Our Lizzie (50 page)

She wondered if he'd go out to find one. Unless things had changed greatly, he'd only have to knock on the back door of the Carter's Rest to buy another. The landlord there was always ready to make a bit extra. Maybe that'd give her a chance to get away. She pulled her chair up to the table, laid her head on her hands and closed her eyes, exhausted now. “I'm not getting it for you.”

He put his overcoat on again, keeping the hall door open, never for a minute letting her out of his sight.

She lay still. Maybe if she feigned sleep …

Suddenly he was beside her, a length of rope in his hand. “You didn't think I'd leave you free to run away did you, Lizzie girl?” He chuckled as he tied her up. “I'm not that stupid.”

“You'll not keep me here with you for ever.”

He grinned. “No, just till your belly's swelling. Then you'll find it a bit harder to run.” He thrust his face against hers. “And if you're thinking of that money you've got saved up, I found that this morning when you were in the bathroom and I went through your things.” He fumbled in his pocket and waved the notes at her. “I left you the change, but this'll come in useful.”

She felt physically sick as she watched him pile coal on the fire, then walk out. The rope was firmly tied, too firmly for her to escape. She looked around desperately, hoping to find something sharp to rub it on, but she couldn't even move the chair, because he'd tied that to the table leg. She was as firmly trussed as any chicken going to market. And as bound for disaster.

Despair swept through her. She had never felt so bleak and unhappy, not even when she'd lived here with him last time, because now she had tasted freedom—and friendship—and the satisfaction of a job well done.

*   *   *

Christmas Day was just like any other at the Front. The first year of the war they'd called a truce for the day and some had even fraternised with the enemy, but now there was no question of that. You never knew when the fighting was going to start again, when a sniper's shot would zip past you or tear into your flesh. Only the Americans seemed to have the spare energy to celebrate in any style—and the money.

James Cardwell lay on his stretcher bed in the officers' quarters, unable to sleep, wondering how Emma was. He'd written to his wife; sent little embroidered Christmas cards to both his children, pretty things made by the Frenchwomen who lived around here. Yet all the time he'd been doing that, he'd been thinking of Emma, longing to see her again. So he'd bought her a little embroidered card, too, but had only dared write an innocuous message on it.

When he left Overdale, he'd asked her not to write to him, because if anything happened to him, his wife might find the letters, and though he didn't care about Edith, he did care about his children, who were old enough to understand what was going on. He only wrote to Emma when he was sure he'd be able to finish the letter quickly and get it into the post. Twice he'd screwed the letters up and tossed them on a nearby fire as he'd rushed to arms. He didn't dare risk someone finding a half-written letter to his mistress. You learned to think like that when your life was worth so little.

He'd even changed his will while he was back in Overdale, leaving Emma a share in the business she and Walter had kept going all through the war. She deserved that if anything happened to him. And she'd keep things going so that his children had enough to live on at least. Edith couldn't even manage the housekeeping money.

The shell landed on headquarters in the small hours of Boxing Day, killing every officer there. It was the first shell in a short, sharp barrage, and the only one to make a direct hit. James had fallen asleep by then. Like the rest of the victims, he didn't feel a thing.

*   *   *

Sam returned to the house somewhat the worse for wear and for a time didn't release Lizzie from her bonds. There was something satisfying in seeing her helpless, with her bright green eyes glaring defiantly at him. Eeh, she'd make a fine mother for his children, she would that.

He had to prepare the tea himself and when he untied her, stand over her with a threat of forcing the food down her throat before she'd eat anything. Afterwards, he brought her a cup of tea, hot and sweet.

She hesitated for a moment, then drank it.

He said nothing, just told her to sit down opposite him by the fire, and when, after another moment's hesitation, she did that, he felt a sense of triumph. Little by little he'd win her over. When she saw that he no longer hit her, when she saw that he really wanted her for his wife, well, she'd be bound to come round.

Two days passed. Two long, boring days for Lizzie. She wondered if she'd ever grow used to his fixed stare and even, occasionally, whether she'd manage to hold out against him and refuse to lift a finger in the house. He wanted his rations night and morning, and although she felt cold and unmoved by his attentions, he still got his own satisfaction, as he always had.

“You'll be with child before the spring,” he promised her.

“I'll not. I'll will it not to happen,” she threw back at him.

But he just laughed and stroked her bare breast, laughing as she tried to squirm away.

*   *   *

A few days later, he took Lizzie shopping with him. Before they left, Sam tied her up and went into the front room on his own, fiddling around with something there. Then he came and untied her.

At the market, he bought food lavishly, as if money was no object. It puzzled Lizzie where he got all his money, why he didn't seem bothered about finding himself a job. She knew from what others said that the Government did little to help disabled soldiers and that many were in great want.

Snow still lay on the ground, but dirty now, like piles of muddy washing. In the ruts ice crackled and they had to tread carefully so as not to slip. She saw Sam wince once or twice when his bad foot skidded, but he said nothing. He seemed determined to ignore his limp. In spite of herself, she felt a bit sorry for him. But not sorry enough to spend the rest of her life with him.

When they got home, there was a knock on the door, the first since Lizzie had returned to Overdale. Sam took her arm and dragged her along to answer it.

Percy stood there, staring at his sister. “They were right, then. You are back.”

Sam kept hold of her and made a quick decision to let her see her family. “Come in, lad. Have a cup of tea. It's been a long time since you two have seen one another.” He slammed the door with hearty good humour. “Eeh, it's bad underfoot, it is that. Me an' Lizzie nearly went arse over tit a few times while we were shopping.”

Percy looked at the way Sam was holding her arm, puzzled.

“She's not used to being back yet,” Sam said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “Wants to get away from me. But I'm not having that.”

Lizzie didn't say anything, just let Sam drag her along to the kitchen and plonk her down in a chair. When he was busy with the kettle, she said clearly and distinctly, “I'm not staying with him and he won't be able to watch me every minute of every day and night. I'll get away from him one day.”

Sam came to lean against the door of the scullery. “I'm doing pretty well so far at keeping you here.” He looked across at Percy with a grin. “I tie her up when I go out. They taught us all sorts of useful skills in the Army. She won't get away from my knots.”

“Eeh, lad, is it worth it?”

“Aye. She's my wife. An' she's not leaving me.” He hesitated, then said, “I don't hit her any more. Nor I won't. Whatever she does. So she's got nothing to complain of now. And when we start a family, she'll
have
to stay.”

Lizzie let out a breath rough with irritation and stared into the fire, leaving the two men to make stilted conversation.

Percy looked from one to the other of them, at a loss for words to bridge the gaps that yawned between them all. His sister looked older, more sure of herself somehow, and the determination emanating from her was so fierce, he had to wonder if Sam would ever win her over. She seemed like the old Lizzie again, the defiant young lass who'd walked on the top of the wall and done a dozen other stupid, daredevil things, tossing her head at the world like an untamed young animal.

When he'd finished his tea, he stood up, feeling awkward, and went over to kiss his sister. “Can't you make the best of it, love? You are his wife.”

Lizzie turned her head away. “No. And I don't feel like his wife any more. I belong to myself now.”

Sam stared at her through eyes burning with suppressed annoyance, but his words were controlled, as were his movements. “Let yourself out, lad. I have to keep my eye on Tiger here.”

Percy hesitated. “You won't—hurt her again?”

“I already said I wouldn't.” He saw the doubt in Percy's eyes. “Look, I promised my mate as he lay dying that I'd not beat her again, an' I'll keep that promise whatever it costs. But I'll not let her go, neither. She's mine.”

Lizzie spoke suddenly. “Would you write to my friend Peggy in Murforth for me, Percy? Tell her what's happened? She's a supervisor at the munitions factory. You can send a letter there.”

He looked surprised. “Why can't you do that?”

Sam grinned. “She can do it as soon as she promises not to run away.” Then he scowled. “So don't bother about writing to anyone, Percy lad. I left a note for her landlady. They'll know nothing bad's happened to her.”

But when Percy got home to the quiet little house, he decided to do as Lizzie had asked. So he wrote, explained the situation as well as he could and addressed the letter to “Peggy, Supervisor,” at the munitions factory. As an afterthought, he added Lizzie's address.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Two days after Christmas, the postman brought a telegram to James Cardwell's house.

“Sorry, Mrs. Cardwell,” he mumbled.

Edith didn't move, just stood there staring at it in horror as he turned away and walked off down the street.

“No,” she whispered. “No!” She walked slowly into the house and sat down in the unheated front parlour, but it was several minutes before she could bring herself to open the telegram. She didn't want to be a widow. When she read it and found the news she had dreaded, she began to scream.

The two maids came running in, and behind them the children. For a few minutes it was a flurry of fuss and sobbing and explanations, with the children mostly ignored.

Young Frank saw the telegram and picked it up, his face wooden with the effort not to cry for he had already guessed what it contained. He read the short message and put an arm round his sister, who was reading it beside him.

“Daddy?” she gulped.

“Don't cry!” he hissed, giving her a little shake. “
She
cries and cries, but it doesn't mean anything.” He scowled at his mother, who was lying back letting the maids fuss over her, then turned away and put his arm round his sister's shoulders.

“What'll we do, Frank?”

“Nothing. What can we do?”

When Edith at last looked across the room, she murmured, “Oh, my poor children, how am I to tell you?” This was a line straight out of one of her favourite pictures, one she had coaxed no less than three of her admirers to take her to, so she knew the screen captions off by heart.

“You don't need to tell us. We've already seen the telegram and heard you crying.” Frank's voice was gruff, angry-sounding, more like a man's. “We know Father's dead. It doesn't say how he died, though.”

“What does it matter
how?
” Edith buried her face in her hands again, but made no attempt to comfort them.

Doris pressed against her brother's shoulder, feeling comforted by his arm holding her so firmly.

“I'll take my sister up to the nursery,” he said, still in the same wooden voice. “We'll leave you to recover, Mother.” He had talked to his father on his last leave about his mother, about how she never spent any time with them or seemed to notice what they were doing, and his father had said that wasn't the children's fault, simply that some women didn't make good mothers.

“It's no use being rude to her or shouting,” James had concluded. “It's not in her to do it. It's like hitting a puppy for barking at a stranger. It's born in the puppy to bark and it's born in your mother to let others rear her children.” He had hesitated then added, “But I love you both. Very much. You're a fine lad. I couldn't want a better son. And I'm relying on you to look after your sister if—if anything happens to me.”

So now, Frank sat Doris down and held her while she wept, dashing away his own tears when they would fall. Later, he went down to the kitchen and asked the maid how his mother was.

Kath, who had nieces and nephews of her own, looked at him sympathetically. “I think she's sleeping, Master Frank. She's taken some of that medicine she got last year and she's lying on the sofa.” She wanted to hug him, but he was so stiff and grown-up that she didn't quite like to. “I'm sorry about the master, I am indeed. He'll be sorely missed.”

Frank gave a quick nod, changing the subject. Nothing anyone said could help, but at least Kath's tears were real, not for show like his mother's. “Could we have some breakfast, do you think?”

“Yes, of course. But before I get it, I have something for you.” She went into the pantry and reached up to the top shelf.

He stared at the envelope with his name written on it in his father's heavy black writing.

“The master gave it to me before he left. He said if anything happened to him, I was to give it to you, but not to say anything about it to your mother. And I'll bring you a tray up to the nursery directly.”

Frank took the envelope and nodded his thanks. When he went upstairs, he decided to open the letter in his bedroom. What he read made more unmanly tears run down his cheeks, but softened the hard knot of anguish in his chest at least. He'd always treasure this letter.