Wartime Wife (39 page)

‘My God, but there’s something about that expanse of flesh above a girl’s stocking top.’

‘I’m not wearing any stockings. They’re upstairs drying.’

‘And your knickers?’

‘Your mother will hear,’ she said, doing her best to push him away, her eyes straying to the door at the top of the stairs.

‘No she won’t.’

She pushed down at the prying hand. ‘I didn’t know you were home.’

‘Well, you do now.’

Something hard pressed against her thigh.

‘And you didn’t write very often.’

The one letter his mother had shown her didn’t count. The paper had been as stiff as the sentiments it contained.

‘I was busy.’

‘You didn’t write to me, only to your mother.’

‘Didn’t I? Oh, well, I’m here now. Let me make it up to you, just like I did in the field, and remember that day in the back of my car?’

‘Oh yes …’

She closed her eyes in an effort to capture the passion of that moment, but something stopped her. Something about him being home and the way he looked worried her.

Patrick and John had benefited from their military training; they were leaner and fitter, even their face muscles were more toned than when they’d left. Peter had changed too, though not in the same way. He’d put on weight and had acquired a paler, smoother look, not the rugged, salty look of a merchant seaman.

‘No,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘No. Your mother’s waiting.’

Smiling, he stood looking at her, at the same time rubbing the front of his trousers. ‘I can wait until later to show you how much I’ve missed you.’

Flushed and confused, she grabbed two of the storm lanterns, passed them to him and took two more.

After taking the simple stew she’d cooked into the dining room, she retired, leaving mother and son alone, for once glad to be eating her meal by herself.

There was bread and butter pudding for afters, sweetened with last year’s honey in order to preserve the sugar ration. She reminded herself to ask Peter for his ration book in the
morning. If he were staying for any length of time, she would have to get him registered with the local grocer.

Once the meal was completely finished, he surprised her by bringing out the plates.

‘I’ll be up to your room later,’ he said, taking the tea tray from her hands. ‘I’m stiff enough to stir tea,’ he added, leering and patting the front of his trousers as he had before.

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea …’

‘I won’t take no for an answer.’

He didn’t wait for her response, which was just as well. Lizzie needed time to think.

Alone at last, she busied herself with the dishes, scrubbing at the plates as though they were thick with grime and grease, and eventually, lost in thought, she suddenly realised she was cleaning the same plates twice.

Up to her elbows in washing up water, she paused and asked herself what had changed between her and Peter. His frenzied groping and lascivious remarks had not aroused her. Was that how it had been before? If so, why hadn’t she noticed it?

Love is blind. The statement came unbidden into her mind. She had been in love, her passion driven by her adolescent awakening to adulthood. She’d
wanted
to be in love, and Peter was so different to the young men she’d grown up with like Patrick Kelly. But now it was the likes of Patrick who were different. The war had changed him, just as it would change a lot of men and women, perhaps even society itself. She could not see herself sacrificing herself to a less than loving husband for the sake of her family, just as her mother had.

Thinking of her mother, she said a silent prayer, hoped she was still alive and, if she was, that she was happy.

She stiffened as the kitchen door creaked open behind her. Peter?

Taking her dripping hands from the sink, she grabbed a tea towel and turned round intending to tell Peter how she felt and that he was never to take liberties with her again.

Pale-faced and dressed in the same shade of green as the parlour curtains, Mrs Selwyn stood with her hands clasped before her, deep age lines radiating from her pursed, purple lips.

‘Lizzie! I want to talk to you.’

Lizzie faced her.

Mrs Selwyn straightened her already ramrod frame. A mixture of expressions came and went, as if she were trying on a series of masks, unsure which most suited.

Satisfied she now had Lizzie’s full attention, Mrs Selwyn’s pursed lips burst like a tulip in bloom.

‘Lizzie, you are not to tell anyone that Peter is home.’

‘But what about his ration book? I’m supposed to register him with a grocer. Surely he’s brought it back from Canada?’

Mrs Selwyn’s complexion seemed to glisten, as though she had broken out in light perspiration.

She blinked but swiftly gathered herself. ‘No one is to know. We can manage. Buy food on the black market if you must. I hear there are plenty around willing to supply if they’re paid enough. I’m quite prepared to pay whatever it takes, Lizzie.’

Lizzie eyed her suspiciously. ‘You do know you’re asking me to do something that’s illegal?’

Mrs Selwyn’s remarkable chest expanded over the top of her corset. ‘I’m sure we can plead extenuating circumstances. You see, my dear,’ she said, suddenly beaming as though everything was perfectly simple, ‘he is very involved in secret work for the war effort. No one must know he is here, is that clear?’

Yes. It was clear, but not quite in the way Mrs Selwyn had intended. Peter had admitted that the sound of buses and trams ceased at around four o’clock yesterday afternoon. He’d been in the house then, but hadn’t declared himself? It was odd. And
also, four o’clock was about the same time as Mrs Selwyn had said she was asleep on the bed, but Lizzie had gone up there with the tea tray and found the room empty. If she thought very carefully, she vaguely remembered a slight creaking of the attic floorboards, and there was only one reason why mother and son might be up there.

Then there was the paper Peter’s letter had been written on. Something about the stiff paper had suddenly come to her. There was a whole pad of it in the overly ornate bureau that sat before the window in the study. Doing shopping for Mrs Selwyn was a long-running habit; she’d bought the pad and envelopes herself, attracted by the watermark embedded into every leaf. It was exactly the same as the letter Mrs Selwyn said she’d received from Canada. It was a lie – it was all a lie. There was only one other alternative. Neither Peter nor his mother wanted him to serve in the services. He had never gone to Canada but, probably under cover of darkness, had gone back to the house just hours after she’d seen his mother at the station supposedly waving him off.

And why was she being allowed to sleep in a bedroom on the family floor rather than consigned to one of the attic rooms, which had once been the servants’ quarters?

The answer was simple and hit her so badly that she could hardly believe it. Peter was living up there, out of sight – until the snow had come.

No wonder he wants his oats, she thought, as angry with herself as she was with him – and his mother!

Peter had waylaid her on her way up to bed, an old-fashioned stone hot water bottle wrapped in a towel and tucked beneath her arm.

His voice was hushed, not much above a whisper. He laid his hand over hers, his eyes sparkling with intent. ‘I’ll be up later.’

His mother had come out of the parlour just then, so there was no time to tell him not to bother. All the bedroom doors had locks and a stout bolt on the inside. Peter would
not
be sharing her bed.

Later, snuggled down beneath blankets and a thick eiderdown, she’d heard a soft knocking at the bedroom door.

Closing her eyes, she’d ducked down further beneath the bedclothes.

‘Lizzie?’

He’d knocked a little louder.

‘Lizzie?’

She would not answer the door. She wouldn’t answer him at all, but stay warm and comfortable beneath the bedclothes. Peter could go back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of. His mother was welcome to him.

Refugees were flooding out of Europe, and the British army were flooding in, according to the newspapers.

Lizzie had got up early, intending to use the day to get some baking done; the snowstorm and her overnight stay at Mrs Selwyn’s had upset her routine.

She hadn’t seen Peter on the day she’d left, but using the same notepad from the bureau, she’d composed a letter of resignation, leaving it on the kitchen table for Mrs Selwyn to find when she eventually came looking for her breakfast.

By four o’clock the table was laid, the smell of liver and onions hung in the air, and the pink rays of a late winter sunset streamed through the window.

Glad at last of some respite, she made herself a cup of tea and continued reading the papers, catching up on items she’d missed. Reading old news had whetted her interest in the war, questioning the truths behind the headlines; after all it was only a few years ago that people had applauded the upsurge in fortunes. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear that they’d considered the reason behind rearming. Glancing at the clock, she judged the paperboy would be due with the evening paper, if he hadn’t already been. She decided to check.

The passage running to the front door was far chillier
than the kitchen, its brown paint and lino depressing enough without the drop in temperature.

At first the newspaper was hanging there, but just as she was about to pull it, it plopped through, pushed by someone on the other side of the door, a sheet of white paper falling in behind it.

Someone had pushed it through.

Her father! Back to his old ways and gone out without a key.

Adopting a look sharp enough to cut glass, she wrenched the door open. A startled man half turned, watery eyes viewing her from behind thick spectacle lenses.

It occurred to her that he might want her mother’s pawnbroking service. Most of the merchandise had been returned to its owners or sold off, the money saved for a rainy day.

‘Can I help you?’

He pointed at the letterbox. ‘The paper. For Mr Randall.’

She nodded and stood by the door until the little man, one foot encased in an overlarge boot, limped his way down the street and disappeared.

Lizzie shrugged, shivered, and then closed the door against the sharpening cold of the crystal clear day.

Picking up both the newspaper and the piece of paper, she returned to the warmth of the kitchen, put both on the table and poured herself another cup of tea.

The piece of paper delivered by the little man was small and official looking, but then, she reasoned, if it were official or private, surely it would have come in an envelope.

Curious as to why it was delivered by such a strange little man, she unfolded and read it.

Even the winter weather could not have chilled her more than the contents of that piece of paper. Henry Alfred Randall, her brother’s name, address, date of birth were all written neatly enough, but what caught her eye was the heading and
the final comment. The heading referred to a medical prior to being accepted into the army. The final comment referred to Harry as being F1 – unfit for service.

The colour drained from her face. Harry was the fittest person she knew. Even Patrick and John, despite their newfound toughness at the hands of a Royal Air Force PT instructor, were incomparable with Harry’s physical perfection.

Her suspicion that Harry had done something totally illegal and that it was linked with his plan to leave home would not leave her mind. Deciding it was better that no one else saw the notice of rejection, she went upstairs and placed it in his best shoe for safe keeping.

She dished up dinner, the smell of her cooking luring Daw, Stanley and her father to the table on time. There was no sign of Harry and no one asked if he was working late. Lizzie was still the only one to know of his plans; something of a burden but what was one burden among all the others that had got lumped on her? Directing her resentment towards her father was an easy option. Sometimes she did that; other times she found herself achieving a greater insight into her mother’s life than she’d ever thought possible.

Harry arrived home just as Lizzie was forking her own food around the plate, wondering what would have happened if there had been no war. Would she and Peter still be seeing each other? Who knows! It had taken a war to bring out his lewder and more deceitful side, but she wished she’d been aware of it before.

‘I don’t want anything to eat.’

He looked directly at her as he said it. She thought she knew what he was going to say, but had second thoughts. He looked triumphant rather than ashamed.

His gaze swept over everyone else, that crooked smile lifting one side of his sensual lips.

‘Dad! Daw! I’ve got an important announcement to make.’

As usual, Henry Randall, his father, barely acknowledged him, and Daw seemed more self-absorbed than usual.

Smiling, he ruffled Stanley’s hair. ‘And you, young Stanley. And you, Lizzie,’ he added, giving her a cautious wink as though she above all others were privy to what he was about to say. ‘I’m leaving home. I’ve got myself a flat and better money. Won’t be too far away. No doubt be seeing you now and again, so no frets, eh? No crying over yer great loss, and I won’t cry over mine.’

Daw’s mouth fell open before she burst into tears and said that everyone was leaving her to her own devices and that it just wasn’t fair.

Stanley demanded more details, and could he come and visit him, and was he going to take him on more car rides when the good weather came.

Her father lifted his head from the last piece of liver and stared at him. ‘Who with?’

They were just two small words, and yet she fancied that her brother’s handsome, strong face turned quite rigid, as though he had no wish to answer the question, and in fact guessed that his father already knew the answer.

‘A friend. Just a friend.’ His voice was uncommonly cold.

Turning abruptly, he muttered something about fetching his suitcase. Dropping her knife and fork, Lizzie followed him upstairs and behind the curtain forming the fourth wall of his bedroom.