Wartime Family (8 page)

Lizzie eyed her mother. The expression in her eyes was hidden, and yet she guessed what her mother was thinking.

‘I won’t offer you a penny for your thoughts; there’s too many of them. Number one, you’re wondering when or whether Michael will come back. Number two, you’re considering moving back in with Dad for our Stanley’s sake. You mustn’t think like that, Mum.’ Lizzie squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Michael
will
come back. And you don’t love Dad. You love Michael.’

Mary Anne raised her eyes and looked at her daughter. ‘Is that enough? I’ve grown older since he’s been away. He may have met someone, someone younger who doesn’t have a grown-up family.’

Lizzie was adamant. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head so vehemently that her hat nearly flew off. ‘Don’t even say that. He’ll be back, Mother. He’ll be back.’

Deep in conversation, they’d hardly noticed that they were stopped by the pile of rubble that used to be Biddy’s house. Both fell to silence, eyeing the upstairs fireplace on the party wall of what had once been the bedroom.

It was Lizzie who broke the silence. ‘I suppose Daw’s put the kettle on.’

‘I expect so. She’ll be glad to see you.’

It could never be taken as read that Daw would be pleased to see anyone, but Mary Anne told herself that it would be so. Two sisters together.

Lizzie’s chatter returned to normal. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing little Mathilda again. It seems an age since I saw her last.’

They turned and strolled back towards the little shop where the goods were spread out to make it look as though they had more in stock than was actually the case. They still had lots to talk about, but for the moment each was lost in thought. At last Lizzie said, ‘Let me speak to Dad, Mum. I promise I won’t lose my temper. I’ll put things simply but honestly. Leave it to me. Don’t go round there yourself. Promise?’

Mary Anne looked at her beautiful daughter. Unbidden, a terrible fear took hold of her – not fear of Lizzie getting killed or maimed in this dreadful war, but fear that she too might end up marrying the wrong man. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks. ‘I’ll promise you something as long as you promise me something in return.’

Lizzie laughed. ‘If I have to promise, I will. Yes.’

‘Promise me that you’ll only marry a man who’s good to you.’

Lizzie gazed at her mother, wondering what secrets she held that she had never told. Her father, Henry Randall, had treated her mother badly. And yet her mother was an intelligent woman, so why hadn’t she married a man who was good to her? She decided not to ask any questions. Her mother’s past life was her own, and she should talk about it only if she really wanted to.

You’re taking the coward’s way out
, she told herself. But she wouldn’t admit to that and other secrets, not to her mother. Instead her laughter was light and lit up her face. ‘Never fear, Mother. I’ll end up with someone safe and sound. I suppose Patrick’s at the top of that particular list.’

Mary Anne sighed with relief. ‘Good.’ Patrick had endured an awful upbringing by a mother who’d had more men friends than hot dinners. Patrick hadn’t had too many hot dinners at all. He’d grown up scrawny and scruffy, but Lizzie had become his friend. At the outbreak of war they became more than that. Patrick was good to Lizzie and in Mary Anne’s opinion they were made for each other. This news couldn’t have come at a better time.

All the same, why was Lizzie looking towards the mist rising from The Cut? Was there something in her eyes she didn’t want her own mother to see? Mary Anne dismissed her concern. Her daughter had always been sensible. She wasn’t the type to bring trouble home.

They both rubbed their hands together as they passed from the chill of the street and into the warmth of the shop. Cries of welcome reverberated around the back room as tea was poured and sandwiches and home-made cake were passed round.

Neither woman had noticed the lone figure watching them from behind the broken timbers of a bombed-out house. But he saw them and hated them for being a family, for being happy, and for having each other.

‘Patrick, you look a picture.’

‘In that case, Mrs Randall, I’m a failure. I was hoping I looked like a first-class aircraftsman!’

Patrick had come looking for Lizzie at the Lord Nelson pub after travelling up from a fighter station on the south coast. Like her he’d acquired a temporary room; unlike her, his lodgings were above a chip shop.

‘Not that they’ve got much fish at the moment and not too many chips,’ he said ruefully. ‘Lovely smell though.’

In her son’s absence, Patrick’s mother had let his room out to lodgers and was making a pretty packet, an amount of money she had no wish to lose simply because he was back. Not that he was too inclined to return to his childhood home anyway.

He found it funny that Lizzie and her mother were staying above a pub. ‘Handy for getting home if you’ve had a few in the bar,’ he said chirpily, his eyes following Lizzie’s every movement.

Lizzie poked her tongue out at him as she handed him a cup of tea. ‘Two days. That’s all I’ve got, Patrick Kelly, so there’s no time for me to get drunk. Well, not if you want to make the most of my company.’

His eyes sparkled as he grinned. ‘I don’t need to make any decision between you and a pint of beer. I know what I want.’

Lizzie blushed. ‘Less of your cheek, Patrick Kelly.’

Her mother had returned to her sewing, pretending that the skirt she was altering had her undivided attention.

‘Will you come with us to the pictures, Mrs Randall?’ asked Patrick.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re quite welcome. It’s a cowboy film.’

She shook her head. ‘Not my favourite kind of film I’m afraid, and anyway, I’m expecting our Stanley to call in.’

Patrick was far too polite to show his relief. All the same, she sensed it, and who could blame him? These two young people were serving their country. Both faced the possibility of being injured or killed – Patrick in the air, and Lizzie on the home front. Let them have their time together unchaperoned – no matter what they got up to.

‘How’s Stanley getting on?’ Patrick enquired.

‘Not too bad,’ Mary Anne replied, ‘though we’ll all be happier when we’ve found somewhere to live.’

‘Not easy,’ Patrick said ruefully. ‘Bristol had it bad enough in November, but you should see London.’ He shook his head. ‘The East End’s a mess. I’ve occasion to go up there now and again, you know, stationed where I am.’

Lizzie had gone quiet, her eyes lowered as though the surface of her tea was incredibly interesting.

‘How long before you leave?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Thought we would have shipped out by now, but it won’t be long. Mark my words, it won’t be long.’

The three of them fell to an uneasy silence, but it didn’t last long.

‘Well! Better get going,’ said Patrick, slapping his thighs as he got to his feet. ‘If we don’t get a move on, them cowboys will have shot all the Indians before we’ve even got there.’

Alone at last, Mary Anne let the sewing slip into her lap. Resting her head back, she closed her eyes and remembered how it had been in the Great War, the one they were beginning to call the First World War, because this, sadly, had turned into the second.

In her quieter moments like these, her thoughts went back to Edward, her first boyfriend. They too had felt that terrible urgency, the need to experience all life had to offer just in case it was about to end. For Edward it had ended at Cambrai. For her it had meant finding herself pregnant, ‘disgraced’. Sent away before her time came, she had cried herself to sleep on her pillow night after night, wishing she and Edward had married first, but wishing most of all that he’d come back.

The child had been adopted. Her parents had dealt with all the details, but still there were rumours. Only a hastily arranged marriage would restore her respectability. She didn’t find out until much later that Henry Randall had been paid to marry her. And at first they’d been happy. He’d worshipped her and nothing she could do was wrong. Trusting him to be magnanimous, she’d told him all about her secret sin, but his reaction was the opposite of what she’d expected. Overnight the caring husband turned into a jealous, cruel monster. The pedestal he’d put her on was pulled out from under her. Even so, she’d endured her punishment – for that’s how she’d regarded it. She’d lived for her children – that was, until Michael came along.

She shook herself out of these maudlin memories, and took herself to bed for some much-needed rest. In the morning, she took the skirt she had mended over to the Red Cross shop. Gertrude immediately found a hanger for it and slid it on to a nail along with a few other skirts.

‘You’ve done a nice job of that, dear. I’m sure some needy soul will snap it up,’ said a joyful Gertrude, her voice reverberating around the crowded counters. ‘Now, I’ve got a nice coat here that could do with altering …’

Huffing and puffing, she heaved a leopard-skin coat on to the counter. ‘It’s too long and a bit old fashioned. I thought that perhaps you could cut off the bottom and make it into a three-quarter length, and then make a pillbox hat with what you’ve cut off. I’m sure you can do it. Here!’

Before she had a chance to protest, the coat was almost plonked into her arms. ‘I can’t,’ said Mary Anne.

‘Can’t?’
Gertrude snapped, her face smothered in frown lines.

Mary Anne sighed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t anywhere to live at present and I do have to spend some time finding somewhere. Perhaps then …’

Gertrude Palmer looked astounded, as though Mary Anne had slapped her on both sides of her face.

‘Do you have a husband?’

Mary Anne found herself blushing. ‘He’s away serving with his regiment …’ Her voice melted away. Michael had impressed on her that she mustn’t go into too much detail about the fact that he worked as a translator, translating messages from German into English. He’d been born in England but raised in Germany. His mother and stepfather were presently in a camp on the Isle of Man. But that was another of their secrets and best not mentioned.

Mrs Palmer had small, shrewd eyes. Like a knife they cut right through to the crux of a matter. ‘So where are you staying at present?’

‘In a room above the Lord Nelson, but it’s only for two days. My daughter’s on leave, you see.’ She stroked the fur flat. ‘It’s lovely though. I’m sure it would make a matching hat and coat, but …’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Finding suitable accommodation is very difficult.’

‘Nonsense!’

The sharp voice made her jump. Gertrude didn’t seem to notice.

‘Depending on what standard of accommodation you happen to be looking for, there is no problem at all! I have just the thing. Come on. Follow me.’

Mary Anne did as ordered. It occurred to her that Gertrude might have been in the army herself at some time, or perhaps a matron in a field hospital. She certainly knew how to give orders and make people jump to attention.

Gertrude’s sensible shoes clumped up an uncarpeted wooden staircase and eventually on to a small landing.

‘That’s the storeroom,’ said Gertrude, indicating a room to her right. ‘That’s the usual offices,’ she said, pointing ahead to a small bathroom. ‘And this is one room, and this is the other. There’s also an attic’

She swung two doors open, one after the other. The first room was quite large with a bay window overlooking East Street. The other was smaller, its window overlooking the yard at the back.

‘The kitchen’s down in the shop, of course, but I’m quite happy for you to use it. Well? What do you think?’

Mary Anne realized that her jaw was hanging slack, but she couldn’t help it. ‘I think it’s …’ She shook her head and snatched at her throat. It was almost impossible to get the words out. She was so grateful, so overwhelmed.

Used to making snap decisions, Gertrude took her hesitation the wrong way. ‘Well, if it’s a little beneath you,’ she said indignantly, ‘most people would jump at it.’

‘I think it’s wonderful! I can’t thank you enough …’ She shook her head and couldn’t stop her eyes turning moist. ‘But there is one little problem I think I should mention. I have a son, you see. He’s ten years old.’

Gertrude looked at her aghast. ‘And he’s living above the pub too? That’s terrible!’

‘No,’ said Mary Anne, shaking her head. The right words rather than the truth tumbled from her tongue. ‘I’d never allow a child of mine to live above a pub. He’s staying with my husband – my husband’s friend. It was all I could do for now.’

The lies came easily. Just little white ones, she told herself, knowing instinctively that Gertrude would not approve of her being married but not living with her husband. Her subterfuge worked. Gertrude showed unaccustomed sympathy.

‘My dear, your son is welcome here. Make arrangements to move in as soon as you like.’

Feeling fit to explode, Mary Anne tried to say a simple thank you, but her emotions wouldn’t let her. ‘Mrs Palmer! Mrs Palmer! What can I say?’

She grabbed the ample woman and planted a kiss on her cheek. Gertrude Palmer’s look of astonishment turned to discomfort as a tear tumbled down Mary Anne’s cheek.

‘There’s no need to overreact,’ she muttered.

It was odd to see Gertrude looking uncomfortable, suddenly aware that she had touched someone deeply.

Mary Anne smiled through her tears. ‘Mrs Palmer …’

‘Gertrude. Call me Gertrude.’

‘Gertrude, I can’t thank you enough …’

Faced with such sentimentality, Gertrude’s gruffness returned. ‘Think nothing of it. We needed a caretaker, what with all these looters around, and you’re very good at mending and alterations. It’s a very good arrangement to my way of thinking.’

‘The only thing is,’ said Mary Anne, wandering from the front room to the back and back again, ‘is that all my furniture was destroyed in the fire.’

‘Is that all? My word, I have a whole houseful of unused items in my old stable. You can take your pick of that. You’ll find a bed, a three-piece suite and a dining set at least. I trust you can deal with curtains yourself – not that you really need them with the blackout curtains in place.’