When the Lights Go on Again (15 page)

‘All right then,’ she told Bobby, surprising him as he’d been expecting her to refuse and to insist that she wanted them to spend Christmas with her family. ‘But you’ll have to make all the arrangements, get the train tickets and everything.’

‘But what about your mum?’

‘What about her?’ Sasha challenged him.

‘Well, don’t you want to talk to her about it first? You know, make sure that it’s all right?’

‘I’m not a child, Bobby. I can make up my own mind how and where I want to spend Christmas. Besides, it’s time we went up and saw your family. We can talk about us getting married.’

‘How are you feeling?’ Seb asked Grace as he stepped in through the back door of the cottage. She’d been off colour for several days, unwilling to eat because it made her feel so sick, and Seb had been concerned enough about her to leave the Old Vicarage, which housed Y Section, a unit of the Government’s covert Morse code listening operations. Officially Seb was in the RAF but he
had been seconded to the Y Section early on in the war.

‘I don’t know,’ Grace answered him. She’d been sitting down in the old rocking chair that had come with the cottage they were renting, and which Seb had rubbed down and restained, whilst Grace had re-covered some old cushions for it in the same cheerful red gingham fabric she had used for the kitchen curtains – a welcome wedding present from one of her mother’s neighbours who had bought the cotton at the beginning of the war and never used it.

Grace got up, clasping her hands together, bright patches of pink colour warming her cheeks.

‘I went to work this morning even though you said that I shouldn’t. But then I felt so poorly, and Matron said, well, at least she thinks…’ Her cheeks grew warmer, the words tumbling out in a rush. ‘It looks like we could be going to have a baby. Oh, Seb, I’m all of aflutter,’ Grace admitted. ‘It’s all been such a shock. You aren’t cross about it, are you?’

‘Cross?’ Seb crossed the quarry-tiled floor and took Grace in his arms, restraining his desire to hold her as tight as he could. There was the baby to think of now, after all.

‘Oh, Grace, of course I’m not cross. How could I be? I can’t think of anything that I’d like more, just so long as you’re happy.’

Happy to be having Seb’s baby? Of course she was!

‘I suppose I should have guessed,’ Grace acknowledged, ‘but we said that we wouldn’t think about starting a baby until after the war.’

‘We did say that, yes, but that was before I realised what a deliciously loving and lovable wife I was going to have,’ Seb told Grace tenderly. ‘If anyone’s to blame for what’s happened it’s me for not taking more care, but you are so irresistible, my darling dearest wife, and I love you so very much.’

Laughing and shaking her head, Grace told him, ‘I’ve been worrying ever so much, about what you’d say, since Matron asked me if it could be a baby that was making me feel so sick. I know how busy you are…’

‘Oh, Grace, the last thing I want is for you to worry about anything. That was why I said we should wait – because I didn’t want you to have to cope on your own if I got posted overseas. Now that I know I’m going to be working here until the end of war, it makes things a lot easier.’ Seb kissed the top of Grace’s head. He had known that he loved her before they had married, of course, but what he had not known and what had come as a delightful surprise to him had been the delicious sensuality he had discovered in his wife. To know that they were to have a child only added to his happiness. He was, Seb reflected, truly the most fortunate of men.

‘Do we know when, if there is to be a baby, he or she will arrive?’

‘Probably in just over six months. I’m going to have to tell Mum, of course, but, Seb, I’m not going to say anything to anyone else just yet, not until I’ve seen Dr Raines and he’s confirmed everything. I suppose I should have realised, with me
missing me monthlies, since I’ve always been that regular, but I just didn’t think. Mum will be over the moon.’ A small shadow stilled Grace’s excitement and Seb could guess what had caused it. His wife and her mother were extremely close and naturally at a time like this Grace would want her mother close by her.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he told her, ‘but I’d miss you dreadfully, you know, if you were living at home with your parents and I could only see you when I had time off.’

‘Oh, Seb, I’d never want that.’

His words had had exactly the effect Seb had hoped they might.

‘Your mother will probably think it dreadfully selfish of me to keep you here with me when you could have her company if you went home.’

‘My home is here with you,’ Grace told him stoutly. ‘Mine and the baby’s.’ A pretty flush stained her skin, her eyes bright with excitement and joy. ‘I’m so lucky, Seb, to have you here, not just safe in England but here with me, coming home to me every day when so many other wives are separated from their husbands. Mum is bound to fuss but she’ll understand that my place is here with you. I’ve been thinking, as well that, with the baby and everything, it might be an idea to have the family come to us here for Christmas this year instead of us going to them.’

‘Well, it would certainly suit me,’ Seb told her. ‘Things are hotting up, and we’re all being asked to work extra hours. If we spent Christmas here then I could nip in to the station to keep an eye
on things and that would mean that a couple of the others could go home to their families. We could even use their billets for the family, if they all decide to come.’

‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. I’ll write to Mum tonight and tell her – about the baby and about Christmas.’

Grace put her hand on her still-flat tummy. ‘Oh, Seb, I can hardly believe it. I’m so lucky to have you here, and now this as well. It makes me feel a bit guilty to be so happy when other people are suffering so badly.’

Seb put his hand over hers and bent his head to kiss her.

‘I’m the lucky one,’ he told her softly.

Emily just didn’t know what to do. There’d been three letters now, all of them containing the same awful horrible words and accusations, and each one a bit worse than the last. She was just thankful that they had been slipped under her door when Tommy was walking Beauty so that she hadn’t had to say anything to him about them. The reason whoever had waited until he wasn’t there, of course, was because they were wanting to avoid the dog.

The one she’d found just now, this morning, was worst of the lot, saying that she should be driven out of the town and that she would be once people got to know what was going on. She wasn’t fit to live amongst decent people, the letter said; she was as bad, if not worse, than the German she was consorting with. But worst of all had been words that were now engraved on Emily’s heart. She didn’t really need to smooth out the letter she had screwed up and put in her apron pocket to remember what they were.

‘A woman like you shouldn’t be allowed to bring
up a fine decent British lad. Someone ought to tell the authorities what’s going on and get him taken away from you.’

The words stabbed through her mind like ice picks, chilling her, filling her with panic and dread. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Tommy and she’d do anything to stop that from happening.

Even leaving Whitchurch and Wilhelm.

Emily closed her eyes against her tears.

Yes, even that.

It was Saturday and by rights she ought to be getting ready to go to the church, since she was on the roster for doing the flowers, but she was sure that some of the other women were talking about her behind her back. She’d seen the way they looked at her, sort of knowing and disapproving. Instead of telling Ivy the truth, Emily had lied, when she’d called round yesterday evening, saying that she wasn’t feeling very well and didn’t think she was up to doing the flowers this week.

If she did leave Whitchurch where would she go? Back to Liverpool? Her heart sank even further. She certainly didn’t want to do that, and besides, Tommy loved Whitchurch. He liked his school and he was doing so well there. And then there was Wilhelm himself. She loved him, she really did, Emily knew. They had both talked of how, after the war, they hoped they could be together, properly as man and wife. They would buy a little smallholding – Emily had the money – perhaps, Wilhelm had suggested, even set up a small market garden business. It had made her feel so happy talking about their plans, but now…There was
no point in her giving this latest letter to Sergeant Simms. He had been ever so kind but, like he had said to her, there was no saying who might be sending them to her and they would never know unless they managed to catch that person redhanded. All Emily could hope for was that whoever it was would grow tired of persecuting her and stop doing it.

‘Post’s come,’ Sam told Jean, coming into the kitchen from the hall, sniffing the cooking bacon-scented air appreciatively as he did so. ‘Looks like there’s a letter from our Grace.’

He handed the letter to her as he sat down at the table and Jean placed his breakfast in front of him. She’d cooked him what would probably be one of the last tomatoes of the year from the allotment to go with the precious rashers of bacon that had come from the pig the allotment holders had raised and fattened, adding a precious egg to Sam’s plate whilst her own held a much smaller portion of bacon. It was only fair, after all, that Sam should have the lion’s share of their rations, in Jean’s opinion. He was the man of the house, doing a man’s job in difficult circumstances, day in and day out.

Having poured them each a cup of tea and quickly eaten her own breakfast, she sat back to read Grace’s letter.

Of all her children Grace was the one who wrote most frequently and at the most length. Smiling, Jean opened the envelope and lifted out two sheets of paper covered by Grace’s neat handwriting.

She didn’t need to read more than a few lines, before she had to stop and put the letter down, exclaiming, ‘Oh my goodness!’ And lifting her hand to her chest, as though she’d had a shock.

‘What is it?’ Sam asked, looking concerned.

‘It’s our Grace,’ Jean answered. ‘She’s expecting.’

‘Well, she is married.’

‘Yes, I know that, Sam, but she said when she and Seb got married that they were going to wait until after the war.’

Sam grinned. ‘Aye, well, I seem to remember you and me saying that we’d wait until we got properly on our feet and then having them knocked from under us when we found out you were carrying our Luke.’

‘But that was different,’ Jean protested. ‘We couldn’t…well, it’s supposed to be easier these days not to have the kind of accident we had…and there’s still a war on. How we’re going to get a layette together, never mind find any decent nappies and a pram, I just don’t know.’

‘It will be all right, love,’ Sam reassured her. ‘Grace has got Seb there, doing his bit for the war but able to be at home with her, unlike a lot of young couples.’

‘Well, yes, I know that, Sam, but it still doesn’t seem right, what with her in Whitchurch and us here. I’d have rather they’d waited until they were back here in Liverpool and I could pop round and help Grace out.’

So now they’d got to the nub of the problem, Sam recognised. He knew his Jean. He could guess what was going through her mind. She’d always
been a devoted mother, and she would naturally want to be on hand for Grace, should she need her.

Jean picked up Grace’s letter. She and Sam – grandparents! It would be lovely having a new baby in the family. She was glad now that she hadn’t let Sam get rid of the twins’ cot, which had been dismantled and was up in the attic. It would need a coat of paint, of course, and new bedding…

Her mind racing ahead, Jean’s concentration was only half on the rest of Grace’s letter and her talk of Christmas, until she suddenly realised what Grace was planning.

‘Oh, no!’

‘What’s up now?’ Sam asked.

‘Grace only wants us all to go to her in Whitchurch for Christmas instead of them coming here,’ she told Sam, too put out to conceal her feelings.

‘Well, what’s the problem with that? It sounds like a good idea to me. Give you a bit of a rest from all that cooking and fussing around everyone.’

Sam was a good husband but there were some things important to women that even the best of husbands could not understand, Jean recognised, as she told him defensively, ‘But, Sam, we always have Christmas here – always – and our Grace knows that.’

Sam could see that Jean was upset but for the life of him he couldn’t understand why, and Jean couldn’t explain her feelings to him. She didn’t really understand them herself. She just knew that the thought of not being the one to be in
charge of their family Christmas made her feel as though she was losing something, some part of herself, and that the fact that it was Grace, her eldest daughter, to whom she had always been so close, who obviously hadn’t realised how she would feel made that feeling so much worse.

Of course, since such thoughts were foolish, Jean instinctively clutched at a more sensible reason for her reaction.

‘Cooking a Christmas dinner for all of us will be far too much for Grace, in her condition.’

‘It wasn’t too much for you when you and me were first married,’ Sam reminded her.

‘We had the whole lot of your family round that first Christmas. I can see you now, battling with that damned turkey we could only get in the oven once I’d cut the legs off it.’

‘That was different, Sam. My mother wasn’t in good health, you know that.’

She had loved that first Christmas, the feeling of pride it had given her to organise everything and set a proper Christmas dinner in front of her family, and of course her new husband, taking on the role that she would make her own throughout their marriage. A role that she loved, and which Grace’s letter had made her feel was being taken away from her. She wasn’t ready yet to hand over the reins of family matriarch to her daughter whilst she took a secondary role, the role of an older person, loved and cherished, but to one side of things and no longer at their heart. Jean could see the future stretching out ahead of her, all the
Christmases to come when it would be someone else – Grace, or perhaps Luke’s wife when he found one – who would battle with the turkey and emerge triumphant from that battle; who would be at the centre of all that was Christmas whilst she sat in a chair looking on. Tears pricked her eyes. What was the matter with her? She should be thrilled by Grace’s news, and of course she was.

Grace had even written that she’d heard that poultry was going to be in short supply this Christmas so it was lucky that they lived in the country and that she’d been able to make sure of a turkey.

And she’d written to Luke and Lou, telling them both that there would be beds for them if they got leave.

…And I’ve invited Fran and Marcus, Mum, but I’m not sure what to do about Auntie Vi and Bella. They’d be welcome, of course, and Seb says that since he has to work over Christmas so that some of the other men can have leave, there’ll be plenty of spare billets for anyone who wants to come and stay.

Grace had it all planned, and without having said a word to her, or asking for her help.

Long after Sam had left for work – he worked Saturday mornings down at the depot and then spent his Saturday afternoons on his allotment – Jean continued to feel low and miserable. Grace meant well, of course, Jean knew that, and it was dreadful of her to feel like she was feeling,
almost as though she resented Grace for changing things.

On the other hand Jean suspected that Grace didn’t realise what hard work organising a proper Christmas was. Grace and Seb wouldn’t have a Christmas tree and treasured trimmings for it, like they had; Grace wouldn’t have the experience of past Christmases to call on that Jean had. Of course, she wouldn’t have to worry about making a cake or a pudding since it was impossible to get the ingredients for such traditional fare. But there were other things: organising stockings for everyone, inviting the neighbours in, all those little things that were part of the family tradition Jean had created over the years and which only she could orchestrate and manage.

No, it would all be far too much for Grace, especially in her delicate condition. She would have to put her foot down and tell her daughter that, thoughtful though her suggestion was, Christmas was really better spent here.

Emily couldn’t settle to anything. Wilhelm was digging part of the vegetable patch, saying that he wanted to get it turned over in case they had an overnight frost. Tommy and Beauty were with him. After Wilhelm had finished digging he and Tommy were going to take Beauty’s ‘training’ a stage further, Tommy had informed Emily importantly.

‘Wilhelm reckons that with her being an Alsation, she’ll be really easy to train. She’s already sitting and staying, and she knows her name.’

She also knew that chewing chair legs was
forbidden but that didn’t seem to stop her doing it, Emily had pointed out to Tommy.

‘That’s because of her ears,’ he had defended his pet immediately. ‘She needs to chew to make the muscles that hold her ears up work. Wilhelm told me that.’

Despite her woes, Emily smiled to herself. Beauty’s ears, far from standing upright as they were supposed to do, flopped over at different angles. The puppy was all feet and growing bigger by the day, but her warning bark whenever a stranger approached the house was certainly comforting, Emily acknowledged.

She ought really to go into town. They were already in November, and with Christmas not that far away there were plenty of things she needed to do.

Tommy’s cricket bat – second-hand but looking like new – and the binoculars he wanted so much – second-hand again – were already hidden away at the back of her wardrobe and she’d been busy knitting new gloves, socks and scarves for both Tommy and Wilhelm.

When the front door knocker went Emily’s first instinct was to ignore it, a wash of fear rushing through her just in case the letter writer had become bolder and was about to confront her in person, but when the knocking persisted Emily forced herself to answer its summons.

The sight of the vicar standing on her front doorstep made her feel almost as anxious as she would have been had it been her unknown enemy.

The vicar’s kind smile and gentle, ‘May I come in?’
should have reassured her, but instead it increased her discomfort – and her guilt.

‘Yes of course, Vicar.’ Good manners obliged her to ask, ‘Will you have time for a cup of tea, or…?’

‘I’d love one.’

About to show him into her pristine front room, Emily discovered that somehow or other he had followed her into the kitchen where he was now exclaiming appreciatively, ‘What a splendidly warm room! My wife complains that the kitchen at the Vicarage is always cold.’

‘I’m very lucky here to have the Aga,’ Emily agreed. She had only been in the Vicarage kitchen once, and could well understand why the vicar’s wife complained about it. It was a huge cavernous room with only one small window that let in scarcely any light, the ancient stove a sulker that was just as likely to belch smoke as produce heat.

‘I’m sorry I had to let everyone down with the flowers today,’ Emily felt obliged to apologise as she poured the vicar a cup of tea and offered him a slice of her upside-down apple cake, made with her own apples and a couple of rich duck eggs from the farm.

The vicar looked at her. Putting down his cup he told her quietly, ‘Mrs Wilson has told me that she is concerned about you.’

Flustered, Emily went pink. She appreciated her neighbour’s concern but it embarrassed her to think that Ivy had been sharing that concern with the vicar.

‘Mrs Davies has also spoken to me about you.’

‘Ina Davies?’ Emily questioned him anxiously.

The vicar nodded. ‘She has expressed to me her…concern that you should be welcoming a POW into your home.’

‘I’m sorry if you think I’ve done the wrong thing, Vicar, but—’

‘As Christians it is our duty to treat our fellow men with true Christian charity, which is exactly what you have done,’ the Vicar surprised Emily by telling her firmly, ‘and I have told Mrs Davies as much. In fact, I have spoken to all the ladies who are kind enough to arrange the church flowers, on the subjects of charity and Christianity, and the ways in which we can follow our Lord’s example. The POWs work hard in our fields, helping to provide our food, often knowing that their own families in their own country may be going without food. We have a duty to show them Christian kindness, and a duty to show that same Christian kindness to one another. You may know that Mrs Davies’s son was captured by the Germans at Dunkirk?’