, he spent all his time with the children. James shrugged and murmured something about, “Giving everything at the office a thorough checking over.”

Walter found a dozen jobs to keep him out of the yard.

Blanche didn't comment on the long hours her sister was spending at work—or her starry-eyed and slightly dishevelled appearance when she returned home.

And to set the seal on their isolation, a period of heavy rain drove away potential customers—except for a couple whose roofs had sprung a leak.

Even before his convalescent leave drew to an end, Emma had begun to wonder if that first careless love-making had left her with a more tangible proof of James's devotion—but she didn't, couldn't regret that. To have his child seemed a wonderful thing, in spite of all the practical difficulties it would involve.

But she didn't burden him with her suspicions, for he had to go back to war, a war so dreadful that he wouldn't tell her any details or talk about it at all if he could help it. And although Emma suspected that Blanche had guessed her secret, she didn't say anything to her sister, either. For a time, just for a very short and precious time, she wanted to hold the knowledge and the joy of carrying his child close to her heart. The world would tarnish her pleasure all too soon.

*   *   *

In that particular corner of the French landscape, the fighting raged round them all day. Sam cursed his way through it, wondering why the hell the brass wanted to recapture another stupid patch of mud. He managed to stay alive, which was what he cared about most, and managed to kill a few of the enemy, which was his secondary purpose in life.

Just before noon, he got a nick on the forehead which bled for a bit, but that was bugger all. At one point, he helped Ronnie get out of a tight situation; at another Ronnie helped him. The two of them seemed to have grown much closer in the past few weeks.

“Real pals,” Ronnie had said one quiet, moonlit evening. “That helps most of all out here, doesn't it?”

And Sam had simply grunted his agreement, since he could never have put that sort of thing into words. But he had grinned at his mate and feinted a blow at his chin.

The only time the two of them had disagreed lately was when Ronnie tried to persuade him not to hit his wife again. The idea had upset Ronnie and he'd referred to it several times. Sam just told him to shut his trap when he got in that sort of mood—usually after a letter from Vi. But he was secretly amazed that something so unimportant mattered so very much to his mate, who had never even met Lizzie.

*   *   *

The following day all hell erupted round them and within an hour of the battle starting something thumped Sam hard in the chest. He felt himself falling and to his surprise couldn't get up. Bullets flew around him and he could only lie there, too astonished to feel any pain.

Ronnie's face appeared above him. “You stupid sod. You should have dodged that bullet!”

“Am I shot?” Sam murmured, his voice hoarse for lack of water.

“Yes, but we'll soon get you out of here.” And Ronnie proceeded to drag him back towards their own line.

“Look after yourself!” Sam managed. “Get down lower.”

“I'll look after us both.”

They nearly got back to their own line safely, but some rotten enemy bastard must have been watching and laughing at them as he aimed his rifle, because he waited till they were within a couple paces of the trenches to let fly. Sam felt something smash into his foot and couldn't help a roar of pain.

Above him, Ronnie jerked and staggered, saying, “I've bought one,” in a tone of astonishment. He crumpled slowly and fell forward, lying with his head resting on Sam's arm.

For a moment the war receded and there were only the two of them in the whole universe.

“Thought I was going to make it,” Ronnie whispered.

“You still will. They'll pull us out in a minute and patch us up. You'll see. Just hold on.”

Ronnie's smile was the sweetest Sam had ever seen. “Nay, lad, I'm done for. I can feel it—it's all—ebbing away.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to stare at Sam. “There's good in you, lad,” he whispered, “if you'll only give it a chance.”

Sam stretched out his hand to touch Ronnie's hair and it got covered with red. “Save your strength,” he ordered. “Just hold on.”

“Promise me,” the shadow of a voice insisted, “promise me you'll not hit her again?”

Sam felt a wetness on his cheeks and realised he was crying, he who'd not cried since he was a tiny lad. When he looked at Ronnie's face, he could see death creeping across it. He'd seen it too many times to mistake it. Suddenly it was important that he do one last thing for the closest friend he'd ever had. “I promise,” he said.

Ronnie's face lit up. “That's my best mate. And,” he was struggling to speak now, blood frothing on his lips, but still he forced a few more words out, “write—tell Vi—my last thought was of her.”

“I will, lad, I will!” Sam found sobs tearing at his throat and didn't even try to hold them back. When he blinked away the rush of tears, he saw that Ronnie's face was very still—and very peaceful. It almost made him want to go wherever his mate had gone, because he had never felt so at peace in all his life.

He lay there weeping silently for a very long time before anyone came and rescued him. And he wept a lot in hospital, too.

“You've copped a Blighty one, lad,” a young doctor said, standing beside his bed one night, his face nearly grey with fatigue. “You'll limp for the rest of your life, but I think the rest of you will recover, given time.”