Wartime Family (27 page)

‘I see.’

A vision of Michael flashed into her mind; Michael and her not being married had been the reason she’d been evicted from the flat above the shop in the first place.

Her thoughts must have showed on her face. Edith patted her hand. ‘Never you mind. I’m in charge of that side of things. People can still send each other letters, can’t they? I’ll arrange things right away.’ A wistful look came to her face. ‘I used to get a lot of letters during the Great War, you know. I didn’t get any after 1916.’ Her eyes turned misty. ‘But I kept the ones he did send. I keep them tied up with a purple ribbon.’

‘I see. So you never married?’

‘Oh yes. I married after the war when I came out of the VADs – I was a volunteer nurse, you see. But I left him over there. He was a French lieutenant. I bandaged his wounds.’ She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘We did a lot of things together. He was already married, but you know what foreigners are like. He didn’t think it was wrong, and I didn’t either. There was a war on …’ Her voice drifted away along with her precious memories.

Edith’s revelations had been quite surprising. The woman was so human, and no doubt she would have offered more of her life story over a cup of tea, but Mary Anne’s attention had already drifted through the doorway to the room at the back of the shop. She saw a flash of blue uniform heading for the back door. The height, the way he moved and the outline of his face as he turned slightly confirmed who he was.

‘Patrick!’

He turned abruptly, his long legs striding swiftly and assuredly towards her.

‘Mrs Randall! Here you are! Where have you been? Where’s Lizzie? Where are you staying?’

She shook her head and held up a hand, begging him to halt.

‘One question at a time, Patrick.’

‘Harry sent me to find you. He was worried.’

‘I can understand that, but there was no need to be. I was going to write to him as soon as I was settled. See?’ She brought out the letter she’d written only that morning. ‘It’s short and sweet but it explains everything.’

Patrick’s face was flushed. He looked past her into the shop, seeking the one person he wanted to see above all others.

‘Where’s Lizzie?’ he asked.

Mary Anne hesitated. It wasn’t that she was worried about divulging her address to Patrick; Edith was out of earshot. Earlier she’d had the feeling that Lizzie was holding something back. Now Patrick was looking apprehensive, as though something unexpected had happened, something he hadn’t been prepared for. And Lizzie, she decided, was at the bottom of it.

‘I think you should go to the pictures, Lizzie. Have you told him you will?’

Lizzie was washing the dishes while her mother wiped. Patrick had joined them for a meal, and Mary Anne was taking advantage while Patrick had gone to relieve himself.

‘I told him I’d think about it. I thought you could do with a hand here.’

‘I can manage. There’s nothing here that can’t wait. It’s been a mess for months so another few days aren’t going to make that much difference.’

She stole an unseen glance at her daughter. Lizzie was looking down at each cup, each plate and each saucer she cleaned as though she might wipe the pattern off if she weren’t careful. Mary Anne looked back to the hot water but kept up a perpetual series of glances in the hope of seeing her daughter’s eyes in order to gauge what she was thinking. Soon she decided there was nothing for it but to be direct.

‘Are you keeping something from me, Lizzie?’

Lizzie jerked into instant alertness as if she’d been woken from a dream. ‘No. Of course not. Whatever makes you think that?’

Her retort was accompanied by a nervous laugh. Mary Anne was not fooled. She decided to mention the only other love interest Lizzie had ever had. ‘Have you seen anything of Peter?’

‘That creep! Not since I caught him hiding in the attic. I heard he got posted to North Africa.’

Mary Anne smiled wryly and raised her eyebrows. ‘Well that’s a bit different from Canada. A bit warmer too.’

‘In more ways than one, from what I hear on the news,’ Lizzie added.

Their faces creased with amusement. Peter’s mother had told everyone that he had enlisted and been posted to Canada on a training programme. With the help of his mother, Peter Selwyn had actually hidden in the attic in order to avoid enlistment. Lizzie had caught him out.

‘That was more than a year ago,’ said Lizzie, overcome with sudden nostalgia. She stopped wiping and looked out the kitchen window, catching glimpses of back yard brick and drooping buddleia.

‘Eighteen months or thereabouts,’ said her mother. She too stopped scrubbing at the pot and thought of the happy days of her first acquaintance with Michael. Bleeding profusely from an impending miscarriage, she’d collapsed on his doorstep. He’d taken her in and done everything Henry, her own husband, wouldn’t dream of doing.

Lizzie sensed where her mother’s thoughts were heading. ‘Has Michael heard from his parents?’

Mary Anne nodded. ‘They’re quite alright. They’re still on the Isle of Man, but they hope not for much longer. The powers that be are trying to sort things out. Hopefully they’ll get sent to another camp on the mainland. There are no houses for them, but at least they’ll be able to move around freely. It won’t be a prison camp like on the Isle of Man.’

The sound of the flush being pulled preceded Patrick’s arrival.

‘Perhaps if you don’t go to the pictures, we can have a little talk,’ said Mary Anne, eyeing her daughter knowingly. ‘Something’s obviously worrying you.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Lizzie as she finally set the plate she’d just wiped on to the pile for putting away. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

‘You’ve wiped that same plate four times, put it down on the pile four times, and picked it back up again four times. Have you finished wiping it now?’

Mary Anne glanced over her shoulder at Patrick. Her heart went out to him. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes were fixed on the floor and his jaw was clenched in a straight, rock-hard line.

‘I think our Lizzie has decided she’s going to the pictures with you,’ she said.

He lifted his head and his face brightened. ‘Is that right, Lizzie?’

‘You bet,’ she said with the jolliest smile Mary Anne had seen on her daughter’s face since she’d come home.

‘No heart-to-heart talk with Mother tonight,’ murmured Mary Anne, a smile playing around her lips.

Patrick looked worried again and addressed Lizzie. ‘Well if you really want to have a chat with your mother …’

‘Oh, no,’ said Lizzie, untying and tossing aside her apron. ‘I’d love to go to the pictures with you.’

‘Can I come?’ asked Stanley, who was busily scraping the saucepan of the last vestiges of stew.

Lizzie had been about to say no, but thought better of it. ‘I suppose you can. What’s playing?’ she asked Patrick.

Patrick’s disappointment that they wouldn’t be going alone was obvious. ‘I dunno,’ he grumbled. ‘It might not be a U. I think it’s an A.’

‘That’s alright,’ whooped Stanley. ‘If it’s an A certificate, I can get in with you two.’

‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Lizzie.

Mary Anne closed the blackout curtains after they’d gone and lit the candles. The glow of the coals in the range turned the dirty walls to rose and the flickering flame of the candles added a frieze of dancing shadows.

They’d cleaned the room and the old dining table enough for her to start unpicking and re-cutting some items on which Edith at the Red Cross had asked her to work her magic.

The light wasn’t really good enough for her to see by and after a while she rubbed at her eyes, leaned back in the chair and dozed in front of the fire.

Patrick gave Lizzie his arm. Together they walked silently with Stanley skipping around in front of them, rabbiting on about Zorro and his flaming sword of freedom.

‘So,’ said Patrick once he’d plucked up the courage to face the truth. ‘Who is this new sweetheart of yours?’

Lizzie lowered her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help it, Patrick. I was his driver and it just happened. We were working together.’

‘And ended up sleeping together.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Lizzie’s retort was hot and the blood rushed to her face.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

Lizzie sucked in her lips as she considered what she could say. There was nothing really. Somehow Patrick had stumbled on the truth. ‘It’s alright’

They’d reached the doors of the Town Hall Picture House. The queue for the one and sixpenny tickets was already moving forward. They tagged on to the end of it, Stanley first, proudly stating the fact that he was paying for himself. He counted out some pennies and threepenny bits that Patrick had given him.

‘I thought we were engaged,’ said Patrick suddenly after paying for their tickets.

‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’

‘I thought it was more than an impression. I thought it was fact’

The darkness of the theatre hid her guilty expression. Patrick was speaking the truth. She
had
promised him a lot and now she’d gone back on her word. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. But I want a better life.’

‘The sort of life Peter, that other geezer, could have given you – if he’d been willing.’

‘You’ve no right to say that!’

This time he didn’t say sorry. Neither did she pursue an apology. His comment hit too close to the truth. Peter, her employer’s son, had led her on, toyed with her and made her believe he loved her. She told herself that Guy wasn’t like that, that he really loved her and would get a divorce – especially now, when she told him her news.

‘You’ve got to promise me that you’ll say nothing to my mother – or anyone else for that matter.’

‘Of course not,’ said Patrick.

People already seated rose so they could squeeze through to their seats. Pathé News was on, reporting about events in North Africa. There were cheers for the Eighth Army and jeers for captured Italians.

Lizzie was glad of the darkness and the need to be quiet.

Once they were seated, Patrick whispered into her ear. ‘I’ll always love you.’

Fixing her eyes on the screen, she pretended she hadn’t heard. But she wasn’t watching the film; she wasn’t really there at all. She was wishing the time away, wanting to be gone from Bristol and back in East Anglia. Despite Harry’s entreaties, she wouldn’t have come down at all if Guy hadn’t been forced to go away.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he’d told her. ‘We’ll sort things out then.’

She’d believed him totally, but now a tiny seed of doubt was starting to grow.
No
, she thought to herself and cut it off at the root,
Guy will be there for me.
She must believe that.

To Lizzie the film that was billed as being just over an hour long seemed more like three hours. Her eyes were fixed on the screen but she wasn’t really seeing it. At last the film finished and the National Anthem was played. The patriotic majority stood and waited patiently; the few who were less than patriotic raced for the exits.

Stanley chattered about the film all the way home, a fact that went a long way to bridging the silence that had descended between his sister and Patrick.

‘I’m going to be like Jimmy Cagney when I grow up.’

‘You won’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘Mum won’t let you.’

Stanley continued to skip sideways along the pavement making rat-a-tat-tat noises from the pretend machine gun he was using.

Both Patrick and Lizzie walked along with their hands in their pockets, heads down. It was a clear night and darkness had only just fallen. The sound of gunfire sounded in the distance.

‘Swindon. Or Gloucester,’ said Patrick.

‘Hmm.’ Lizzie made no real comment. At least the bombing wasn’t here. At least they were safe for the moment.

They walked along the street at the back of the old pawn shop, not needing to cut through the alley from East Street. Streaks of brightness behind ragged purple clouds formed a dramatic backdrop for a forest of chimneys, broken roofs and floating barrage balloons.

The street was empty, the last kids having been called in long ago for supper and bedtime. A trail of smoke rose from the blackened stump of what remained of a chimney above the pawn shop. Another pillar of denser, blacker smoke rose in the proximity of the back yard.

‘Hello! What’s going on?’ Patrick frowned and quickened his pace.

Lizzie heard the concern in his voice. ‘What is it?’

As they came level with the gate, it jerked open. A figure in a trench coat came flying out, almost knocking them over.

Patrick grabbed him.

‘Hey! What are you up to?’

‘Mother!’ Lizzie ran into the back yard, Stanley right behind her. What she saw there filled her with terror. A fire had been set against the back door. The old paint was already blistering, which was causing the smoke.

‘Smother it,’ shouted Patrick, still grappling with the man in the trench coat. ‘Smother it!’

Lizzie grabbed a damp sheet from the line. ‘Quick, Stanley. Spread it over the fire.’

Considering his age, Stanley was quick to act. Bravely he grappled with the edges of the sheet, fastening them over the fire with bits of brick and stone. His face was creased with concern, his eyes narrowed against the stifling smoke.

What remained of the smoke turned from black to white and steadied from toxic plumes to drifting mist. The damp sheet had done its stuff.

Lizzie pushed past it and unlocked the door, shouting for her mother as she ran inside. Stanley picked up the leg of a chair on his way out to join Patrick. Holding it with both hands, he raised the weapon over the man’s head. His jaw dropped open when he saw who it was.

The man struggled and attempted to get up. Patrick rolled him over on to his back, pinning him to the floor by pressing one knee into the small of his back, his hands pinned to the dirty ground.

‘Run and get a copper,’ he said to Stanley. ‘Tell ’im this bloke was trying to set light to a building with your mother inside.’

Stanley’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Can’t I bash ’im first?’

‘Do as you’re told. Get a copper.’