Wartime Wife (25 page)

She reached for a chair. ‘I must …’

He caught her before she hit the floor, saw the pallor and closed eyes, her hair tumbling out from beneath her fallen hat.

‘What is wrong? Can you hear me?’

Of course, she couldn’t.

He must bring her round. He pushed the small table away from the front of the old chaise longue. Far too big for the room, earlier in the week he’d thought about burning it. Now he was glad of its width and cumbersome detail.

He picked her up easily and lay her out on it. After placing a cushion beneath her head, he bent his ear close to her mouth and checked her breathing, then took her wrist and checked her pulse. As he did so, he found himself surprised at the slimness of her wrist and the elegance of her hands. He heard her give a little fluttery sigh and worried that she was having trouble breathing. What should he do? Unbuttoning her coat and the cardigan beneath, he studied her face, the fine cheekbones and the naturally arched eyebrows before peeling both garments away from her throat.

He thought about getting her a glass of water, but reconsidered. Would she choke on it while unconscious? Surely it was better to let her come round in her own time. He decided that was the best course, pulled up a chair and waited, watching as the colour returned to her face and her breasts rose and fell, her full lips parting slightly with each breath. He became mesmerised by her breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, the parted lips, the pale smooth complexion. She was at his mercy
and all he could do was stare and become as familiar with her features as a lover watching his mistress sleep.

How would it be to sleep with her? he wondered. What did her laughter sound like? How would her fingers feel on his flesh?

His eyes followed the curve of her shoulder, the narrowing of her waist, the more sumptuous curve of her hip. And she had compassion; she had relented when it looked as though the workmen would beat him on her behalf. He liked that and seeing her coupled with that pig of a husband upset him. He suddenly wanted to show her how it could be. A woman of such classic good looks should know real passion at least once in her life.

She reminded him of Bronica and that summer – when was it? Nineteen thirty-three? He’d been twenty-three at the time and, having left university, was working as an assistant in a music shop. Not exactly the ideal profession, but he was in Berlin with companions of his own age, which meant he didn’t have to live at home. The memories still discomfited him.

He hadn’t died from his mutilation, but the scarring around the head of his penis was now very obviously the result of an accident, not a religious ceremony. ‘I don’t want to be a Jew!’ he’d shouted when his stepfather had asked him why he’d done it.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the pastor had replied, his expression and tone of voice decreeing that all discussion about such a distasteful part of the anatomy was at an end.

He couldn’t find the courage to question his mother, so the problem smouldered, his physical defect a mental barrier to him becoming a fully paid up member of Aryan society.

Bronica’s red hair had glowed like fire through the smoke-filled haze of a beer hall, the atmosphere buzzing with politics, bravado and sexual attraction. A brass ensemble belted out the
usual background noise until she had got up, whispered in the ear of the trombonist, then, with assistance from some male friends, stepped up on to a tabletop and belted out an American jazz number.

Sleekly sinuous, her body had entranced him, her hair flying around her shoulders, her voice as smoky as the air around them.

Most people rolled with the beat, faces red with beer, sweat pouring from eyebrows and into drinks. Others, mostly Brownshirts, and less inclined by indoctrination to American jazz, began thumping tabletops, then stamping their feet.

His stomach had churned. He’d seen what they could do if they felt someone was undermining German culture. One or two, their sweaty faces masked with evil, got to their feet.

The singer, Bronica as he later knew her, did not see the danger until her eyes met his warning glare, the left jerk of his head alerting her to it.

Her voice had been strong before, but now it soared with new notes and different words.

In a flash, the band followed her lead. The whole gathering stood to the tune of ‘
Duestchland über
a
lles
’, sweaty faces bright with patriotism.

During the crescendo of applause led, of course, by the Brownshirts, he followed her out of the door into the cool night air. She was leaning against the wall of the building, her eyes closed, breathless and quite pale.

‘Very clever of you,’ he said, careful not to startle her.

She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Thank you for warning me. You have expressive eyes and a determined chin.’ She eased herself away from the wall, her breath still coming in quick, sharp gasps.

‘You deserve a kiss.’

He’d had no time for protest, but then he would have willingly submitted to whatever she wanted.

Her lips moved against his. He’d never expected a kiss could feel so alive, so pliable. He’d also never expected that Bronica could ever be anything but the freedom-loving girl he’d met that night, but first impressions, he realised later, could be deceiving.

When she woke up, Mary Anne found herself lying on the ugly Victorian chaise longue with the cut-velvet covering of swirling greens and browns.

It came back to her where she was and why she was there. Although she wanted to leave right away, she forced herself to do things slowly.

The first thing she noticed was her unbuttoned coat and cardigan. Violation being the first thought to enter her head, her hand automatically went to her throat then lower towards her cleavage. No more buttons were undone.

Raising her eyes she saw him, the pawnbroker. Dark blond hair curled over the nape of his neck. He had a strong neck, a handsome profile, though there was something in his eyes she couldn’t quite understand. Most of the time he had a guarded look. Only when he smiled did the barrier come crashing down, betraying the man beneath the guarded exterior.

He was gazing into the carrier bag that held the trumpet, his face seeming to reflect its brassy gleam, his eyes glowing with rapture.

Suddenly aware that she was conscious, he put the bag down, and leaned over her. ‘You feel better?’

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to her cheek. It felt hot, yet
inside she shivered – especially her limbs.

‘I fainted?’

He nodded, put one arm around her shoulders and held her hand. ‘Sit up slowly.’ His voice was kind.

She saw the defensive look return to his eyes as she rechecked the buttons of her blouse and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m so sorry about this. I feel so embarrassed.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No! No.’

She swung her feet to the floor a little too quickly and wished she hadn’t. Her head swam. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she willed herself to focus properly, and, when she did, caught him staring at her, saw his expression shift between openness and restraint.

‘What time is it? I have to get home to my children.’

He shrugged.

She remembered the clocks. ‘Oh yes.’

‘So is my watch,’ he said, glancing at his wrist. ‘But I think it is about three o’clock.’

Mary Anne gasped. ‘Three!’ She rose too quickly to her feet. ‘I have to go. I have a family to cook for.’

A good mother, he thought, admiring her sense of duty, though not quite able to discard the thought that she was a woman first and foremost. Being solicitous, he decided, would help overcome his attraction to her.

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Four,’ she said, buttoning her blouse, then her cardigan.

He picked up her hat and passed it to her. It was a brown hat with a wide brim and a green feather at the side. He thought it suited her well, and found himself quite liking it, though of course, he couldn’t possibly say so.

His eyes stayed fixed on the feather when he spoke to her. ‘A nice size family. How old are they?’

Mary Anne pulled on a pair of knitted gloves. ‘Harry’s twenty, Daw is nineteen, Lizzie is eighteen, and Stanley – he’s the youngest – he’s almost eleven.’

He tried not to look surprised, not just that she had grownup children, but that he was still attracted to her even though she must be at least ten years his senior.

‘I must go,’ she said, swiftly buttoning up her clothes as she made for the door.

The rugs in the passageway were limp with age and rumpled by the loose floorboards underneath. The heel of her shoe caught in one and she toppled. Michael caught her elbow.

She started at his closeness, pushed her hair back from her face, glanced at him then dropped her gaze to her feet.

‘Damn these peep-toe shoes. The heels are too high, much too high for a woman of my age. I don’t wear them very often, but they were such a bargain. The woman who pledged them was desperate for a few shillings for her old man’s tea …’ She stopped. Was he still angry with her for infringing on his business? ‘Just a few shillings,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘We all have to live.’

‘Yes. We all have to live.’

She did not flinch when he put his arm around her, knowing it was meant kindly and without sexual intent. ‘You must take things slowly. Give your head time to clear.’

All the same, it was pleasant. He was in his shirtsleeves, the warmth of his body permeating the thin cotton. It was good to feel the gentleness and warmth of a man. Henry never touched her unless as a preamble to the sex act, and even then he wasn’t particularly gentle.

‘I have to go,’ she said again, and remembered the trumpet and Flossie Davies, the mother of pearl vase and Aggie Hill.

Michael pre-empted her question. ‘Yes. I will take the trumpet.’

‘It’s not for me, it’s for a neighbour of mine.’

‘I will give you five pounds. Do you think she will redeem it at some time in the future?’

Her jaw dropped. Five pounds! It didn’t take a minute to think about it and reply. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘And ten shillings for the vase. It is very pretty, but …’ He shrugged.

Mary Anne managed a knowing smile. ‘But a bit old-fashioned.’

‘Yes.’

They might have laughed together, but someone was coughing and thereby making their presence known out beyond the counter.

‘Stay here. Sit a while,’ said Michael and sprang into the passageway. ‘Who is there? Can I help you?’

Her first inclination was to leave anyway, but that was before she glimpsed the man standing at the counter. She vaguely recognised the man as being one of Henry’s cronies from the pub. Like Henry, he had also served in the forces, but hadn’t done a day’s honest work since. She’d heard rumours he did a bit for street bookies, loan sharks and the owners of dubious clubs with even more dubious clientele.

Instinctively, she slid behind the door, hoping he had not seen her, but she couldn’t be sure.

Michael’s features hardened on recognising the so-called caretaker he’d found warming the bed instead of running the shop. His expression soured.

‘What are you doing back here? I thought I told you to get out and not come back.’

‘Just passing. Thought you might have reconsidered and needed some help.’ His crafty eyes slid past Michael and into the passage to the door at the back. ‘Don’t look like you do, though, do it? Already got someone to help you … or
whatever.’ He grinned. ‘Well, there we are then. All needs a bit of company at times, don’t we?’

Mary Anne pressed herself against the scratchy surface of the old flock wallpaper.

‘Get out of here!’

She could hear Michael’s voice turning angry.

‘Now, now! Don’t be too hasty. I can understand how you might feel, catching me as you did with young Daisy, but there, we all ’ave a livin’ to make, even ’er. Could always get you an introduction if you like – she might do you a cheap rate if she likes you.’

‘No thank you.’

‘No?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Well, never mind. But I needed to dip me wick, so to speak, and besides, I was due a bit of time off. Now, as I was saying …’

Michael was having trouble keeping his temper, yet he knew he must. The man facing him, dishonest as he was, was a natural born Englishman. If he had a mind to, he could get him into very great trouble.

‘I do not want any trouble. Now please … go.’

Thomas Routledge had a greasy complexion, small eyes that never stayed still, like beetles scuttling from one subject to another. He scratched his face, his mouth hanging open and lopsided.

‘I think you should reconsider, at least, hear what I got to say … how it is … so to speak.’

Michael remembered the solicitor, Abner Crombie, had described Thomas Routledge as being morose, far wide of the mark in his opinion. Schemer, snake and charlatan were far more accurate.

‘I do not think I will reconsider.’ He knew he was going to regret saying it, that he might still be on the receiving end of this man’s revenge, but he still had some pride.

Routledge leaned further forwards on the counter, elbows resting on the polished wood, fleshy face cupped in stubby fingers, the ends of which dug into his flesh, pulling the flaccid jowls upwards and displaying the hair in his nostrils.

‘Hear me out, Mr Maurice – if that’s yer real name – you be a foreigner, and even though you says you ain’t German, you sounds German, no matter how careful you is with yer speech. That’s why nobody’s coming into yer shop. And it ain’t gonna change. This war is gonna make ’em even more chary of foreigners. They’ll go to ’er round Kent Street, rather than deal with you. So I reckon this, let bygones be bygones. Take me back on and I’ll stand up front and do the wheeling and dealing, take my cut and you’ll make yours. Fact is I’m English and you ain’t. Puts me at something of an advantage that does. Now! What do you say?’

Michael gritted his teeth. In a way Routledge was speaking the truth. On the other hand, it was hard to be civil, but he made the effort. ‘I will not be blackmailed.’

Thomas Routledge’s loose lips sagged into a sneer. ‘Is that so.’