Wartime Family (9 page)

Mary Anne touched the heavy serge required to hide the brightness of the room from enemy bombers. A smile radiated across her face. ‘Oh, I think I can find something a bit more feminine to lighten things.’

Going to the pictures, walking, talking or going shopping, Lizzie and Patrick made the most of their leave. Money was tight, but walking was cheap. The shops in East Street were doing what they could to provide a little Christmas spirit. The big bombing raid of November had brought home to people just how bad this war could be. Old buildings that had stood for centuries had been turned to dust. Castle Street, the heart of the city’s shopping centre, where courting couples had strolled on a Saturday night, had been totally destroyed. The smell of dust and destruction was everywhere, yet still people searched on bomb sites for valuables that might make their life a bit easier.

‘You can’t blame them,’ Patrick said as they strolled past what had once been a large haberdashery shop.

‘They’re like rats,’ said Lizzie, watching people clamber over heaps of rubble, digging to uncover anything that might be of use. ‘What do they expect to find?’

‘A silk ribbon for Christmas or a saucy garter perhaps; like I say, you can’t blame them.’

What had once been shops were now unidentifiable heaps of rubble.

‘Dangerous though,’ Patrick added. ‘There’s old cellars beneath these buildings. Wouldn’t take much to fall into one.’

They’d only taken a few steps when there was a loud rumble. A mountain of rubble suddenly disappeared in a cloud of dust. A woman screamed. ‘Help! Help! My Charlie!’

But instead of helping her, people began running. Patrick grabbed a man as he tripped over a broken window frame.

‘What’s happened?’

The man sagged like a sack of spuds, his eyes round with fear as he looked up into Patrick’s face.

‘Her boy’s fallen into the cellar.’

Patrick frowned. ‘Aren’t you going to help him?’

‘Not bloody likely. The rozzers’ll get called. I’m off.’

Wriggling like an eel, he struggled out of Patrick’s grasp, his feet slipping and sliding on the rough ground as he ran off.

‘Well, someone’s got to go in there,’ murmured Patrick, his eyes fixed earnestly on the dusty cloud. He was already peeling off his jacket. He handed it to Lizzie.

‘Hold this.’

Lizzie caught it. ‘Be careful,’ she called after him.

Patrick held up a hand in a brief wave before his long legs were fording the hills and ravines formed by the broken building.

A woman running from the site tripped over and sprawled close to where Lizzie was standing. Lizzie threw the coat to one side and went to her aid. Lifting one shoulder she saw the blood pouring from where the woman’s chin and nose had hit the ground.

‘Can you get up?’

The woman staggered to her feet. She seemed dazed, her eyes unfocused.

Lizzie rummaged in Patrick’s jacket and found his handkerchief. She flung the jacket back on to the ground and turned her attention to the woman’s bloodied face.

A woman from a neighbouring house brought over a bowl of water. Lizzie wet the handkerchief and used it to wipe the blood from the woman’s face.

‘Can we sit her down?’

She helped get the woman to a stool, but when they tried to persuade her to sit down she began waving her arms frantically.

‘No! Let me go.’

She hit out, the back of her hand slapping Lizzie’s cheek. Lizzie fell face forward on to the rubble, grazing her face and spluttering in the dust.

‘Well!’ she said, raising herself with her arms. ‘There’s thanks for you!’

Dusting herself off, she got to her feet and looked round for Patrick’s jacket. She frowned. Surely it should be there, not far behind her and close to the street?

It wasn’t. She began to search, sure of where she’d placed it, but worried now, looking round at the gathered crowd.

‘Has anyone picked up an RAF jacket?’ she asked the onlookers.

No one answered. The mother of a young lad who’d just staggered off the site was dusting him off between clouts around his already red ear.

‘That’ll teach you to be more careful, my lad!’

Not once did she warn her son not to venture on to a bombsite again. A sign of the times, thought Lizzie. No one had much, so who could blame them for rummaging for life’s little extras?

Still, that didn’t answer the question of the disappearing jacket.

‘Has anyone …?’ she began, but the crowd was swiftly diminishing.

The blowing of a whistle announced the arrival of the police. Four of them swarmed to where Patrick was helping a boy of about twelve. Both were covered in dust and blood was pouring from the boy’s cut knee.

‘Can you help?’ Patrick called to the nearest policeman.

Lizzie didn’t hear what was said. Craning her neck, she watched in shocked surprise as one policeman grabbed the boy and one grabbed Patrick.

‘Yes, sir. We’ll help you alright. All the way to the nick!’

Two policemen forced Patrick’s arms behind his back, manhandling him over the rubble.

Patrick began to protest. ‘But I haven’t done anything!’

‘Tell that to our sergeant,’ said another of the policemen.

Lizzie stumbled towards him over the broken paving stones and shards of broken glass. She grabbed the policeman’s arm.

‘He hasn’t done anything. Part of the building collapsed and someone was trapped inside.’

‘We’ll bear in mind all extenuating circumstances,’ said the policeman in charge.

‘I haven’t been looting,’ said Patrick, an amused grin on his face.

‘You might not have been looting this particular building today,’ said the policeman, ‘but we have reason to believe you’ve been here before.’

Patrick almost laughed in his face. ‘You’re pulling my leg!’

‘He wouldn’t,’ said Lizzie, pushing beneath a policeman’s arm so that she was firmly wedged between him and Patrick.

‘Is this yours?’

Patrick’s jacket dangled from a hefty hand.

‘Of course it’s his,’ said Lizzie, reaching out to take it.

‘It’s mine,’ said Patrick.

The policeman snatched it back and slid his hand into a pocket. He smirked as he withdrew it.

The next bit happened like a dream. Perhaps it was instinct or the vague suspicion that this particular pile of rubble had once been a jewellery shop, but Lizzie guessed what he would find.

Her intuition proved right. A sparkling necklace dangled from the constable’s fingers.

Patrick stared. ‘That’s not mine.’

‘We know that, old son,’ the constable spluttered. ‘It belonged to G. H. Palmer and Sons, bespoke jewellers. You’ve had a shufty over this site before, ’aven’t you?’

Patrick’s amused expression melted into one of dazed confusion. ‘No. I have not. In fact I’ve never seen that necklace before in my life.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘Honest I haven’t.’

Mary Anne felt a shiver run down her spine as she approached the front door of the house in Aiken Street. Of course she couldn’t leave it to Lizzie to challenge her father. It was up to her to do that. But second thoughts about doing anything at all turned her legs to jelly. They’d feel a lot better if she turned away right now, but she would not back down. She had to face him.

She’d dressed in a green wool costume beneath a tan and green coat. Her hat was simple with a brim turned down over one eye. The look was conservative, the kind of look one adopted if going to visit a solicitor or a relative who was easily shocked. The last thing she wanted was to give him the impression that she was there on a social visit.

The road was long and lined on each side with flat-fronted terraced houses. Faces appeared at upstairs windows. Children stopped hopping over the hopscotch squares they’d drawn on the pavement, resuming their game the moment she’d walked past.

Number seventeen had net curtains at the downstairs window. They drooped and sagged on one side. Biddy had the ground floor. The lackadaisically hung curtains confirmed the fact. Neat decor and clean windows had never rated too high with Biddy Young.

Swallowing her nerves, Mary Anne walked the few steps to the front door and knocked. The sound reverberated inside a long, dark hallway perhaps, the floor tiled and bare of rugs.

She heard footsteps. They sounded lighter than she remembered. Her heart raced. Her legs shook.

The door was wrenched open.

‘Mary Anne!’

‘Biddy!’

Biddy’s eyes swooped over her old friend, noting enviously that she still hadn’t ran to fat. She also noted the warm coat and fashionable hat she wore. Biddy liked clothes and would have liked those. Unfortunately Biddy was as round as a beach ball and her clothes didn’t look good for long, mostly because she wore them until they were filthy.

‘Come on in!’

Mary Anne nervously eyed the dark passageway behind her old neighbour.

‘He’s out,’ she said, guessing Mary Anne was looking for Henry. ‘He’s on days this week, though not likely to finish until nine tonight. Come on. Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Biddy led her to a reasonable-sized scullery. A green and white gingham cloth covered an old table. Two chairs were ranged either side of it.

‘So, how was your sister?’ said Mary Anne while taking in her surroundings.

‘Oh, she’s fine. At least she’s still got her house,’ she said.

‘Shame it had to be you,’ said Mary Anne.

‘At least we’re still alive. This might not be a palace, but it’s home,’ sighed Biddy. ‘We’ve got a roof over our heads and there’s a meal on the table – though that ain’t much either. Oxtail stew and suet pudding tonight made with the leftovers of Sunday’s dripping. Take the weight off yer feet.’

She gestured to one of the chairs. Mary Anne barely resisted the urge to ask for a duster before sitting down on the grubby seat.

‘I’m so glad you came round. I’ve really missed you,’ said Biddy between slurps of tea straight from the saucer.

Mary Anne sighed. ‘Kent Street seems an age ago. And I miss my little business. What tales that old washroom could tell.’

Biddy laughed, her eyes diminishing to mere slits above her plump cheeks. ‘A place to natter and come when you was a bit short. What would we ’ave done without you?’

Some would have survived and some poor souls would have starved or had their children taken away from them
, Mary Anne thought, but she didn’t have the heart to say so. No matter how poor they’d been, her old neighbours had been proud. It was all to do with self-respect and maintaining that there was always someone poorer – though God knew, it wasn’t that likely.

‘It wasn’t always happy,’ said Mary Anne. ‘At least, not for me it wasn’t.’

‘Shame he wasn’t in the bloody ’ouse when the bomb hit, I s’pose.’

‘Biddy!’ Despite everything, Mary Anne was shocked at her old friend’s insensitive comment.

‘Well let’s face it, it would ’ave made fings easier for you, wouldn’t it? And what if that lawyer comes back and gives you pots of money? Henry could make a claim on it as your legally married spouse.’

Biddy had reiterated everything about George Ford when they’d met in East Street that day. Mary Anne repeated what she’d already said to her friend.

‘I’m not the right Mary Anne Randall,’ she said, and added wistfully, ‘I only wish I was.’

‘Will you ask him for a divorce?’

The question was sudden and unexpected. Mary Anne hesitated. ‘Well … I’m not really too sure.’

She couldn’t possibly declare to Biddy her fears that Michael might not return, but something else was making her pause for thought. Getting divorced was not a nice thing to do. Marriage was supposed to be for life. Even though she no longer lived with Henry, her status as Mrs Randall was difficult to discard.

Biddy’s expression changed suddenly. ‘Are you thinking of making a fresh go of things? You know – you and old Henry?’

‘No. I am not. That’s not why I’m here.’ She set her cup and saucer down with great purpose. ‘Some nasty things have been happening and I think Henry is responsible for them.’

Biddy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She leaned forward. ‘What sort of things?’

Mary Anne told her about Mathilda going missing and about the items she’d rescued from the pawn shop having been scattered around the yard.

‘Two weeks ago next Saturday. I presume he got into the yard during the night – the back gate is never locked. Neither is the shed.’

Biddy looked away, chewing her lip as she thought things over. ‘Now, let me see … When was it old Henry went to the tabernacle? I can’t help but know his business, what with him having the rooms upstairs.’

‘Tabernacle?’ Mary Anne frowned. ‘You mean
church
?’

‘That I do. Church, not pub. Now there’s a turn up for the books, don’t you think?’

‘That doesn’t mean to say he’s not responsible.’

‘It does if two days ago he was off on a charabanc outing, driving the Bible-bashers to the seaside for the day. They went to Clevedon. Trouble was, they didn’t have enough petrol to get back and had to wait until they could get some from members of the Clevedon tabernacle. Ended up sleeping in the church overnight from what he tells me.’

Mary Anne got to her feet. The news made her more nervous than ever. What if Henry should come home now and see her here. He might get the wrong impression.

‘I have to go,’ she said, her tea cooling on the table.

Biddy’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Oh, Mary Anne. Do you have to?’

Mary Anne picked up her gloves. ‘Yes, I must. Look at the time. I don’t want to miss the bus.’

‘Wait for me. I’ll fetch me coat and walk you to the bus stop. Hope they’re still running. Shame old Adolf blew up the tram lines. I liked them better.’

On their way to the bus stop, Mary Anne made Biddy promise not to tell Henry that she’d called.

‘I don’t want him getting the wrong impression. Promise me, Biddy. Promise me as my one true friend.’

‘Cross me heart,’ said Biddy, making a vague cross shape across her ample bosom. ‘I’ll always be yer best friend. You know that, surely you do. It was me that sent that solicitor to you, after all.’