Wartime Family (14 page)

She’d written to him about the pawn shop being burned down and the implication that looters rather than a bomb were responsible. She’d also told him about living with Daw.

‘I knew that wouldn’t last,’ he said. ‘But the rooms above the Red Cross shop sounded nice.’

Mary Anne turned her head to watch Stanley kicking at the few leaves still lying in the grass. Even the park keeper had gone off to war. The iron railings had gone the year before, taken to be melted down to make Spitfires and warships, they’d said. Donations of pots and pans had also been called for. There’d been none left in the pawn shop. Everything was gone.

‘The world looks neglected,’ she said suddenly.

Harry looked puzzled. ‘Never mind the world. What about you?’

‘Michael came home just before Christmas. He stayed for three precious days.’

She knew Harry was studying her expression, trying to read what was going on inside in case she should lie – which of course was highly possible.

‘And then?’

It all came out about Michael staying and Gertrude receiving that letter. She’d never been good at keeping secrets – even years ago, when she’d told Henry that her parents had paid him to marry her because she’d had a baby and her fiancé had not returned from the Great War. Henry was no great catch, but he’d been proud to marry her. He hadn’t known about the baby, of course, but they’d been happy and she’d thought she could trust him to rise above petty recriminations. He had not. Her honesty changed him. Her life was never the same again after that. But she’d kept the two truths from her children – the truth about why she’d married their father and also his violence towards her. Bruises could be hidden.

‘So now I have to look for somewhere else to live.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not easy. There are plenty of others needing somewhere too.’

She felt Harry’s eyes on her, more contemplative than before. ‘So who wrote the letter?’

She shrugged. ‘Your father. Who else? He may have got someone to write it for him. I don’t know for sure. I did think our Stanley might have written it for him, but it was too well crafted for a child. It had to be an adult.’

They both watched Stanley swinging on a low-hanging tree branch.

‘It could have been our Stanley. Have you asked him?’

Mary Anne shook her head. ‘No. The boy’s gone through enough. We’ve all gone through enough.’

‘You’re protecting him again.’

She shook her head. Stanley had been a sickly child and she’d almost lost him to TB. But he’d pulled through. She’d never been able to stop mollycoddling him. It was something inside, something that warned her he must always be protected or she’d lose him. She wasn’t prepared to do that.

Harry suddenly took hold of her arm again. He shouted out to Stanley. ‘Come on, our Stanley. We’re off now.’

Stanley came racing back. Twigs and leaves clung to his pullover and his bare knees were smeared with mud.

‘Where are we going?’

Harry pointed him to where a small black Austin sat at the kerbside. It was the only car in the very long street that bounded the park. Harry’s eyes searched the empty street. No police. No questions. He was glad of that.

Mary Anne sat next to her son in the front seat. Stanley fell into the back, lying full stretch on the navy-blue leather.

‘Cor! Wait till I tell my pals about this,’ he cried as he caressed the thickly padded upholstery. ‘No one in our class has got a car!’

As they drove away from the kerb, Mary Anne eyed her son sidelong. ‘So where are we going?’ She kept her voice low so Stanley would not hear her. Harry replied in similar fashion. He smiled in that long, slow way of his, the way that made his mother almost fall in love with him – like she had on the day he was born.

‘Look, Mum. How about moving into my flat with Edgar?’

Mary Anne tried not to fluster. The flat was the first place to come to mind on the day the pawn shop was burned down. But she knew it wasn’t empty.

‘I couldn’t. He’s your friend. I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘lover’, just as she hadn’t been able to go round there in the first place.

‘Mum, it’s my flat, not his. I can have anyone in there I like. I can chuck him out if I wish.’

‘Would you?’

He shook his head. ‘Edgar belongs there.’

Mary Anne nodded. ‘Yes. I know that. How is he by the way?’

‘Well enough when I left him.’

The flat was in a large old building close to St Nicholas Market. Its large Georgian windows looked down over the river towards Bristol Bridge. In peacetime the view had been one of the hustle and bustle of a busy city. Castle Street, Wine Street and those around it had thronged with people on a Saturday night. Now there were just rains where Tudor houses had rubbed shoulders with those of a later age. All had gone up in flames back in November.

The flat itself reflected Harry’s personality. The decor was a tasteful blend of neutral tones, everything from coffee cream to vanilla.

Edgar rose from a leather chair to greet them. He held both Mary Anne’s hands and kissed her on each cheek.

‘Mary Anne. How lovely to see you.’

She felt funny being called by her Christian name by a boy who was almost young enough to be her son. Edgar oozed with the confidence of someone twice his age.

He tried to greet Stanley in the same manner, but the youngster sidestepped his embrace. Edgar managed to land one kiss on Stanley’s cheek. Stanley’s response was to grimace as he wiped it off.

Harry quickly explained the situation. ‘My mother has nowhere to live. I’ve invited her to move in here.’

‘Then she must. I insist.’

Edgar’s sincerity touched Mary Anne’s heart and brought a tear to her eye. It swiftly disappeared with his next comment.

‘But we don’t have room for the boy.’

The two young men locked eyes. Mary Anne could not read the look there, but she knew they were agreed. There was no room for Stanley.

Mary Anne read that look. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered. Stanley! We’re going.’

Harry barred her way out. ‘Mum. This flat has one bedroom only. And children aren’t allowed. At least give it a try for a few days. Our Stanley can go back with his dad.’

For some reason it hurt to hear Harry refer to Henry as Stanley’s dad and not his own. Blood was thicker than water after all.

‘I’ll drive you back to yer dad’s in the car. Alright, our Stanley?’

Stanley’s face lit up. What was living with your mother compared to driving in a car?

‘I’ll make up a bed in the cubby hole,’ said Edgar.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Harry.

Mary Anne followed. The kitchen, just like the living room, was crisp and clean – chic as they would have said in her day.

‘Are you sure Edgar doesn’t mind?’ she asked.

Harry looked directly into her eyes. ‘Mum, he
can’t
mind. This is my flat. But, saying that, whatever feelings Edgar shows are totally genuine. I won’t see my mother on the street and neither would he.’ He smirked suddenly. ‘Or at my sister’s come to that. Daw can be irritating at the best of times. I couldn’t live with her, that’s for sure.’

Mary Anne smiled.

‘And don’t worry,’ he said as he spooned the tea into a cream china pot. ‘I’ve still got contacts. I’ll find you a place of your own for you and our Stanley. OK?’

‘OK?’ she asked, bemused by the unfamiliar word.

‘It’s American, Mum. Don’t you ever go to the pictures?’

She sighed. ‘I used to, but not for a long time.’

He fell to silence as he placed everything onto a tray.

Stanley appeared in the doorway. ‘Got any biscuits?’

Harry reached into the cupboard and brought out a packet of shortbread. ‘Someone where I’m stationed gave me them for Christmas.’

Mary Anne wondered who. She hoped it was a girl, but she wouldn’t ask him. She’d wait for him to tell.

‘I think this war breeds evil,’ she said suddenly.

‘You could be right.’ He frowned heavily, like he did when he was thinking deeply.

‘It’s very likely that Dad did write that letter. Has it occurred to you that it might have been him who started the fire? He can be a vindictive old sod when he wants to be!’

The thought had occurred to her, of course, and she told him so. ‘People change in wartime. Some band together and pull together. Others pull for themselves or make mischief for others, as though it’s some form of entertainment. Like that business with the necklace in Patrick’s pocket. That couldn’t have been your father. We’d have seen him.’

Harry nodded. ‘You could be right.’

Mary Anne shook her head and smiled sadly. ‘Even when a sudden bit of luck did occur, it turned out not to be for this particular Mary Anne Randall.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mary Anne told him about the lawyer who’d called on Henry. ‘Henry didn’t send him to me because he knew I didn’t have an Aunt Maude. Would have been nice if I had; I wonder how much she would have left me?’

Harry took the tea on through. ‘You should have said that you did have an Aunt Maude. Wouldn’t have hurt.’

‘That would have been dishonest,’ said his mother. ‘Besides, I never saw the man. He went to your dad’s place. It was Biddy that told me.’

‘Never mind,’ said Harry. ‘If you had been the right woman, he would have come calling, wouldn’t he?’ He turned to his younger brother. ‘Grab some biscuits, Stanley. I’ll get you back to your father before it gets dark.’

Stanley didn’t wait to be asked twice before cramming half a packet of shortbread into each hand.

‘Won’t be long,’ Harry said with a smile.

Something about the way he said it made Mary Anne start.

‘I’ll have a fresh cup when I get back,’ Harry added, catching sight of his mother’s expression.

Stanley’s feet clumped noisily down the stairs behind him. Once outside, he wasted no time in clambering into the front passenger seat. ‘Are you going to stay and talk to Dad for a while when we get there?’ he asked.

Harry stared at the road ahead. He was clenching his jaw hard enough to break.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, more so to himself than to his little brother. ‘I’ll be doing that alright.’

Harry’s jaw clenched the moment he entered Aiken Street. He knew his father for what he was and could not accept that anything had changed. His worst fears were borne out as he stepped over the dull brass threshold. If his mother had been living here he would have seen his face reflected in its polished surface. As it was, the only woman living in this house was Biddy Young and she’d never been too keen on housework.

But it wasn’t neglect of the front step that filled him with foreboding. The sound of drunken laughter and the smell of strong stout wafted out to meet him and Stanley. His concern was not for himself – he’d seen the look on his brother’s face. Stanley had adjusted to the fact that his parents lived apart. That adjustment had gone quite smoothly, simply because Henry Randall had stayed on the wagon. All that was about to change.

A long passageway ran from the front door to the back of the house. In front of him were the stairs leading up to his father’s rooms. These houses were all pretty much the same, built for the working poor in the last century and little improved over the years. Harry could almost find his way up the stairs in the dark. To his right was the front room his father used as a bedroom; behind that the living room and the settee where Stanley slept when he stayed. At the very end of the passageway was the scullery.

The interior walls were brown gloss and the lino underfoot cracked with wear. The smell of damp and grease increased with each footstep.

The sound of raucous singing came from the end of the passageway. Stanley stopped. His pale complexion paled even more. Round-eyed he stared, his feet seemingly nailed to the spot.

Harry understood. He patted his brother on the shoulder. ‘Go get your things. You can stay at my place with Mum.’

Stanley didn’t hesitate.

Harry passed the sound of slamming drawers and cupboards as Stanley packed his pullovers, trousers and favourite things. Harry guessed this would include the roller skates he’d been given for Christmas. It was the only thought that brought a smile to his face.

A female voice joined in his father’s singing. They both sounded drunk. Harry’s features hardened when he saw them. His father and Biddy Young were dancing. They were doing some kind of reel, her arm linked into his and twirling around. Their other arms were outstretched, their free hands clutching a bottle of brown ale.

‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye, not a tear, not a fear, make it gay …’

They saw him and came to a staggered stop, leaning against each other yet still in serious danger of toppling over.

Henry had trouble focusing and even more trouble balancing. His mouth stretched into something between a smile and a sneer. ‘We was just ’aving a little drink.’

Biddy, her face paint-smeared and her clothes in disarray, leered at him as though she were twenty not over forty. ‘After all, it is Christmas.’

Harry eyed them with contempt. ‘My, my. But you two certainly suit each other. You,’ he said, pointing at Biddy, ‘reckon you’re my mother’s friend. And you,’ he said, now pointing an accusing finger at his father. ‘Why she ever consented to marry you, I’ll never know!’

His father’s attempt at a smile now curled into a cruel sneer. ‘You!’ he shouted, attempting to jab a finger at Harry’s shoulder, but missing and falling against the sink. ‘You! You bloody queer! That’s what you are! Bloody queer! Sooner mince around and make yerself look nice than be a real man and get yerself bloody shot. Best thing that could happen that is; getting yerself bloody shot.’

Biddy heard nothing. She’d slumped on to a chair, her fat chin resting on her ample breast. She was snoring.

‘Listen to that,’ said Harry, pointing at the snoring Biddy. ‘Sounds like a pig. Suits you down to the ground. Both pigs together!’

Wild-eyed, Henry Randall staggered a few steps closer to his eldest son. Spittle bubbled from the corner of his sagging mouth.

Harry stood unafraid, determined to fight his mother’s corner, and if that meant hitting his father to the ground, then so be it. His fists clenched instinctively. He was ready to do whatever was necessary.