A Step Too Far (2 page)

     ‘
. . . that’s all it is, words  . . .
’

     Potatoes scraped clean of skins had rained like blows into a saucepan set on the draining board.

     ‘
. . . words you should take no notice of! It is just a bit of bad temper on losing the game, nothing more than that; things’ll be back to normal tomorrow you’ll see, you’ll all be friends again
.’

     Yet ‘tomorrow’ had never come. Katrin Hawley’s life had never again been normal.

1

He was gone. The man she loved was gone from her life. Miriam Carson watched the spill of cartridge cases drop into a large metal container. They were so pretty, like droplets of light filled water, a gleaming glittering cascade of gold. But that was where the beauty ended, for these small, shining brass objects would become bringers of death. Filled with gunpowder, a bullet at its heart, each one could take the life of a man, shatter the happiness of a family, break a woman’s heart as hers was broken.

     ‘We regret to inform you  . . .’

     The words had spun in her mind, whirled in her brain, danced like black confetti blinding her eyes!

     ‘We regret to inform you  . . .’

     Dark symbols, strokes and dots, marks made with a machine – but those on that small piece of buff coloured paper had been much more. Like the bullets she helped make, those lines and marks had been lethal, each letter, every word dealing a death blow to her heart.

     ‘. . . killed in action.’

     Killed! The finality of it had not registered at the time; how could Tom, her Tom, be dead? It was absurd! He was coming home on leave, hadn’t he said so in his letter? It had been a mistake, whoever had sent that telegram had got names mixed up, her Tom was not dead, she knew he was not dead.

     She had lived on that belief, fed on the hope, but hope could only nourish for so long before its strength began to wane. That had been almost as devastating as the telegram; losing hope was to lose faith and in that she would be failing Tom. But he had not come home, and in the end hope had withered.

     Love had supported her in those long dark months. Not the breath-catching, blood flaring emotion she had felt when in Tom’s arms, not his quiet whispered words. It had been the strength of another had carried her, his gentle arms comforted when tears could not be held back, that love which had been hers from birth: the love of a father.

     The last of the cartridge cases had trickled into the container, the whole lying like a golden lake, yet Miriam saw only a beach, a stretch of sand stained with blood, littered with men injured and dead. So many had died on those beaches of Dunkirk, so many lives had been swallowed by the demons of war, so many hearts broken. She had tried to think of others like herself, wives, mothers and sweethearts, tried in the loneliness of night to tell herself she was not alone in her grief, that thousands of other women were feeling the same pain, yet that brought no solace; drowning in an ocean of despair, she could think only of Tom. Her father had saved her. He had sat with her those dreadful hours when sleep had been a stranger, had listened to her cry her grief, understood when those cries had become ones of anger against a world which had deprived her of a husband; her father had understood, for he had lived through the grief of losing loved ones, the emptiness of life without the wife he had cherished, the life she must now lead.

     ‘C’mon Miriam wench  . . .’

     At her side, the gnarled fingers of Simeon Cartwright closed on the container.

     ‘. . . Can’t afford to slack. If we be a’ goin’ to put that ’Itler in ’is place, then our lads will be a’ needin’ o’ every bullet we can mek an’ they don’t get med if ’ands be still.’

     His eyes deep with sympathy, he continued quietly.

     ‘It be ’ard wench, God only knows ’ow ’ard, but we all ’as to go on. A wanderin’ mind be a luxury we can’t indulge. Daydreams be precious but like so many other things right now, Miriam wench, they ’as to be rationed, kept along of moments afore sleep, for dreams don’t win no war.’

     Too old for the armed services, long past retirement, Simeon Cartwright had returned – as had many who thought their days in the workplace to be long past – to take the place of sons and grandsons conscripted into the armed forces, engineered into a war begun by one man’s fanatical dream of world domination. We must all do our bit was their dogma, but with Tom as with thousands of men that ‘bit’ had been their life.

     Watching the elderly figure half bent from the effort of pushing the container, she heard Simeon’s words echo in her mind.

     ‘. . . dreams don’t win no wars.’

     Her throat tight with tears, Miriam turned back to the making of bullet cartridges. No, dreams did not win wars . . . neither did they return the lives war demanded.

She must not know. She must not ever know!

     Watching the slender figure shrug into a smart camel-coloured gabardine trench coat, Violet Hawley felt the sharp prick of conscience. That coat had accounted for more money than Jacob earned in a fortnight. ‘It won’t have the partin’ wi’ any clothing coupons; and as for style, you don’t get that outside of London nor will it be available there for very much longer . . . things of quality such as that coat are getting harder and harder to come by.’

     Harder to come by meaning less easy to steal? That was a question she had no need to ask. Jim Slater had a reputation for ‘coming by’ things, things often ‘lost’ during transport or, as seemed likely with this coat, taken from premises during or immediately following an air raid. It was a risky business. Black marketing was frowned upon but looting, stealing from blitzed property, was a crime which carried a heavy prison sentence. She had said as much the time she’d been offered a pound of butter. It was so strictly rationed . . . how come he had this? The question had been brusquely overcome.

     Asking no questions resulted in hearing no lies. If she didn’t want what was offered there was many another who did. So she had taken the butter, and Jim Slater had taken the money. That had been the first of what had become regular visits, each one having an offering of ‘a bit o’ summat picked up, a bit on the QT’. A bit on the quiet! At first she had felt a sense of guilt but stretching meagre rations of food, of almost everything which had once made life comfortable, the constant stress of queuing hours at a stretch only to be told what she had stood in all weathers for was ‘sold out, there was nothing ’til next week’, had pushed guilt aside. Like the one who had brought this coat, she would take while she had the chance, take for Jacob and for their daughter, take anything which would return a little of that comfort to their life.

     ‘I will try not to be late home.’ Katrin touched a hand to her hair before turning to look at her mother. ‘But I can’t promise, air raids have work stopped so often it is piling up, chances are I might be asked to stay on for an hour or two and I really don’t feel I ought to refuse.’ She shrugged, ‘It has to be done.’

     ‘. . . it ’as to be done  . . .’

     They had been Ella’s words, her sister’s words! Violet’s nerves twanged at the memory. Ella had been right of course but what they had done . . . was it right? Ought they to have waited a while?

     ‘And then what?’ Ella had demanded, her thin mouth tightening. ‘
Wait a bit, an’ then a bit more after that, what good’ll come o’ that? You knows an’ I knows this be best all round.
’

     It had been best for Ella, her life had not been turned upside down, but what of that other life? What of Isaac?

     ‘Others will also stay on if need arises, there will be someone for me to travel back with so you don’t have to worry.’

     ‘I know.’ Violet met her daughter’s smile. ‘But you be sure not to come home by y’self, the blackout has the streets dark as pitch.’

     ‘I will, I promise.’

     ‘See you keep it, and should the sirens blow, you get to the shelter.’

     ‘The sirens will not sound today, I have personally arranged it. There is not going to be any air raid for a whole week.’

     Violet watched the smile curve her daughter’s mouth.

     ‘. . . So what will you do with the week of amnesty? Would you like me to arrange a trip . . . Rome? Or perhaps Madame would prefer Paris, she has only to say the word.’

     ‘You have heaven’s ear do you?’ Violet met the laughing eyes. ‘Then you might ask they put an end to all this rationing, that would be far more welcome than a jaunt to the Continent.’

     ‘Consider it done! You can go to the town this morning and buy as much as you wish.’

     Reaching the packet of sandwiches she had made using the last scraping of butter, the cheese sliced finer than a moth’s wing in order to make the weekly one ounce ration serve father and daughter, Violet Hawley searched for her own smile, which every day proved harder to find. The young could make light of everything, laugh problems away; but they did not know the hardship of holding life together, of trying to keep things the way they had always been.

     Violet ran a glance over the trim figure drawing the belt of the stylish coat. ‘Black market!’ The prick of conscience bringing a tinge of colour to her cheeks, she turned toward a table on which gas masks were kept. That coat had not been essential, so why had she bought it? Why spend money which could have paid for butter or bacon, could even have bought precious petrol coupons enabling Jacob to drive to work rather than travel on buses wedged among people dressed in clothes stinking of factories. She had tried to get Jacob to move but work was work, Jacob had said, fresh air was good for the lungs and green fields were pretty to the eye but neither could be eaten. So they had stayed in Wednesbury and Jacob had continued in that factory, gradually working his way up to production manager.

     Production manager! Violet’s fingers grasped a box holding a gas mask. He should have been a partner, after all it was his brains behind many of the improvements that had seen the firm prosper; but Jacob was satisfied, in his estimation he had done well to get where he was. But there must be more for Katrin, she must not spend the rest of her life submerged beneath a welter of factories, each belching smoke and soot.

     ‘Oh, better take that I suppose. I don’t want a ticking off from a police constable or the ARP for being without it.’

     Violet turned to the departing figure. The expense of a grammar school education, the cost of clothing bought not from Fosbrooks, Bishop and Marston nor even Rose Woolf, but from the more exclusive shops of Wolverhampton and Birmingham, none of that had been for Katrin’s benefit. Truth a scald in her brain, Violet acknowledged the truth. It had all been done – was being done – for Violet Hawley. Lavishing every penny on her daughter was a safeguard, it was buying loyalty, buying security, buying protection against the truth. Violet leaned against the closed door. Yes, it was buying that as well!

2

‘Said it would serve as a lesson to others, have folk think twice before indulgin’ in black marketeerin’.’

     The conversation between Alice Butler and Becky Turner was listened to by all within earshot on the bus carrying them to work.

     ‘Think twice!’ Alice Butler’s voice was scathing, ‘Puttin’ her away for five years won’t ’ave effect on nobody but herself and her family, they’ll never live it down.’

     ‘Must say I didn’t think the penalty would be so harsh.’ Becky’s reply brought nods of agreement from several women.

     ‘Harsh? It be bloody brutal!’ Hair tucked beneath a paisley scarf tied turban fashion, Alice’s head swung emphatically. ‘Them there magistrates wouldn’t have come down near so hard were it a man had stood afore that Bench.’

     Becky took a ticket from the conductor, flashing a smile before tucking the small slip of white paper into her bag and answering, ‘I think you most likely be right.’

     ‘Most likely!’ Alice’s derision hooted along the body of the bus. ‘It’s a cold hard certainty! Had it been a bloke had up for handlin’ stolen goods he’d have been let off with a caution . . . “needed more in a factory or a mine” would have been the verdict. Justice . . . hah! Ain’t no justice where a woman be concerned, her can join up alongside men, do her bit along of them in every occupation ’cept coalmining, yet catch her doing what a lot of men be doing right under the noses of the bobbies and see what happens; a woman gets put inside.’

     ‘My mother was sayin’ it won’t end when that five years ends, the real hardship will come once Freda comes out of jail, says folk round here won’t want no truck with a wench convicted of dealin’ on the black market, mother says they’ll see it as takin’ food out of the mouths of kids.’

     From the front of the bus the conductor called the next stop then yanked on the cord, setting the bell to sound. Rising from her seat, Alice wormed past passengers standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisle, her righteous anger turned on the conductor whose double pull was the signal for the driver to continue the journey.

     ‘’Old on! This war has taught everybody a lot these past couple of years but it ain’t yet taught me how to walk through bodies as though they wasn’t there.’

     ‘We ’ave a schedule to keep an’ it don’t allow waitin’ of wenches too busy talkin’ to watch for their stop.’