Wartime Wife (11 page)

Mary Anne laughed and pushed a luxuriant lock of hair back inside her hairnet.

Lizzie cocked her head, sending her own lengthy locks tumbling over her shoulder. ‘I saw the baker watching you from his van the other day. You were talking to Mrs Young and he was staring at you.’

‘I didn’t notice. If I had, I might have slapped his face.’

Dimples appeared at the side of Lizzie’s mouth. ‘No you wouldn’t, and you did notice him. I know you did. I saw you purposely turn your back on him.’

Mary Anne remembered doing exactly that, and for exactly the reason Lizzie had suggested.

‘Now why would I do that?’

‘He’s just a baker, not a knight in shining armour.’

‘I think they’re all dead.’

‘Bakers or knights?’

Mary Anne laughed.

Lizzie wiped the draining board down. ‘There will be knights in this war, but they won’t be wearing shining armour
or riding horses. Some will be flying. Some will even be women.’

Mary Anne eyed her daughter warily. Having a son in uniform was something she knew might happen. It hadn’t occurred to her that daughters might be called up too. Her fear that her family might disintegrate before her eyes intensified.

Later, once the dishes were put away and the men were smoking, Mary Anne stood alone in the scullery considering the future.

A droplet of condensation fell on her head. She shivered. The scullery was built of wood and glass, no more than a lean-to leading off the kitchen, housing a brown clay sink next to the water pump. Beyond that, and only reached by an outside door, was the washhouse, a place of soapsuds, piles of laundry and locked cupboards.

Scrubbing hard at the pig’s head and scraping its bristles off with a knife kept her hands occupied. Narrowing her eyes, the triangle of pink flesh became Adolf Hitler. Her knife zipped faster over the bristled surface. War had come to the world and danger to her children. A cold blue eye stared mockingly up at her, for all the world as cold as the ones she’d seen staring out at her from the newsreels at the picture house.

Firmly gripping the handle of her knife, she stabbed at it. The inner fluid spurted out, a mush made misty by the tears running silently down her cheeks and into her mouth.

By teatime the next day, the pig’s head was in a saucepan, the snout sticking up through the water, and Mary Anne’s tears were under control when Doreen came out. She’d washed and changed ready to meet John. Usually she smelled of tobacco dust. The air in the tobacco factory was like a choking fog and everyone ended up smelling the same, the dust getting into pockets, around collars and even into the turn-ups on men’s trousers.

Her eyes were downcast and she kept fiddling with her hair, her ear lobes and the buttons of her high-necked blouse.

‘When are you seeing John?’ Mary Anne asked in as calm a manner as possible.

‘About half past eight. He has to do his stint in the shop first.’

John worked in one of the bonded warehouses where the tobacco was stored and weighed by customs before being delivered to the tobacco factory. His working day didn’t stop on arriving home. He was still expected to help out in the corner shop run by his aunt and uncle, who had brought him up since the death of his parents.

‘Here,’ said Mary Anne, passing her a ten shilling note. ‘Go out and enjoy yourselves.’

When Daw’s face broke into a smile, her mother thought she looked beautiful. ‘Oh, thanks, Ma.’ She had dark eyes and luxurious hair formed into an exuberant cottage-loaf style, which framed her face and rested on the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were pink and her complexion a creamy white. Men tripped over pavements when she walked by, though her daughter rarely noticed. All her life she’d seemed blissfully unaware of the effect she had on people. John was the only man who mattered.

‘Are you sure he’ll enlist?’ asked Mary Anne, but thought she already knew the answer.

‘Of course he will. You know what John’s like. He would have joined the air force long ago if it hadn’t been for his Aunt Maude and Uncle Jim. He gave in then, but now … well … he might not have a choice.’

Daw fiddled with her fingers as she spoke. She and John had been childhood sweethearts. It was only natural that they would get married one day.

Mary Anne threw her arms around her daughter. ‘Damn! Damn war and damn men for making war!’

She stepped back, holding her daughter at arm’s length and giving her a reassuring smile.

‘Don’t worry, Daw. This will all blow over and you’ll be married with three little ’uns before you know it.’

She felt Daw’s shoulders shake and a muffled sob break against her ear.

‘I don’t like this talk of war. I don’t like it at all. It frightens me.’

Mary Anne patted her back as though she were eight not eighteen. ‘None of us do, but cheer up. Have a talk with John later. Get yerselves a fish and chip supper. Everything will be all right, you see if it won’t.’

She looked up to see Henry staring at her from the doorway, eyeing the ten-shilling note fluttering in Daw’s fingers.

‘You giving good money away?’ He said it breezily for Daw’s benefit, as though he were only joking. Mary Anne knew otherwise, but went along with what Daw would view as a joke.

‘For her and John to have a fish and chip supper seeing as he’s joining up. They have to say their goodbyes.’

‘Enjoy yerself, our Daw,’ he said, adopting the benevolent expression of the doting father, not once betraying the other man reserved for his wife alone.

Once Daw was gone his attitude changed. He pointed an accusing finger and raised his voice. ‘That money’s for housekeeping and from my wages. I’ll have words with you about that.’

She knew what he meant. Inside, she trembled. Outside, she remained calm. He never showed his brutish side in front of the children. He saved that for her.

Turning his back, he left her there and for once the anticipation of what he would do later faded away and somewhat surprised her. After considering this new response, she counselled that England was sticking up for itself, and perhaps it was time she did so too.

Back in the kitchen, the atmosphere was damp and steamy, warm though a little more subdued than normal.

‘Come on,’ she said, with a wave of her wooden spoon. ‘I’ll have no glum faces around this table. Hitler ain’t invited to dinner. He can get his own!’

‘Wouldn’t dare,’ muttered Harry, disappearing behind another newspaper and another crossword.

His father still glared at him, disdain flaring his nostrils and like flints in his eyes.

Lizzie was attempting to open a drawer of the painted green dresser which stood, packed with crockery, against one wall. It was scuffed and scraped and painted pale green. Its
handles were brass and its drawers and doors sagged slightly. It was stuck.

Lizzie was exasperated. ‘It won’t open.’

Mary Anne elbowed her aside. ‘Let me.’ She tugged. Begrudgingly, it opened. Lizzie put the cutlery away.

‘Better tell our Stanley that there’s suet pudding and custard left.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘No. I’d better. I asked him earlier and he said no, but his stomach might be feeling emptier now.’

‘Has he been out again?’

Mary Anne sighed. ‘Yes, the little devil. He’s tired himself out.’ She frowned. ‘I wish he wouldn’t. He’s too sick. He doesn’t seem to realise …’

‘Mum, he seems so much better,’ said Lizzie. ‘He’s not really so sick.’

Mary Anne was indignant. ‘Yes he is! I’m his mother. I know him better than you do.’

Her snappy response made Lizzie jump.

‘What’s up with her?’ asked Harry.

‘She’s only got one child left and she’s making the most of it.’

Mary Anne went along the passageway and into the front room where a bed had been put up when Stanley had first became ill. So far, Mary Anne had resisted all attempts to put the bed back upstairs behind the curtain dividing the boys’ sleeping area from the girls’.

‘Hello, Stanley,’ she said brightly as she peered round the door.

Stanley did not reply. He lay very still, his big blue eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles. His fair hair stuck out from his head in delicate sweaty pikes, framing his face like a fragile halo against the white pillow.

He was far better than he had been, but not so strong as they’d like. Her heart lurched in her chest. It always did on every occasion she entered the room, half expecting the inevitable, which was why she rarely sent her other children to see if he was all right – in case he was not, in case he was no longer breathing, though the doctor had stated that the worse was over. A tremendous relief flowed over her body as his eyes flickered open.

‘I was tired,’ he said.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asked, her smile truly reflecting a sudden surge of joy. She licked her lips hoping that her action might whet his appetite. ‘I’ve made spotted dick and custard.’

For a moment he said nothing, his eyes regarding her impassively, almost as though he had not heard or was not sure whether she was real or if he was dreaming.

Sitting on the bed, stroking his hair away from his face, she fought to control her expression. His skin was clammy.

Mary Anne’s smile became fixed. ‘You’ve been out running about with those boys. Our Lizzie told me. You’ll tire yourself out.’

He stared at her almost accusingly. Was he angry with her for not allowing him out? He’d come home sweating and worn out on the day Lizzie had seen him at the butcher’s.

She began plumping up his pillows and tucking in his bedclothes.

‘You know I only want the best for you, Stanley. I want you to get better and stay better. You do know that, don’t you?’

Her cheeks grew hot in response to his steady gaze and the strange look in his eyes. Deep down she knew why; no other member of the family had ever witnessed the violent Henry. No other member of the family had ever given their father anything but respect. She pushed the truth away, just as she’d always done, and adopted her ‘all is well’ smile.

‘So what about some pudding?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Perhaps later. I’ll come in again.’

He said nothing, but she felt almost naked in the intensity of his gaze. He knew the truth that she did not want to admit to. She couldn’t talk about it, not with him, not with anyone.

‘Your cough’s better,’ she said brightly.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure you’re not hungry?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Never mind. You rest for now and I’ll tell you a story.’

She told him one of the stories she had made up just for him: tales to cheer him up and take him far away to a land where there was no illness, no pain, a land she said was like paradise.

‘Who lives in Paradise?’ he asked when she’d finished the story.

‘Fairies, elves, kind people, magic people, Jesus and God and all the angels.’

‘Dad won’t be there, will he, because he’ll be going to hell,’ he said, his voice heavy with feeling.

Mary Anne swallowed the well of emotion that rose up inside her.

Again she avoided the real issue, putting his comment down to tiredness.

‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ she asked again once she’d regained her self-control. ‘Spotted dick is your favourite.’

He shook his head, his fearsomely bright blue eyes following her to the door.

‘I’ll see you later, Stanley,’ she promised, giving him a little wave as she left the room.

‘Does our Stanley want anything?’ Lizzie asked on her mother’s return.

‘No, but I said I’d ask again later before I go to bed.’

Mary Anne paused for a moment before plunging the bread knife into the steaming pudding now unwrapped before them in all its glory.

At first she didn’t notice that the atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Pen in hand, Harry stayed behind his newspaper.

Lizzie’s eyes were flitting to everyone in turn. Mary Anne noticed her trying to catch her eye, jerking her chin towards where their father sat, his jaw clenched firm enough to break. He was glaring at Harry, who stayed behind the newspaper.

Mary Anne sucked in her breath. She knew her husband well as all women do after a long marriage. He sat rigidly as he ate, his mouth chomping and chewing at the food; oh, how that sound filled her with revulsion. She hated that sound. Hated the man who made it and wished he wasn’t sitting at her table. Once his belly was full, the dam would break. The sound of eating would give way to anger.

The pig’s head rumbled around in the boiling water. Steam turned to water and hissed as it dropped on the gas ring.

Cutlery clattered onto an empty plate. The voice of Henry Randall also rumbled, like a dark cloud about to burst with thunder.

‘I’ll have no son of mine called a coward – me, who fought the Boche in Picardy. How will I ever hold up my head.’ He wagged a yellow finger, stained by years and years of smoking. ‘Never mind all this gallivanting half the night. You’ll join up, mark my words if you don’t!’

WAR
, screamed the headlines on the front page of the newspaper. The word itself quivered and the paper rustled before Harry came out from behind it, making a clicking noise by running the top of his pen along his teeth.

‘I will not.’

‘I insist.’

Harry held his father’s gaze as he shook his head. They were so alike, thought his mother, but she loved one so much more than the other. She loved all her children.

‘No. I will not.’

Slowly, stiffly, Henry Randall got to his feet, his knuckles resting on the table.

‘I’m warning you, my boy. You’ll present yourself for duty, or you’re out of this house!’

‘Then I’ll be out of here,’ said the younger man without raising his voice, without any sign of aggression at all.

Henry Randall clenched his fist, kicked his chair behind him and moved towards his son. Harry did the same, but with mockery rather than anger in his eyes.

Mary Anne reacted instantly and ferociously, standing in between them, the top of her head barely reaching their shoulders.

‘There’ll be no more talk of war,’ she proclaimed, the bread knife pointing at husband and son in turn.