Wartime Family (12 page)

They walked on in silence, both lost in thought. Michael was first to speak. ‘Did you notice how much was left in the stock cupboards when you went back to the shop after it was burned down?’

Mary Anne sighed heavily and frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, but I was so shocked, so devastated. I felt I’d let you down. One moment there was a shop, and next moment there wasn’t. I felt terrible and barely noticed anything. I just gathered what I could.’ She caught sight of Michael’s frown. ‘What is it?’

‘I was wondering whether the fire really was started by looters. Why burn down a building still full of valuables?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose it doesn’t make much sense. But what other reason is there? Who else could have done it?’

Michael’s eyes clouded over as they often did when he was thinking of his past.

‘Back in Germany they would not need a reason. Malice, sheer malice.’

Mary Anne shivered again just as Stanley fell over on his skates.

Lizzie’s mouth was dry. She’d never driven as far as London. There was some traffic, mostly army trucks and farm vehicles. The latter were usually pulled by a pair of Suffolk Punch, their golden rumps rolling from side to side, their breath steaming in the morning mist.

‘Fine-looking animals,’ Hunter said suddenly. He rarely spoke once they were in motion and took her by surprise.

‘Yes. They are.’

‘Big too.’

She wracked her brain for something to say. She’d always liked horses and remembered reading about them. The milkman who used to call at the house in Kent Street had been clued up on them too. He’d imparted information about them when he saw her smoothing the nag that pulled the milk cart.

‘Apparently they’re quite common in East Anglia. They’re not as big as Shire horses but they’re used because they don’t have much feathering on their legs. The farmlands around here are flat and muddy. Hairy legs would pick up too much mud.’

‘Better not go rolling my trousers up when I go walking across fields.’

‘No. Best not.’

Lizzie glanced in the rear-view mirror. Had she heard right? Had he really cracked a joke? This was a surprise. And then he was admitting that his legs were hairy? She found herself blushing.

She felt slightly honoured in a strange kind of way. Her earlier aversion to him had ebbed slightly. It had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t used another driver while she’d been on leave. The closed look had lifted. She found herself liking his face, wanting to study it that bit more.

‘Did you find it easy to drive around yourself?’ she asked. ‘You know, seeing as we drive on the opposite side of the road to Canada?’

He looked surprised that she’d asked, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

‘What do you mean, Randall?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, during the last few weeks – driving around – whilst I was on leave.’

‘I wasn’t here while you were on leave. I was on the other side of the Atlantic’

‘In Canada! I hear it’s wonderful there. A really big country.’

The openness that had shone in his eyes now vanished. ‘It is. Now perhaps you’ll stop chattering and get on with your driving.’

His outburst was sudden and quickly passed, his attention returning to his notes. Lizzie seethed, wishing she’d kept her distance and been as unforthcoming as they’d both been at first. If that was the way he wanted it …

Acres of flat fields bounded the narrow roads beneath a wide sky. Two hours into their journey he tapped her on the shoulder. Surprised, she corrected the sudden jolt on the wheel and swerved back on to the left side of the road.

‘Pull in here,’ he ordered.

The road widened around a village green outside a thatched inn. Lizzie brought the car to a standstill behind the last of three army trucks.

‘Home Guard,’ she said, surmising that regular army would set up their own bivouac, not dive into a local pub.

‘I think we need to stretch our legs.’

He strolled to the other side of the road and stood staring at a ploughed field. Lizzie followed him.

‘Sir!’ She saluted.

He turned round and kept his eyes fixed on her face as though not daring to let them drop.

‘I wouldn’t mind a drink, sir. If that’s alright with you.’

He looked at her blankly. ‘If you must.’ He turned away again, his broad shoulders outlined by sky. The old Wing Commander Hunter had returned. Gone was the amiable generosity of this morning. Though still injured by his sudden mood swings, she decided to give it one more try.

‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

‘No.’

She left him there. The Home Guard mob greeted her cheerily and not with the usual ribaldry she could expect from regular soldiers. It was only to be expected, of course. Most of them were of retirement age.

She dared half a pint of cider and also requested a chunk of bread and butter. Once she’d devoured it, she went back outside. Hunter was sitting in the back of the car with his papers.

The rest of the drive was conducted in silence. Lizzie didn’t mind. She felt refreshed, and by the time they got to London she was glad she’d had something to give her energy.

London bristled with war details. Barrage balloons floated like silver clouds and sandbags protected the entrances of tall buildings. The buildings in Whitehall towered over them, rows of blank windows staring out on the world.

The exterior of the building marked War Department was almost as drab as the rest of wartime London. Slinging her gas mask over her shoulder, Lizzie followed Hunter into the building.

He spun round so suddenly that she bumped into him, bouncing off his chest. ‘You can go shopping,’ he said to her. ‘But only for one hour. No more.’

Shopping in London was amazing, she found. A lot of the shops were far too expensive for the likes of her – she’d need a year’s rations to buy anything – but looking cost nothing and the hour went swiftly by.

Cheeks reddened by the cold air, she marched back to where she’d left the car. She’d calculated that if all went to schedule, she should be back at base in time for the Christmas dance. She wondered about mentioning it to Hunter, and decided she would. But only if he were on time from his meeting, otherwise there was no point.

‘Your car’s been fuelled up, miss,’ said the corporal outside the entrance.

‘Really? I thought I had enough to get back to base, and besides there’s a few petrol stations between here and there.’

‘Perhaps the wing commander has other plans,’ said the corporal.

There was something in the way he said it that made her think he was right. She was just about to question what he knew and wasn’t telling, when Hunter appeared at the top of the marble steps. He strode down them quickly, his face as grim as when she’d left him.

‘Croydon,’ he barked as he slid into the back seat.

Croydon!
‘I’ve never been there before,’ she said haltingly, reaching for an army-issue road map before starting the engine.

‘Good God, woman! Don’t bother with that. I’ll give you directions. We haven’t got all day!’

His brusque manner stiffened her spine. She just about managed to sound respectful. ‘Yes, sir.’

She’d looked long enough at the map to have a rough idea of where she was going. Each time he told her which way to go, her jaw tightened that bit more. And just when she was beginning to warm to him too. Well not now! Certainly not now!

The rest of the journey passed in silence except for him giving directions and one single attempt at normal conversation. He asked her if she was going home for Christmas.

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ve drawn duty?’

‘Yes, sir.’

It was evening by the time they got to Croydon airfield and the grey winter light was fast sliding into darkness. Huddled buildings with flat roofs loomed ahead of them. Beyond were the indistinct shapes of aircraft. All were blurred by a seasonal mist.

For some reason that she couldn’t explain, Lizzie’s heart began to race. Apprehension clutched at her stomach. Something was about to happen, though she couldn’t imagine what.

Get a grip on yourself
, she thought.

‘Stop here.’

She did as ordered. Ahead of them was the runway. He took his leave of her abruptly and without undue ceremony.

She lingered, amazed by what she was seeing. A large aircraft sat there, its propellers already turning. She looked for the customary RAF symbol on the side, but in its place was a large white star. Her eyes widened. The implications were enormous. Wing Commander Hunter wasn’t merely flying
in
an American aircraft. He must be going
to
America. But why? What was going on?

It was three days before Christmas and two days after Michael had gone back to his posting that Gertrude came calling. She looked more serious than usual and was holding an opened envelope in her hand.

Mary Anne flung the door wide when she saw who it was. ‘Gertrude. How lovely to see you. Do come in. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Gertrude’s grim-faced expression did not improve; in fact the straight, thin lips became even straighter.

‘No. What I’ve got to say I can say here.’

A cold fear clutched at Mary Anne’s stomach. Her gaze dropped to the letter. ‘What is it? Has something happened to someone?’

Her first thought was Harry, but then she noticed the envelope was plain brown with no official insignia. It was not a telegram. Her knees almost buckled with relief.

‘No,’ said Gertrude, her mouth snapping shut. ‘Except that I have been seriously misled. You have been dishonest with me, Mrs Randall, and I am not best pleased.’

Mary Anne frowned as she shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘This letter arrived at my house this morning. It is from a person stating that the man who’s been staying here these last few days is
not
in fact your husband!’

Mary Anne felt the blood rush to her face. What she’d feared all along had actually happened. But had Henry sent the letter? How dare he!

‘I can explain, Gertrude …’

‘Mrs Palmer
to you!’

This was the side of Gertrude Palmer that Mary Anne had hoped never to see. An upholder of tradition and Victorian values, Gertrude was not the sort to be persuaded that sometimes – just sometimes – such things were acceptable.

Mary Anne was lost for words. She knew what was coming – and yet they’d been so careful. But someone had betrayed them.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go, Mrs Randall. I do not countenance lewd behaviour on any premises under my jurisdiction.’

Mary Anne was shocked, but refused to take it lying down. ‘If you’d known my husband, you would have jailed him for violence!’

It was a well-known fact that Gertrude Palmer sat as a magistrate. No doubt she’d had plenty like Henry before her in her time.

‘That is not the issue here,’ Gertrude said between clenched teeth. ‘The man you had in your bed was not your husband. It is not seemly. I cannot allow it.’

There was nothing for it. Mary Anne set her jaw and folded her arms. She would not be humbled. She’d had too many years of that. ‘How long will you give me until I can find something else?’

‘One week. That is all.’ She turned to go, but paused. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the envelope forward. ‘You might as well have this. I am informed of the circumstances. That is all that matters.’

Mary Anne took the letter. Her hand dropped to her side as though it weighed the same as a sack of coal. She had no wish to read it. There was nothing to be gained.

‘What about Stanley?’ she murmured, but it was too late to implore. Why hadn’t she done so at the time?
Stunned
, she thought,
I was stunned.
But she would go round to Henry again, she determined. She would try and catch him in and give him a piece of her mind. Alright, so he hadn’t been around when the pawnshop had caught fire. Perhaps it really had been looters and her imagination had merely been working overtime. But he
could
have written this letter.

She opened the envelope and looked at the writing. She frowned. Henry could barely sign his name, and even that was in a squiggly hand. This writing was neat and rounded. The grammar was tight and the sentences went straight to the point. She crumpled it in her hand and left it sitting on the table. There was no point in moping over what had happened. She had to find somewhere else to live. Her eyes misted as she looked around the room. It had been such a short, sweet stay.

The job of doing alterations and making good clothes from old ones was taken from Mary Anne. When she went through the shop, Edith was bent over the old treadle sewing machine. Defiant of Gertrude Palmer, it was she who glanced up and called out best of luck. Gertrude threw her a warning look. Edith just glared back at her.

Outside Mary Anne took a deep breath of fresh air. Tonight promised to be frosty.
And soon I’ll be homeless
, she thought dejectedly as she turned left out of the shop doorway.

‘Mary Anne!’

She stopped and looked round. Edith was running towards her, one hand holding on to her hat.

Edith was small and easily looked up into Mary Anne’s face. ‘I wanted you to know that I don’t think you’re a scarlet woman. I know there are sometimes circumstances beyond our control. I told Gertrude that.’

Mary Anne smiled weakly. ‘I wish I could believe that she’d listen.’

A sudden movement made her look over Edith’s shoulder. Gertrude was leaning out of the shop doorway, her face as dark as a December night.

‘I think you’d better get back here,’ she said.

Edith was adamant. ‘Look, we’re volunteers! You don’t pay us or own us. We can do what we like and speak to who we want.’ Edith’s uncharacteristic vibrancy lessened as she turned back to Mary Anne. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To find somewhere to live.’

‘Do you know who wrote the letter?’

Mary Anne shrugged. ‘At first I thought my husband wrote it, but the handwriting …’

‘Perhaps he got someone else to write it. Some people are better at writing letters than others. I’m not terribly good myself. My sister Cissy usually writes mine for me.’