Wartime Wife (12 page)

Both men stayed glaring at each other, one angrily, the other smirking his contempt.

Mary Anne raised her eyes to heaven and said in a voice soaked with emotion, ‘Can we at least have some peace until tomorrow?’

The two men bristled then sat down.

Mary Anne sighed with relief.

Eyeing both of them with a mix of misgiving and anger, she put a second helping of spotted dick and custard before each of them. Food led to contentment, and hopefully, peace.

Lizzie, her expression fearful, made an announcement that she trusted to change the subject. ‘Patrick Kelly is joining up tomorrow.’

Retrieving his chair, her father sat down and dug his spoon into his pudding. ‘Is he now. Well there’s a brave lad. Imagine! He could end up in Belgium, or even France. I’d be proud to call him son if he were mine.’

‘Well, he’d better not be your son,’ warned Mary Anne, her fixed stare conveying her hidden meaning.

Lizzie’s intake of breath captured Harry’s attention. Both looked surprised, as though they didn’t expect their mother to know anything of Molly Kelly’s reputation.

Henry Randall took a moment to understand her meaning. Once he did, he bowed his head. ‘Don’t be so daft, woman.’

Head bowed and using his spoon like a spade, Henry shovelled spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.

Lizzie and Harry exchanged knowing looks. Patrick’s mother was a slut. Everyone knew it, and some men just couldn’t resist.

Mary Anne looked in the mirror above the sink, smoothing her hair away from her face and feeling faintly surprised, even quite satisfied, that she looked as good as she did. What did the likes of Molly Kelly have compared to her? Certainly not looks, but then, what did she care? The world had turned darker. Worrying about her children outweighed any worry about her husband’s fidelity.

Harry left his pudding and headed for the back door.

‘I’m off out back for a smoke, and then I’m going out.’

Mary Anne followed her son out into the backyard where vegetables pushed bravely up through the dark soil. A host of gladioli, bright orange and red, stood in regal battalions against the end wall, clinging on despite the descent into late autumn. An alley ran between the end wall and the soap factory. At this time of night, the gate was bolted. Mary Anne never allowed her family to use it. They were ordered to go round the front. Only her customers used the back, willing to pick their way
through the puddles and chance meeting a rat running from the holes in the bottom of the factory wall.

The tip of Harry’s cigarette glowed red in the darkness. He was staring up at the sky.

Mary Anne rubbed her hands together before wrapping her arms around herself. The night was turning chilly.

‘You mustn’t take too much notice of your father. He’s upset that he can’t go himself.’

‘It don’t make no difference, Ma. I ain’t going,’ he said, flicking his cigarette into the cabbage patch.

‘But you’re not afraid.’ She said it as a statement, not a question, patting his arm affectionately as she admired the firm contours of his face.

He thought about it before replying, his gaze still fixed on the stars.

‘Look at them stars,’ he said and pointed to the brightest in the sky. ‘How many lives have them stars seen slaughtered in pursuit of a cause? How many blokes have been told that they’re fighting for freedom, their country or whatever, and that God was on their side? Well, God can’t be on everyone’s side, can He, and some of those wars that were fought now seem bloody stupid; pointless in fact. So, Ma, I’ll bide me time. I won’t rush into the recruitment office on the spur of the moment. Besides, like I say, there’s more than one way to fight a war. I’ll think about it, and if in the meantime I get called up, then that’s a different matter, but until then …’

‘Here,’ she said, her hand closing over his in order to hide the pound note she was slipping into his palm. ‘Spend it on yerself. Have a pint or two with the boys.’

He looked at the money in his palm. ‘That’s more than a few pints, Ma.’

‘Then take a nice girl dancing.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t know any
nice
girls.’

Mary Anne laughed with him. ‘You cheeky bugger.’ Her mood turned more serious. ‘I don’t care how you spend it. Just enjoy yourself.’

‘One day I’ll pay you back for all you’ve given me, Ma. I’ve got prospects. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. I know that one day you’ll make me very proud, but you don’t need to pay me back every ten shillings I’ve ever given you.’

‘But I will. In fact, I’ll pay you back a hundredfold. I promise. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, Ma. You see if I don’t.’

Mary Anne laughed. ‘Ooow, I could get expensive if I really tried. You’d have to be really rich.’

The side of Harry’s mouth lifted in that wicked way of his. ‘I will be rich some day, Ma. You wait and see if I ain’t.’

‘I believe you.’

They stood holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Love flowed between them and needed no words, but a look came to Harry’s eyes, as though he’d come to an agreement with himself, perhaps as a man heading for the confessional.

‘There’s something else I’ve got to tell you.’ His thumbs massaged her knuckles and the look in his eyes made her feel nervous. ‘It’s something that I can’t tell anyone else, something that’s become something of a burden. I need to share it with someone. I need someone to understand.’

She frowned. ‘If you want me to understand, you have to tell me what it is.’

A host of worries ran through her mind. What disease was he suffering from? Was he going to die? Or could it be something not life threatening at all, in fact quite commonplace if the truth was known.

‘Have you got a girl pregnant? I wouldn’t force you into marrying her, not if you don’t love her. I wouldn’t do that, Harry. It can cause more problems than it solves.’

Shaking his head, his mouth lifted in that half-smile she loved so much. ‘No. That isn’t it. You’re the only girl in my life, Ma. You always will be.’

Laughingly, she punched her fist against his broad chest. ‘You big softee!’

He sort of laughed with her, but half seriously, as though she’d almost hit on the truth.

‘Just as long as you remember how important you are no matter what I do and where I go. I’m going to get myself my own place, Ma, a little flat somewhere along Coronation Road. I’ve also a mind to go into business for myself. Those with a way of turning a pound could make a fortune if they put their minds to it, and that’s what I intend to do. But I don’t want you to be upset when I leave. Is that clear?’

She hid her true feelings, smiling broadly, though her eyes were misty, relieved that he hadn’t put into words what she’d thought he was going to say. Deep down the fear of no longer being wanted, which had come into existence on the day her eldest had started work, began to grow, faster now because soon they would all be gone.

‘What else?’ she asked, sensing he’d been about to tell her of this burden he was carrying.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Nothing much. Nothing that can’t wait.’

She sensed there was more, but didn’t press him, leaving him to tell her in his own good time.

He kissed her on the cheek before going back inside to get ready to go out. Later in the evening, Mary Anne watched him saunter off down the street, whistling nonchalantly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his raincoat.

She smiled. She imagined the girls being drawn to him like a moth to a flame. How could they resist? He was her son.

It started raining around eleven that night when Henry pushed her into their bedroom. The curtains remained open, the street light two doors down lending enough light to see each other by.

The walls were thin. His voice was low.

‘Give my money away, would you? Well, don’t ask me for any more housekeeping this week. If there ain’t enough food in the ’ouse, it’s you that’s to go without, not me. Get that?’

She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t tell him that the money was nothing to do with the meagre housekeeping he gave her, but earned from her business, her dearly beloved business that compensated in a very small way for the rest of her life. The money it earned was for her children, not for him and the landlords of the Red Cow, the White Lion, and the Admiral Nelson.

Henry was crafty. She’d found that out years ago. He enjoyed his children’s respect. He wouldn’t want them to know how he really was. His voice would remain low. Only Mary Anne would hear his threats. Only she would feel any pain.

Once they were in bed, he took her savagely, thrusting into her as though his penis was a knife and he was stabbing at her very soul, trying to kill the part of her she kept from him. She gritted her teeth, not daring to cry out, but praying for him to fall asleep. At last, he pushed her away from beneath him as though his need and her availability were disgusting. Within minutes of rolling onto his side, his back to her, he began to snore.

The clock in the tower of St John’s struck midnight and a full moon threw shadows through the small washhouse window.

After making sure she was alone, Mary Anne retrieved the brown bottle and gulped down what she considered a suitable amount. The seriousness of her predicament, the shame it would attract, caused her to pause and consider whether she’d
taken enough. She thought of the forthcoming war and all the lives likely to be lost. The world was becoming crueller. That’s what she told herself before taking a second gulp, closing the cap, and putting it back in the cupboard.

‘Please God,’ she whispered, ‘let it work.’

The air inside the Ship on Redcliffe Hill was thick enough to cut with a knife. Bodies were packed tightly against each other all the way to the bar, and those seated leaned over tables in the squash of people trying to pass by and also to hear their companions’ conversation.

Harry leaned on the bar next to the flap that opened to allow the landlord and other staff in and out to collect glasses. The brim of his hat threw a shadow over his features, and his collar stood up around his ears. He looked too poised and well turned out to be a tobacco worker and knew it.

‘Got a light?’

Harry automatically offered the end of his own cigarette. His eyes slid sidelong, casing the room, searching the crowd for anyone who didn’t fit in.

‘How many do you want?’

Charlie Knowles, a thief and a fence and well known in the area, kept his voice low and spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘How many have you got?’ he asked, his hand cupped around the burning glow of Harry’s cigarette.

‘Two hundred.’

‘Packets of ten?’

‘Of course.’

‘What you asking?’

‘Sixpence a packet.’

Charlie made a tutting sound. ‘That’s a bit pricey, ain’t it? You ought to be hung.’

‘There’s a war on. Think how much you’re likely to make once the rationing starts. Tobacco comes from America and suchlike, remember?’

After delving into his inside pocket, a crisp fiver was handed over, peeled from a wedge that looked to be at least an inch thick. Harry took it and tucked it inside the grey suit jacket he wore beneath his raincoat.

‘Better do the deed outside,’ said Charlie. ‘Too many tea leaves in ’ere.’

Harry grinned at the comment. Wasn’t Charlie one himself? He followed him outside, glad to escape the stink of bodies, booze, cigarettes and cheap face powder.

The lane at the side of the pub led around the back of the building and into an area where empty bottles clinked together in wooden crates.

A woman of robust proportions, her head wreathed in cigarette smoke, stepped out from the shadows.

Harry winced at the sight of her. She might have been reasonably good-looking at one time, but at some point she’d fallen foul of someone with a very bad temper and a knife with a serrated blade, judging by the cuts on her face.

Harry wondered at the shadowy world she inhabited, a world he was entering at his own volition because he wanted the good things in life, and also because using his mind to combat danger excited him.

‘Gladys will take them,’ said Charlie.

The named woman grinned, revealing a gap in her teeth that did nothing to complement her features. Her hair was greasy and clung in thin tendrils around her face. She had big breasts,
but from there down her body seemed to fall away, making her seem cone-shaped, not normal womanly at all.

Harry began unloading the cigarettes from his person and into a pouch Gladys had sewn into her skirt.

Harry congratulated himself. It was so easy: an oversize raincoat lined with pockets could take as many as two hundred and fifty packets of Woodbines. Charging sixpence for ten brought in five pounds. Wills, the tobacco giant he worked for, wouldn’t notice a few packets going amiss. After all, he thought to himself, they could afford it.

‘You know where to take them,’ Charlie said to Gladys once the transfer was done.

She nodded. ‘All right, Charlie.’

Looking as though she were pregnant with twins rather than with two hundred packets of Woodbines, she trundled off, her body tilted backwards, her belly thrust forwards.

Charlie stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the dirt. ‘Fancy a pint?’

‘You buying?’

Charlie clenched his chin and gave Harry a warning look. ‘You’re a cocky little sod, Harry. Could get you in trouble one day.’

Harry smiled. ‘No offence intended, Mr Knowles.’

It didn’t do to push the likes of Charlie Knowles, a right bad, mad case if ever there was one.

It took a split second for his face to change. His smile was as crooked as his reputation. ‘None taken. And call me Charlie. You strikes me as a bright boy, Harry Randall.’

‘I try to be.’

Once back at the bar, two pints of bitter in front of them, their conversation turned naturally enough to the war.

Charlie was squinting. Anyone who knew him well, including his family, knew he was doing some serious thinking if he was squinting.

He addressed Harry. ‘You remember I said a bloke with a bit of savvy about him could make a few bob from this war?’