War Baby (36 page)

He thought back to the day she'd found Charlie, the open innocence of her expression when he'd thanked her, her mother's evil frown.

‘I looked after him!' she'd declared when he'd spoken to her about it.

‘I believe that you did,' he'd said to her. At the same time he'd thought how defensive she'd sounded, as though half afraid he might believe otherwise.

His daughter Ruby had refused to believe Charlie had wandered so far. ‘He's too young. And besides, Frances insists that his harness was fastened securely.'

‘He learns things quickly, and that includes unbuckling his harness,' he'd said, not without a flash of grandfatherly pride.

Neither his daughters nor niece, Frances, had contradicted him. The baby, young Charlie, was the apple of his eye and the best thing to have come out of this ruddy war! As regards to Miriam, whatever the truth was, there was no harm done. She would never harm a baby, and certainly not Charlie's baby. Even though there were question marks about whether Charlie really had wandered so far, or that she taken him there herself, he preferred to believe the best of her. Having a mother like she had was pain enough in her life.

He was just about to call out to her, when she emerged from the hedges, straightening her hat and running towards him, her ugly black coat flapping around her, her heavy black shoes clopping like the hooves of the milkman's horse. Her complexion was as pale as ever, but the chill day had pinched her cheeks and made them rosy. She greeted him cheerfully. ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Sweet. Merry Christmas, Charlie.'

She shoved her hands into her pockets, though not before Stan had noticed how dirty they were, her fingernails choked with dirt.

Stan returned her Christmas greeting, not that she seemed to notice. Her attention was firmly fixed on Charlie, her eyes shining with joy, her face bright with enchantment. He'd heard from his daughters and Frances that Miriam couldn't seem to bring herself to speak to Charlie when he was in the shop. She could look at him and touch him, but the words never seemed to come. She just stared, her mind elsewhere.

He sighed. Poor Miriam. He couldn't help feeling sorry for her. Look at her clothes. He was no judge of women's fashions, but a girl of her age shouldn't be wearing such dowdy clothes. And what he could see of her hair was a few lank wisps showing from beneath a close-fitting hat. He vaguely recalled his mother wearing the same sort of hat many years ago.

Frances had told him about seeing Miriam's hair was cut close to her scalp and that whoever had cut her hair had not been gentle. He omitted mentioning the discussion he'd had with Bettina, his mind recoiling from the fact that it was probably her mother's doing.

‘Have you heard from your grandmother?' he asked her. Ada was totally different to her daughter, a free-thinking woman with a mind of her own.

Miriam looked sad. ‘No,' she whispered softly. ‘I don't think so.'

It was an odd answer but told him a great deal. If a card or message had come from Ada Perkins, Miriam's mother would have thrown it in the fire before Miriam had chance to read it. ‘Wouldn't you be happier living with your grandmother?'

Her face lit up. ‘Oh yes. I would love it, but my mother …' The glow that had lit her face was soon extinguished.

Stan felt a surge of anger. ‘How old are you, Miriam?'

‘Twenty-one.'

‘Old enough to make up your own mind,' he said sternly. ‘I'm surprised you haven't been called up to work in a factory or join the armed forces.'

Most likely a factory. She didn't strike him as able enough to put on a uniform. ‘My mother told them I couldn't go. She told them I was …'

Stan raised his eyebrows, dreading what he guessed she might say.

‘Spastic,' she said. ‘That's what she told them. But I'm not,' she said frantically. ‘It's just that since … but then … before that. She told them before that.'

Stan frowned. ‘Before what, Miriam?'

Her mouth clamped shut and she looked down at her shoes. Whatever she'd been about to say was swallowed.

‘You don't need your mother's permission to live somewhere else,' he told her. ‘You're old enough to make your own decisions.'

She didn't look up. ‘I know, but my mother …'

‘Won't let you.'

‘Unless I marry, but …'

Miriam Powell was a bundle of nervous indecision. She'd been downtrodden by her mother and there seemed precious chance of her ever escaping Gertrude Powell's domination. There was little he could do about it, except give a moment's solace. ‘Would you like to carry Charlie? He's getting a bit too heavy for me.'

‘Can I?' She sounded ecstatic, her eyes like great dark pools in her pale face.

‘If he'll go to you.'

Stan half expected Charlie to kick up a fuss, after all, Miriam was not that familiar to his grandson, but to his great surprise he didn't.

Charlie broke into chuckles holding out his arms and uttering half-formed words including the mmmm and mum ones, over and over again.

He handed Charlie into her arms, not liking the feeling of emptiness in his own. Charlie grinned at her, tugged her hair and patted her hat.

‘No,' she said to him, pulling his hands away from her hat. She held him tightly and never once did her gaze leave his face.

‘He likes you,' said Stan.

Miriam's expression was like a burst of winter sunshine. ‘He thinks I'm his mother. I don't mind him thinking that. Really I don't. I really
want
him to call me mother, even though I'm not. Not really.' She sounded quite delirious about the fact that he might.

Stan reconsidered his decision to let Miriam hold his grandson. He'd been overcome by seasonal goodwill, but now he suddenly found himself regretting it. Frances had heard singing then words like mum or mmmm when she'd found Charlie. It occurred to him that Miriam had been
teaching
Charlie to call her mum.

His fears were suddenly confirmed.

‘Mum,' he heard Miriam say. ‘Mmmmm … um …' She was beaming into Charlie's face, wagging his little arm, rubbing his nose with hers.

He was suddenly panicked into demanding him back. ‘I'd better have him now,' he said firmly once they were halfway up the hill. ‘Time for his dinner.'

‘Not yet!' Her arms gripped Charlie more tightly. Her beaming expression was replaced by a startled look – worse than startled. ‘You can't take him yet! I haven't held him for long enough! He likes being with me. He needs me.' Both her voice and expression verged on hysteria.

A warning bell sounded in Stan's brain, though all the same, he wanted to treat her gently. ‘Miriam. It's Charlie's dinnertime. Mine too. It's Christmas. Remember?'

He couldn't help feeling that Miriam wasn't quite with it. In fact he was half wondering whether her mother was telling the truth and she was just the slightest bit deranged. He didn't want to believe it.

‘He's not yours, Miriam. You're not his mother. Come on, Charlie. Come to your old granddad.'

Miriam stared at Stan accusingly as if the child was hers, as if she were indeed Charlie's mother. For a dreadful moment it seemed to Stan as though she wasn't going to let go. Carefully he plied her arms from around his grandson. Finally she stood there, staring at her empty arms.

Wrapping his arms protectively around his grandson, Stan saw a figure in black standing at the door of Powell's shop. He recognised Gertrude Powell, her face as white as the marble urn sitting on his wife's grave.

‘Go home, Miriam,' Stan said gently. ‘See? Your mother's waiting for you.'

He didn't much care for Miriam's mother and couldn't help blaming her for how Miriam had turned out. However, on this occasion he was extremely glad to see her.

‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Powell.'

He hadn't called her Gertrude since they were children together. Anyway she wouldn't thank him for being so personal. Since becoming an adult she kept friendship at a distance. Even arranging for Frances to be evacuated to the Forest of Dean with Ada Perkins had been done when Ada was visiting and had offered to take the girl. Funnily enough, Gertrude hadn't seemed so hard then. He wondered what might have happened to change her. Perhaps she'd been ill, but then, if she had somebody would have said so.

Stan recalled the talk he and Bettina had had about Miriam. She had only gone away for a few days with her mother to the Forest of Dean. Unless …

He didn't bother to speculate further. The girl needed to get away from Gertrude and if the factories or forces wouldn't take her, the best place for her to be was with her grandmother.

Stan walked on, aware that Charlie was leaning over his shoulder waving goodbye. ‘Mmmmmm. Mum. Mmmmm.'

The door of the shop slammed shut on the two women. He didn't tell anyone about his encounter until Christmas dinner was over, the dishes put away and the wireless turned off once the King's speech was over. After he'd told them what had happened, he shuddered. ‘Never leave Charlie alone with her. She's besotted.'

‘Just as she was with Charlie,' Mary pointed out.

‘She scared the living daylights out of him,' added Ruby with a laugh. ‘Do you remember when he used to hide from her?'

They all did. Stan didn't laugh. Why were Miriam's hands so dirty, he wondered? And why was she spending so much time in the churchyard?

‘She's mad,' added Frances. ‘I've seen her hanging around in the churchyard.'

‘And what were you doing there?' asked Ruby.

A pink flush invaded Frances's cheeks. ‘I went for a walk. I go for a walk there a lot. I like the trees.' She didn't mention Paul and that he'd finally kissed her. She'd known he wanted to, but had held him at a distance. And her family mustn't know. She'd know they would say she was too young.

Ruby eyed her sidelong and not without misgivings. ‘With whom?'

‘None of your business! I can go for a walk there by myself or with any of my friends. I do have friends, you know.'

It was obvious to them all that Frances was getting more than a little bit hot under the collar. Ruby didn't mention that she'd seen Frances hand in hand with Paul Martin. At least she thought it was Paul. There was a very wide choice of Martin brothers. It seemed that Mrs Martin had spent much of her life giving birth – mostly to boys.

The fact that Frances was growing up wasn't lost on Stan. The years kept rolling past and he often wished he could turn back the clock and they could be children again. He sighed at the prospect of getting old and his children getting older, contemplating that it wouldn't be long before his daughters and Frances would flee the nest. Hopefully one would stay around until his grandson was grown – if not in this house, then close by.

‘So you've seen Miriam Powell in the churchyard.' Stan directed the question at Frances. He had a suspicion of why Miriam's fingernails and hands were so dirty.

‘I have,' said Frances. ‘I've seen her there and heard her wailing as though she's lost something. A bit like when she was with Charlie in the den. Singing and talking to somebody. There was nobody there though. I would have known if there was.'

‘Sounds like a mystery,' offered Mike in his usual affable way. ‘Like a detective novel that you feel you have to solve before the detective actually does it.'

Mary laughed. ‘Mike, this is Oldland Common. Nothing happens here. Now help yourself to another piece of cake.'

‘I'll burst.'

‘Take some.'

Gazing at Mary in abject adoration, he obediently took another slice of cake, took a bite, chewed and swallowed his thoughts on what to him still constituted a mystery. He saw no wrong in voicing those thoughts. ‘You'd think nothing happened in those places in the detective novels either, but they do – well, they do when that Hercule Poirot character is involved!'

Everyone laughed except for Stan Sweet. He was a straightforward man who didn't like mysteries. If Miriam was deranged, and he didn't think she was, something had to be done about it. He'd already decided to write to Ada Perkins, the only person who might do something helpful.

‘Where exactly in the churchyard did you see her?'

Ruby glanced up from cutting the last slice of Christmas cake before putting the remainder into the cake tin. Although her father sounded calm and casual, she wasn't fooled. His probing was so gentle that Frances wouldn't suspect a thing. Not that it mattered if she did. It was Miriam who had to be worried.

‘She was hiding,' said Frances. ‘At least I think she was hiding. And singing. I heard her singing just like she was in the den.'

Stan frowned. ‘Is that so? A hymn I suppose.'

Now it was Frances who frowned as she fought to remember. ‘No. Not a hymn as such. I think it was a lullaby. I heard her singing the same one down in the Dingle – in our—' She corrected herself. She was too old for childish pursuits. ‘The kids' den.'

Her face brightened. ‘I can tell you what lullaby it was. It's the one Mary sings to Charlie when he's got a new tooth coming through.
Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed.
That one. The same one I heard her singing down in the den.'

Bettina Hicks who had remained silent up until now, cupped her cheeks with both hands, her finely arched eyebrows knitted in concentration.

Assuming she'd been about to say something about Miriam, Stan leaned forward, both elbows resting on the table – a practice he abhorred in others. His expression was intense. ‘Bettina? Are you all right,' he said when no comment was expressed.

Bettina looked away, pushed her hands down on the chair arms and struggled to her feet. ‘I think it's time I went home. It's been a lovely day. Thank you for everything,' she said, showering everyone with her beaming smile. She turned to Stan. ‘Do you think you could see me home? I'm feeling a little stiff after all this sitting down and rich food.'