Wartime Wife (42 page)

‘He’s convinced that he’s Adolf Hitler and that he boxes people up and sends them to Germany.’

Terribly disappointed, Mary Anne had sighed. ‘It’s those boys he mixes with,’ she’d said, the old worries momentarily taking the newfound shine from her eyes. ‘I should have been there …’

Lizzie had been firm, as though she were the mother and
Mary Anne the daughter. ‘You have your own life to lead, Mum. He’ll come round. He’s just a boy. Leave it to me.’

Later that evening, Michael, sensing she was troubled, gently fondled the nape of her neck. They lay naked together in the big bed that had come to represent the safest place she’d ever been in her life.

‘You are troubled, Marianna?’

She closed her eyes. When he called her Marianna in that tone of voice, she could almost forget that she had ever been called Mary Anne. ‘I have a headache. Just keep stroking my neck.’

‘You were disappointed Stanley did not come?’

She sighed. ‘He’s mixing with a rum lot. They’re filling his head with stupid tales.’

‘About me?’

‘Yes. They’re the boys you suspect of painting the swastikas on the door.’

‘Ah yes. They run away when they see me.’

He was silent for a while. Mary Anne lay with her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart as his hand stroked her neck. Bliss! She’d never felt such bliss, such a state of calm and being treasured. Henry had never made her feel anything but used. Making love with Henry was having sex. Having sex with Michael was making love. There was a distinct difference and made life worth living.

They planned to wash the black and white tiles in the portico once the shop was closed. The bolt was already slid back and the door unlocked in preparation. Unfortunately, it was now too dark, but Michael had left the door to the last minute – a last minute that had already come and gone.

Sudden scuffling at the door made them look up, exchange a quick glance, and spring into action.

Michael flung the door open, his athletic frame pouncing on the perpetrator with the paint can and brush, pulling him into the shop, slamming the door and slamming the man’s body against it.

‘Routledge!’

Routledge fought to prise Michael’s hands from around his throat, his fingers clawing at his iron grip but making no progress.

Gentle, sensitive Michael; his face changed into a demon-like mask, inches from the face of Thomas Routledge, the man he’d thrown off the premises. His eyes were like daggers, his words spat like bullets.

‘So you think you are clever, eh? You think it is clever to paint swastikas on my door, just like the fascists do in Germany. And what next? Force me to scrub lavatories with a prayer shawl? Rape my mother in front of my eyes? Send me off to be worked to death?
That
is what it means!
That
is what it means!’

The intensity of feeling behind the words was as powerful as Michael’s voice, echoing around the little shop, taking hold of him so completely that he forgot he had his hands around a man’s throat, didn’t see his struggle for breath or the plum-coloured cheeks slowly changing to blue.

Mary Anne threw up her hands in horror. ‘Michael! Michael!’

At the sound of her voice, a sudden moment followed when it seemed as though time stood still, the two men locked in a rigid, deadly embrace.

Michael’s arms trembled as he came to, gradually loosening his grip. His hair fell forwards in wild disarray and the anger lingered in his eyes as his arms fell to his sides. He continued to stand in front of Routledge, daring him to move.

Spluttering and rubbing at his throat, Thomas Routledge rolled his eyes to settle on her. ‘Ta very much, Mrs Randall. Foreign bastard would have bloody killed me …’

Michael made a move to grab him again.

‘No!’ Mary Anne moved to Michael’s side.

‘Ta again, Mrs Randall,’ said Routledge breathlessly, licking his fleshy lips as though he was considering eating her off a plate.

‘I think you should go, Mr Routledge,’ she said, turning to Michael, clasping his upper arm against her with both of her own.

Gaslights hung at irregular intervals in the shop, their old-fashioned glow sending Michael’s shadow to fall blackly over the cowering man, and yet there was defiance in Routledge’s prickly face – a chin unshaved for days judging by the length of stubble. He smelled of damp earth and stale beer.

As he straightened, Routledge threw her a polite nod and she fancied there was even a little gratefulness in his expression, but she had no wish to dwell on his face, so turned away, leaning her head against Michael’s arm.

‘I can see why old Henry married you, Missus, especially all that happened in the war and ’ow it affected ’im.’

‘My husband loves war, Mr Routledge. He’s made it perfectly plain over the years that he loved the army and that it was the best time of his life; all comrades together.’

‘Ah, no. That ain’t ’ow it was. And I should know. We was in the same regiment, you see.’

‘So I understand.’

Feeling her tremble against him, Michael interceded. ‘I think you should go.’

Routledge’s expression darkened. ‘Everyone’s shouting and hollerin’ about war and they don’t know what it’s really like, not unless they was in the last lot, and we was, me and the likes of Henry Randall and his mate, Lewis Allen.’

Mary Anne looked up at the mention of the name of the other man in the photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Who was he?’

Routledge looked pleased that she’d asked. ‘Lewis Allen? Well, he was yer husband’s best mate, he was. They went through everything together, right up to nineteen eighteen, all the gut-wrenching horror of the trenches. Them places stunk of death and mud and the rats were as big as rabbits and if they ’ad been, we’d ’ave roasted them. Well, if I was honest, I admit we did roast a few now and again. Army rations weren’t up to much.’

Mary Anne didn’t need to look at Michael to know that he was listening as intently as she was.

‘What happened in nineteen eighteen?’

There was a rasping sound, like a file going over rough metal as Routledge rubbed at the stubble on his chin. The weasel-like look went from his eyes and for a moment something returned of the young man he had been before the brutalisation of war had changed him.

‘Well, it was like this. Henry and his old friend Lewis Allen were always together, went through everything together, and made sure they backed each other up when needed, covering for each other in the heaviest of barrages. One day they got caught out in No Man’s Land. They were trapped in a hole full of bodies and bits of bodies and legs and arms and what ’ave you, all rotting into the mud and stinkin’ to ’igh ’eaven. There was an almighty artillery barrage goin’ on and they were trapped there for twenty-four hours. Well, that, I can tell you, is a pretty penny to ’appen. By the time they got out, they was both in a bit of a state, but Lewis far worse than Henry. Poor old Lewis fell to pieces, jerking about like a puppet on a string. Shell shock they calls it now, but back then not everybody believed it existed. Cowardice said the commander, and poor old Lewis was taken out to be shot. The worse thing was that Henry was forced to be part of the firing squad. He was never the same after that, swore he would never care for anyone ever again. Couldn’t face losing them, you see?’

Thomas Routledge counted himself lucky to have got off so lightly. If he hadn’t heard the kids call the pawnbroker Mr Hitler, and then seen them paint the first swastika, he would never have got the idea. He’d bumped into Henry outside the Red Cow, and had voiced his surprise that he wasn’t going inside for a beer.

Henry had shaken his head. ‘No.’

‘Just one? For old times’ sake?’

As is the way of hardened drinkers, one pint became two, then three, then four. Eventually Henry told him what was troubling him.

Thomas had felt sorry for the bloke, but following the threat from Harry Randall, he didn’t dare tell him where his wife was. Harry was gaining a bit of a reputation in a criminal underworld that had grown in influence since the onset of the blackout and, more especially, rationing of everything contributory to a comfortable lifestyle. Thomas wondered how much Henry’s father knew of his son’s business dealings. It puzzled him as to how Harry had managed to keep one step ahead of the call-up. Something smelled, and if he could find the source of the smell he could scupper Harry’s rise to fame and fortune, perhaps even make a bit for himself.

‘I’ll think on it,’ he muttered to himself, pushing open the door of the Queen’s Arms to the warm fug of a crowded bar, something he might never have experienced again if Mary Anne Randall hadn’t stopped the pawnbroker choking him.

He toasted her with his first beer. ‘To the love of a good woman.’

A few regulars joined his toast. Someone asked him if he’d finally found the love of his life.

‘Did that years ago,’ he replied, lifting his beer and kissing
the glass. ‘She fills me with gladness … and deserves another kiss.’

Following Routledge’s departure, Michael slid the bolt firmly across the door and turned the key. He was slow to face her, and Mary Anne thought she knew the reason why. They’d both been affected by the account Routledge had given them, but in slightly different ways.

‘He might still be inclined to report me to the police,’ he said.

‘Why should he?’

‘An enemy accent regardless of my passport.’

‘They can’t do anything.’

‘I hope not,’ he said, still facing the door.

When he did finally turn round, she saw the concern in his eyes and understood. ‘It doesn’t make any difference.’ Reaching out, she lay her hand upon his cheek, feeling the heat of his pain warm the coolness of her palm. ‘I understand now why Henry behaved as he did, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him. I never will. His only saving grace was that he wasn’t cruel to our children, only to me.’

‘Do you think he might have been different if you hadn’t given birth to another man’s child?’

She lowered her eyes. She’d told Michael about Edward, how he’d died in the Great War and how the child of their union had been given up for adoption. She’d also told him how her family had connived to get her married off, introduced her to Henry and encouraged his courtship without disclosing anything of Edward or the child. Numbed by what had happened, Mary Anne had gone along with it. ‘Much to my regret,’ she’d told him. ‘The early days were happy. Perhaps if I hadn’t told him the truth …’

She sighed.

‘He would not have felt betrayed. He got close to you and then it must have felt like you were taken from him.’

Mary Anne looked at Michael. His sonorous voice worried her and his depth of insight was surprising.

‘I won’t go back, Michael, not even if you say I must, I won’t. It’s too late for that. Far too late.’

‘We always think so,’ he said, and this time she sensed that something else had been said that she hadn’t recognised as being deeply significant. It wasn’t until later when they were in bed that she found out it was due to Michael’s outburst not the tale told by Thomas Routledge.

Lizzie had found a job in a munitions factory along Coronation Road. Previous to war being declared, Bawns Brothers had run a large car dealership and repair workshop from the site. The small showroom and large workshops were now given over to the production of artillery shells. She was regarding it as a short-term option until Stanley was sorted and she could join the Wrens. What she meant by Stanley being sorted, she wasn’t quite sure. Who else would look after him? Everyone was working.

Before leaving for work, she read a letter from Patrick while eating a piece of toast lightly scraped with butter. Reading one of his letters had become one of the high spots of her day, especially the little poem he always included that never failed to raise a smile.

On this occasion, there was no poem, just as much news as the censors allowed him to write. He also urged her to consider evacuation, if not for her, then at least for Stanley. He also said he’d be home shortly, which could have been the reason he didn’t include any poetry. Combining his lack of poetry with his warnings about leaving the city brought her to another conclusion: the war was about to get much worse.

Daw thudded down the stairs; the corners of her mouth turned down and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

She fetched herself a cup and saucer. ‘I’ll just have tea.’

‘It’s in the pot,’ said Lizzie, not attempting to pour it for her.

‘Is Dad already gone?’

Lizzie frowned. ‘If he did I didn’t hear him go. He didn’t do himself breakfast or a cup of tea.’

She got up and called along the passage for Stanley. ‘Come on, Stanley. Off to school.’

Hearing no response, she went along and popped her head around the door. The body in bed had no head, it being safely buried beneath the bedclothes.

Fists on hips and a determined set to her jaw, she looked down at him.

‘Off to school.’

A muffled cough sounded from beneath the bedclothes and was followed by a weedy voice claiming that he wasn’t very well.

‘Off to school!’ Lizzie repeated in a firmer voice. ‘Get yourself out from under that eiderdown before I do it for you.’

Slowly a cloud of near-white blond hair appeared, followed by blue eyes in a floury pale face.

‘Mum used to let me stay home if I had a cough.’

Lizzie had promised herself that she would not be as soft with her brother as her mother had been. ‘You had a bad chest infection at the beginning of last year, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got it for ever.’

Snail-like, Stanley prodded at the bedclothes until they were down past his waist, then slowly, as though each leg weighed half a ton, he moved them one at a time to the edge of the bed.

‘My mum wouldn’t make me do this.’

Lizzie maintained her firm resolve. ‘Your mum isn’t here and I am.’

‘No,’ he blurted, tearing his pyjama top off and throwing it on the floor, ‘she’s not because that bloody German’s got her!’

The bad language earned him a clip round the ear from his sister.

‘His name’s Michael and he was born here. And don’t swear.’