Only a Mother Knows (11 page)

‘Aren’t you going out tonight, Agnes?’ Olive had just finished listening to Valentine Dyall, owner of the deep sepulchral voice known to avid wireless listeners across the country as ‘The Man in Black’, who brought dark stories to his plucky audience. Agnes shook her head.

‘I’ve just been listening to Appointment with Fear.’ She paused for a moment and then a thought struck her. ‘Oh. Agnes. is that why you spent so long in your room?’ Agnes nodded her head and gave a little smile as she took her seat on the other side of the fireplace.

‘I would have changed the station if I’d known you were staying in.’ Olive thought it unusual for Agnes to be home on her night off, but knew she would never listen to ghost stories. The girl was frightened of her own shadow half the time.

‘I don’t mind, Olive, honestly. I was polishing my shoes for work tomorrow.’

Usually when Agnes and her chap, Ted, had a night off they went to the café with their own seat near the window, and spent hours over one cup of tea each or they went for a walk along the Embankment; anything that was cheap – or even better, free – suited Ted. But she shouldn’t think unkind thoughts. Olive gave herself a silent reprimand. He had a family to support, a mother who needed almost all of his money from what Olive could gather from her own observations; not that Agnes ever said anything, she thought the sun shone out of Ted – the only problem was, so did his clingy mother and she had the upper hand right now by the looks of it.

‘I thought you and Ted would go out, seeing as there haven’t been many night raids of late.’

‘Nancy from next door,’ Agnes said conversationally, ‘told me the Allies were having a hard time of it at Tobruk, where Rick is serving.’ She picked up the evening paper.

‘I know, it’s terrible. I really feel sorry for Dulcie now, especially since her American friend was killed; she has been very quiet since she got the news.’ Olive shook her head, knowing she had initially been quite wrong about Dulcie; the girl wasn’t flighty at all. Yes, she liked to give the impression that she had been everywhere and done everything and had men falling at her feet to take her to the Saturday night dances, but if the truth be known, Dulcie was just like any other girl trying to get by in these strange times. She had settled into the dangerous work at the munitions factory without carping, which surprised Olive no end.

She’d never thought she’d see the day Dulcie would parade up and down the hall in the style of a Paris catwalk model in a pair of navy-blue bib-and-brace overalls and wearing a turban over her immaculate curls. She recalled the impeccable if somewhat gaudy clothes the young woman wore when she first came to stay in Article Row. She sighed. War was changing all of them in one way or another.

‘Ted tries to keep me away from the wireless,’ Agnes was saying in her meek, almost inaudible voice, ‘but I like to keep up with what’s going on. He said it makes me fretful and suggests we go for long walks instead.’

‘Does he now?’ Olive suspected it was also to keep Agnes out of his hostile mother’s way, but she didn’t say anything else on the subject knowing Agnes was a simple soul who took people as she found them; she didn’t go looking for people’s faults and believed there was good in everybody. Olive had a hard time understanding the good in Ted’s mother, there seemed so little of it.

‘You don’t want to listen to everything Nancy has to say either, Agnes, she sometimes gets things wrong.’ Nancy, had her own version of events, and none of them were optimistic. ‘Is Ted coming to pick you up?’ she ventured again.

‘He’s taking his mother and two sisters to the pictures,’ Agnes said from behind the newspaper.

‘Did you not fancy going, then?’ Olive persisted, getting her knitting from under the cushion. She didn’t like to see the girl at a loose end, whilst Agnes gave a distracted nod.

She didn’t mind staying in of a night sometimes; Olive had a lovely way about her that made everyone feel quite contented, and always made the cocoa around nine thirty, which Agnes loved – even when they were in the middle of an air raid, the routine made her feel safe, somehow. She loved living here since the beginning of the war. It was the only place she had ever known apart from the orphanage, which she dare not talk about in front of Ted’s mother, who lived in the flats provided by the Guinness Trust and was very respectable. Agnes felt that Mrs Jackson didn’t like her very much.

Her mind was racing now. Mrs Jackson was of the opinion – and she said so, loudly – that foundlings, which was what Agnes was, were no better than they ought to be, and also said she knew that a baby left on the step of an institution had been put there for one reason only, and that was because the child was a bastard, been abandoned by her father because he wouldn’t marry her slut of a mother.

Agnes wriggled as if her seat was hot. Those were the woman’s very words, and Mrs Jackson had said them when Ted went to fetch his two sisters from school leaving her and his mother to get acquainted. Mrs Jackson wrinkled her nose like there was a bad smell under it. Agnes remembered she had felt very uncomfortable after that meeting and tried to stay out of Mrs Jackson’s way as much as possible from then on and wasn’t keen on going to Ted’s home.

Not that Ted invited her to his home very often; it was too cramped, he said. And Agnes was quite satisfied with the explanation as, the last time she went to visit, Mrs Jackson stayed in the little kitchenette all the time she was there. Ted wasn’t best pleased but he tried to hide it from his mother. And Agnes didn’t tell Olive about it either, she would only get upset. She was a good sort, was Olive, would do anything for anybody – even for Nancy Black from next door – and, Agnes thought, Nancy would try the patience of a saint.

‘I was wondering,’ Olive said, interrupting her thoughts, ‘would you be a love and take that apple pie down to Mr Whittaker for me, he’s been …’ Olive lowered her voice ‘… bad on his legs, poor soul.’ Then her voice rose again. ‘I promised Sergeant Dawson I’d pass it in later when he told me Mr Whittaker had been ailing.’

‘Yes, I’ll take it,’ Agnes said brightly. ‘It’s still light and there are people in the Row so there’s nothing to worry about.’ Her voice sounded relieved, thought Olive, recalling Agnes was sure that number 49, next door to Mr Whittaker, was haunted. She had been fed the lies by those Farley boys who ought to know better, and no matter what anybody said they couldn’t convince Agnes that there was no such thing as ghosts. Her Ted, being the protective type, made sure Agnes didn’t go anywhere alone either. Olive wasn’t sure this was at all good for the girl but she didn’t say anything, it wasn’t her place to interfere in their lives.

‘I’ll take the pie down now,’ Agnes said, going into the kitchen to retrieve it from the top of the stove. In minutes she was knocking on Mr Whittaker’s door. It seemed a long time before she heard the old man’s tiny, painfully slow footsteps coming down the hallway to the front door.

Agnes shivered and had an overwhelming feeling that somebody was watching her. She looked around but could see no one apart from the people who were going about their own business. Giving a little shudder she told herself not to be so silly. She was less than a hundred yards from her own front door and, it being double summertime, it was broad daylight.

Turning quickly she heard a small rumble from number 49. It sounded like something heavy was being moved around but there was no sign of anyone. The house had been empty for a long while now – the landlord had given up trying to mend houses that the Germans later flew over in their bombers and tried to flatten, so it had been boarded up and, by the looks of it, forgotten about.

Nancy Black had been livid; she said it lowered the tone of the whole row. Agnes, if she thought about it, would say Hitler was more to blame for making the place look untidy. She looked up at the window of number 49. Maybe it was haunted, or maybe a German had got in and was spying on the whole street. She wondered if she should mention it to Olive – she’d be the best judge of whether Sergeant Dawson should be told or not.

‘You took your time,’ Mr Whittaker said almost, frightening the life out of Agnes. ‘I thought Olive had forgotten about me.’

‘She would never do that, Mr Whittaker,’ Agnes said in her most friendly voice, glad to have someone to talk to and stop those stupid thoughts running through her head. But there it was again! There was a definite bump next door.

‘Did you hear that, Mr Whittaker?’ Agnes asked, still holding the plate containing the pie.

‘It’ll be the cat, she’s always getting into places she shouldn’t,’ Mr Whittaker said, nonplussed, taking the valuable pie and shuffling down the hall, obviously looking forward to eating it. He stopped when he got to the kitchen door. ‘No custard?’ he asked.

‘No sugar, I’m afraid, sir,’ Agnes answered with a polite sigh, following the old man.

‘Sugar? Sugar? They didn’t have sugar in my day, neither, but we still had custard.’

‘I’ll let Olive know.’ Agnes took the pie and slid it onto one of Mr Whittaker’s own dishes. ‘I’ll have to return the plate to Olive, Mr Whittaker, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She closed the front door gently behind her, leaving Mr Whittaker to eat his pie in peace. Custard? Agnes smiled as she hurried past number 49. Where did he think he was? The Ritz? Then she caught sight of Sergeant Dawson coming down the street on his bicycle and as he passed her she decided to summon all her courage to tell him about the strange noises she’d heard. He assured her he would have a little scoot around the place later.

She’d reached the gate of number 13 when she saw Tilly rounding the corner. Agnes waved and Tilly waved back, quickening her step a little.

Tilly saw Agnes waiting at the gate and wondered if she dare confess what she had done. She knew she had to tell someone and Agnes was a decent sort of girl who would not only keep a confidence, but would probably offer some tentative although nonetheless valuable advice, which Tilly was in need of.

Tilly couldn’t explain, even to herself, what had come over her, but in a rush of excitement she had written to the labour exchange and put her name on the list of girls who were enlisting in one of the services.

Initially, she had toyed with the idea of joining the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps, or the QAs as they were more commonly known, having some wildly romantic if misguided notion of tending wounded soldiers who would then fall at her feet and declare undying love for bringing them back to A1 fitness – until the woman in the recruitment centre pointed out in rather cynical tones that, as well as saving mankind from utter destruction, Tilly would have to do some very unheroic chores like emptying bed pans and providing succour and support to blind, maimed and harrowingly disfigured men as part of her duties. So that idea went right out of the window.

Instead, the glamorous conscription posters of the Auxiliary Territorial Service finally persuaded Tilly that it might be fun to join the army. And she liked the idea of being treated in the same way as those in the regular army and would wear a smart khaki uniform, although she was relieved to hear that she would wear black shoes instead of army boots – she couldn’t see herself clod-hopping around in big boots all day. And she was rather pleased to discover that, although they would be trained to use guns, they would never have to fire them; she didn’t think she could actually kill someone.

‘No Ted tonight, Agnes?’ Tilly asked as she approached the gate.

‘He’s taking his mum and his sisters to the pictures tonight, my turn next week.’

‘You make sure it is your turn too,’ Tilly said a little too sharply. ‘He took his mum and sisters last week.’ It was a shame the way Ted took Agnes for granted and always favoured his family over her. Not only that, but poor Agnes just seemed grateful for what little attention he did give her. It wasn’t a bit fair.

‘Ted’s mum wanted to see Mrs Miniver with Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon.’

‘And what did you want to see?’ Tilly asked, not unkindly, feeling very sorry for Agnes now. If Ted’s mother said jump he asked ‘how high’ and it didn’t matter what Agnes, in her own placid way, thought of the change of plan because Ted’s mother got her own way no matter what Agnes felt. Tilly wished that family would desist from playing on Agnes’s obviously trusting and very kind nature.

‘Oh, I don’t mind either way,’ Agnes replied. ‘I’ll watch anything as long as I’m with Ted.’

‘You are too soft-hearted, Agnes,’ Tilly gently admonished her friend, ‘that’s your trouble.’

‘Is everything okay, Tilly?’ Agnes was a little taken aback at the other girl’s forthright manner.

‘No, everything is not okay,’ Tilly said as she fished inside the letter box for the key that her mother tied to a piece of string so they could get in at any time of the day or night. ‘I don’t think you deserve to be fobbed off, Agnes, and the way Ted’s mother looks down her nose at you is tantamount to snootiness. Who does she think she is?’

‘Don’t let it worry you, Tilly, I know Ted loves me. He tells me all the time.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ Tilly interjected, ‘but actions speak louder than words, Agnes. He needs to put his foot down and tell that mother of his to stop taking the mick.’

It was plain to Agnes that anything she said now would only inflame Tilly’s annoyance, so she kept quiet, knowing Tilly must have something troubling her to speak with such undisguised exasperation.

After a few moments Tilly seemed calmer and said in a low, barely audible voice: ‘Agnes, I can trust you to keep something to yourself, can’t I?’

‘Of course you can, Tilly, I would never betray anything you told me,’ Agnes said benignly, feeling privileged to be taken into Tilly’s confidence like this.

‘I’ve put my name down for the ATS.’ There was another moment’s silence to let this important piece of information sink into Agnes’s head. And as the ramifications dawned on her, her eyes widened and her mouth opened of its own accord. ‘The ATS?’ she gasped, when she found her voice.

‘Yes, the Auxiliary Territorial Service.’ Tilly’s eyes shone. ‘The advertisement said “non-combatant duties with military units”, you get a uniform and everything. They teach you to drive motors, ambulances, and all the other things that require the energy and initiative that I’ve obviously got, they said.’ Tilly proudly straightened her back and looked very pleased indeed.