A Woman's Place (44 page)

Working, they’d come to make the most of a few good things in life: going to the cinema, seeing a show now and again, regular food on the table as far as wartime rations had allowed, dressing nicely. They had followed the fashion for shorter skirts, cut their hair short to curl around their faces, when not restricted by the mob caps they wore at the factory. It was all coming to an end.

‘Some women might have been enfranchised,’ Eveline said as she thought of her dwindling resources. ‘But it’s not the emancipation Christabel Pankhurst spoke of. We’re still being asked to rely on men for most things.’

They had no men, she thought bitterly. They’d soon have little money. As predicted, in early January their jobs went. She felt so let down that it began making her feel under the weather. In fact in the middle of January she began to feel distinctly ill, waking up one morning with vague aches in her joints and a fever.

‘I hope I’m not coming down with that Spanish flu,’ she told her mother, having gone there for the morning after taking Helena to school. ‘There’s such a lot of it around. The papers are saying it’s an epidemic in other parts of the world and thousands of people have already died from it.’

‘That’s there, not ’ere,’ Mum said, placing a cup of tea in front of her.

‘But it is here,’ Eveline persisted, straightening her back against the vague pain, her head beginning to feel heavy.

‘It’s been going round for a month or two,’ Mum said without much sympathy. ‘If you was going ter get it, you’d of got it by now. It’s just you, worrying yerself stiff over losing yer job. I told yer, if you’re in ’ard straits, me and yer dad’ll help you out as far as we can.’

She was a different woman these days. No more, ‘You made yer bed so put up with it.’ With any hope of Albert coming home finally seeming futile – the subject was no longer mentioned, being too painful – the fact seemed to have brought her that bit closer.

‘Being worried doesn’t make you feel feverish,’ she said. ‘Helena went to school this morning saying she didn’t feel well either. I’m worried for her.’

‘She’ll be orright.’

But Eveline arrived back home to find a note through her door from the school asking her to collect her daughter as soon as possible as she had a nasty headache. The news sent her scurrying off to get her.

One look told her that she had a very sick daughter. Taking off her coat, she draped it round the girl’s shoulders giving extra warmth although the day wasn’t as cold as January could be, and part walked her, part carried her home. By that time she was in a panic, with the heat of the child’s body penetrating right through her clothing.

‘Mummy,’ Helena moaned plaintively several times on the way, ‘I feel ever so ill.’

‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘I’m putting you straight to bed.’

Once there, she heated milk and made her drink it sweet with an aspirin. ‘Stay in bed, darling, while I go for the doctor.’

The surgery was crowded. The receptionist looked agitated. ‘The doctor’s ever so busy as you can see. There’s not much he can advise except tell you to do what you’re already doing, giving her aspirin.’

‘What if it’s not the flu? What if she’s got meningitis or something?’

The receptionist thought a moment. ‘Maybe I can get him to come after surgery. That won’t be for ages, though.’

‘Well, ask him if he can make a visit as soon as he can.’

‘You have to pay for visits.’

‘Then I’ll pay!’ Eveline snapped and rushed off, not stopping to think where the money was coming from.

By the time he arrived about midday, having forgone his lunch to deal with the growing number of influenza victims, Helena looked desperately ill. Eveline too was feeling like death as she forced herself to see to the needs of her daughter, her own head feverish and throbbing, the pain behind her eyes almost unbearable, every limb aching to each movement.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

The doctor looked up from a brief examination. ‘She has influenza.’ He studied Eveline’s flushed face. ‘And so have you.’

‘So long as I can take care of her.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be able to. By this evening you’ll be in bed as well and in need of someone to take care of
you
! Your husband …’

‘My husband was reported missing,’ she said abruptly. ‘In the war.’

‘Hmm.’ He made no other comment, his expression inscrutable. ‘Is there anyone who can come in and take care of you?’

‘There’s my mother.’ She wasn’t sure she wanted to ask her. With the shop to look after she’d probably make her feel it was grudgingly done. Gran would come but had lately lost much of her vitality. She couldn’t impose on her either.

She’d have to ask Albert’s mother. She was taking the loss of her son badly, and though she still had his brother Jim due to come home from the army soon, Eveline guessed that her firstborn would always be dear to her; she would remember not the man but the little boy, a life wasted. But if she was given something to do it might take her mind off things for a while.

If only her own mind could be taken off things for a while. Her voice shook as she said that her mother-in-law lived in the next block to this one.

‘If you give me the number of her flat,’ the man said, his tone kind, ‘I’ll call in and inform her.’

An elderly man, he had probably seen many like her whose sons and husbands would not be coming back, women whose faces looked tight and grief-stricken, who were holding their loss inside themselves. His tone remained gentle.

‘You need to take plenty of liquids, keep warm and take two aspirin three times a day. That’s the best I can do for you. I shall not charge you for this visit,’ he added kindly, seeing her so near to tears. ‘I am seeing others on my rounds who will probably demand more of my time, so they can pay for this one.’

He gave a brief chuckle at his joke, waving away her thanks. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

There was a knock on the front door. ‘I’ll get that,’ he said. ‘You look after yourself and your daughter.’

It was Connie. Eveline could hear her talking to the doctor, but she was more concerned by Helena’s whimpering to be given comfort. Connie came in to find her cuddling the child to her.

‘How is she?’ were her first words.

‘He said it’s flu. She has to be kept warm and given aspirin.’

‘Didn’t he give you any other medicine?’

‘What can he give us? There’s no real cure. It just has to run its course. He didn’t charge me.’

‘I should think not!’ Connie stopped to regard her friend. ‘You look dreadful. He said you’ve got it as well.’

‘Don’t come too close, it’s terrible catching,’ Eveline warned as Connie came forward to put a hand on her forehead.

Connie took no heed. ‘Get undressed and into bed beside Helena. I can better deal with the two of you in one room rather than going from one room to the other to see to you both.’

She turned to her own daughter standing by the bedroom door. ‘Go home, Becky. Here’s the door key.’ She threw it across to her, Rebecca catching it expertly. ‘There’s food in the larder. Find something for your tea. I shall come home as soon as I can.’

‘You can’t let her go alone,’ Eveline protested.

Connie turned back, her chin up. ‘She’ll be nine years old come this autumn and can look after herself. With her father no longer here, we must do the best we can. Once she understands that, the better she will be.’

She sounded quite suddenly so efficient that had Eveline not felt so ill she’d have been shocked. The loss of her husband had slowly endowed her with a strength Eveline would never have expected of her last year while it was she who felt weakened by her own stupid hope of Albert’s return.

Letting her take charge, Eveline got meekly into bed, wondering at this change in Connie that had happened so gradually she’d hardly noticed it until now. Connie had lost so much in her life – two brothers, a father, her husband, and had suffered the refusal of her mother to forgive her over what to Eveline seemed the trivial matter of wanting to marry the man she loved. She’d had to be strong to bear up under all that. But at least she knew there was no bringing George back to life.

For herself, not knowing if Albert was dead or still alive was tearing her apart. As if in limbo she walked alternately on the edge of hope and resignation. But whereas she had a supportive family, Connie had virtually no one now.

Compared to some families, her own had been relatively fortunate. Apart from her loss of Albert no one in the family had been killed in the war – the only casualty, her brother Len, had lost his leg. Of Connie’s family there was only herself, the childless Verity, whose own husband had been killed, and their mother left. Mrs Mornington had no relatives either of her own or her late husband’s to turn to.

She did have Rebecca, the only one to continue the family line if not its name, but only three remained of the original family of six, or seven counting Verity’s husband, eight if only they’d had the good grace to include George. And if her mother still rejected Connie, she’d be virtually reducing that family to two.

Aches and fever took three days to run its course but had left her weak and listless. Connie had proved a real brick. Without hesitation, she’d stayed with Eveline and Helena. Eveline wondered what she’d have done without her. Connie seemed to be there constantly, going home for a few hours to see how Rebecca was, then back she’d come, staying up for two nights, saying that a neighbour was keeping an eye on Rebecca. Whether it was true or not, Eveline was too ill to ask as her own daughter tossed and coughed and moaned beside her.

Helena, perhaps because she was young, was up two days after the fever had gone, though not ready to go back to school for another couple of weeks. Eveline knew it could take the rest of February for her to regain her own strength. While she stayed in bed Connie did the shopping, coming over to prepare light meals. Her own mother hadn’t once come to see her.

‘I might as well not have a mum,’ she complained feebly as she made herself drink the broth Connie had prepared. Her appetite was still poor.

Connie gave her an odd, sad look. ‘She couldn’t, Eveline.’

‘Of course she could! Or has she got flu too?’

‘She had to nurse your gran, Eveline.’

The way she said it made Eveline look up sharply. ‘Is Gran ill?’

‘She went down with it as well.’

Something in Connie’s tone arrested her. She studied her friend’s face. ‘I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say?’

‘I couldn’t while you were so ill.’

‘And how is she now? Has she been very bad?’

Connie nodded, then as though finding it an effort, said slowly, ‘Yes, Eveline, very bad. She was getting on in years, and …’

‘Was?’ Eveline broke in, jumping on the past tense.

‘Eveline … it was too much for her. Your gran, she died from it.’

‘Died?’ Eveline echoed, then came to, blurting, ‘No! She can’t have!’

It wasn’t sinking in. Gran, who always declared nothing got her down not even at her age, who’d looked after Helena all those years, who had stood by Eveline when her own mother had wanted nothing to do with her. ‘No, not my gran,’ she continued in disbelief.

‘It happened so quickly,’ Connie went on. ‘It took her after only two days. Eveline, I’m so sorry. You were too ill to be told.’

Connie’s voice was droning as if trying to redeem the situation, but Eveline wasn’t listening, In her weakened state, she buried her face in her pillow and gave herself up to weeping as Connie gently removed the empty bowl from her trembling hand.

First her wonderful and loving Albert; hopes of his being still alive had faded after these three months of nothing. Now her loving and understanding gran. She felt suddenly alone as she wept into her pillow. Connie, standing by, allowed her to give way to her distress.

Gran’s funeral took place several days later, a small gathering on a cold and windy winter morning. Eveline wasn’t yet fully enough recovered to attend. Len and Flossie too were down with it. So was her sister Tilly’s little one as well as her brother Fred’s two kids. So many in this area alone had been stricken; people were dying of it every day. The papers were calling it an epidemic, saying that worldwide as many had died from it so far as had been killed in the war, which was frightening when in Britain alone there’d been three million war casualties with one million killed. Eveline could only pray that Len and his wife, and her brother and sister’s children, would recover.

Unable to find strength enough to pay her last respects to the woman who had helped her through so many crises, she felt it keenly. She spent the time crying so much that her eyes swelled and her nose got so blocked up that she could hardly swallow the soup, much less the sandwiches, Connie had with left her.

‘I should be there,’ Eveline told her, sinking back exhausted into her chair after trying to pull herself together.

‘You definitely can’t go,’ Connie said, arranging a blanket around her knees. ‘You can’t risk a relapse. You’ve Helena to consider. I’ll be there to represent you. I shall be back as soon as I can. I’ve left Rebecca with a neighbour, so she’ll be all right.’

To Eveline’s protests she said, ‘I’ve as much to thank your gran for as you. They will understand you not being there. I shall make sure they do.’

In a way, Connie attending in her stead made Eveline cry all the more.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ Helena said, near to tears herself. ‘I loved poor Granny Ansell too. I wish they could find Daddy.’

Eveline had finally found courage enough to explain it all to her after Christmas when she had again wished her daddy were there. Helena had taken the explanation in silence and hadn’t spoken of him again until she fell ill, in her fever telling him she wanted him here. It had nearly broken Eveline’s heart, since she herself had been in no condition to comfort her daughter.

‘I can’t help crying,’ she wept, but Helena’s young face was solemn.

‘If you keep crying, you’ll be ill again like Auntie Connie said. And I don’t want you to have to be buried, because then I’d have no one to love me at all without Daddy here with us any more.’