Only a Mother Knows (12 page)

‘So you haven’t heard from Drew, then?’

‘I don’t want to talk about Drew,’ Tilly said in a low, hurt voice whilst her fingers sought the ring that was hanging from the gold chain around her neck. She knew she had to be brave. Life was too short to linger over thoughts of what might have been. Now was the time to grow up and show everybody, including her lovely mum, that she was mature enough to make her own decisions and carry on. After all, lots of worse things were happening all over the world and, she now realised, she must knuckle down and stop feeling sorry for herself.

‘Oh, Tilly, you mustn’t think that way, you’ll see Drew again one day, I’m sure you will.’

‘You have a romantic heart and it could be your undoing, Agnes,’ said Tilly with a sad smile, ‘and it may be too late if Drew comes back. Because I know one thing, I can’t sit around moping, I have to do something.’

‘Your mum will go mad,’ was all that Agnes could think of to say, deflating Tilly with five short words.

‘I know.’ Tilly bit her lip. ‘Will you stay with me whilst I tell her?’

‘Shall I put the milk on for the cocoa, Mum?’ Tilly asked quickly, maybe too quickly as she took her coat off and threw it over the back of the chair. She had to remain calm. She had to explain in composed, unruffled terms that she was grown-up enough to be of service to her country at this awful time, and not expect everybody else – her mother especially – to protect her forever.

Tilly could feel her pulse quicken and at one point she even forgot to breathe. It was only when Olive gave her one of her puzzled frowns that Tilly realised she needed to say something, do something … anything to stop her imagining the agonising distress her mother would go through when she told her what she’d done.

Taking the cocoa tin from the shelf, Tilly knew she had to focus. Girls were being called up all over the country. What made her so different? Why couldn’t she go and do her bit?

‘Oh, lovely,’ said Olive as she went to the cupboard. ‘Agnes, let’s get the cups ready.’

Tilly took a deep breath when she and Agnes exchanged puzzled expressions. As she took the milk from the marble slab in the cool pantry, she listened to the gentle chatter of her mother and her best friend exchanging news of their day. She would miss this most of all when she went away, Tilly thought, pouring milk into a small pan and watching as it slowly came to the boil, like her courage.

‘Mum …?’ Tilly said hesitantly. ‘You’ve always brought me up to think of others and not just myself, isn’t that right?’

‘Of course, darling.’ Olive’s voice came from behind her and Tilly could tell she was now sitting at the table with Agnes. She didn’t dare turn around; she couldn’t bear to see the pain in her mother’s eyes.

‘Well, as I am not a child any more and I have been more or less molly-coddled – no, that is the wrong word,’ Tilly said hastily, ‘as you have taken the very best care of me all my life I felt that I should give something back and make you proud of me …’

‘But you don’t have to prove anything to me, Tilly, I’ve always been proud of you,’ Olive replied, making her daughter feel even more apprehensive.

‘I know you have, Mum,’ she said quickly. She had to try to get her thoughts in some sort of order, as she was close to making a real hash of the job now. ‘Mum, I’ve joined the army!’ She could have kicked herself, she hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that and now her mother was going to be so angry or upset or …

‘Oh, Tilly, I am so proud of you!’ Olive cried as she scraped back her chair and, arms wide open, came over and threw her arms around her daughter in a huge hug. ‘You are so very brave and after your training I’m sure you will see some wonderful places, there will be new people to meet, not counting the many adventures you will have … although not too many adventures!’ Olive gave her a look of mock severity and then she burst out laughing.

‘Oh, Mum, I am so relieved.’ Tilly let out the lungful of air she had been holding since she blurted the whole thing out.

‘Oh, away with you,’ Olive said, giving Tilly another hug before handing her daughter and Agnes their cup of cocoa. ‘Now off you go, you and Agnes will have a lot to talk about. I’ll see you both in the morning.’

The two girls left the kitchen chattering and laughing, and Olive could hear the obvious relief in her daughter’s voice as she took her cocoa upstairs.

Sitting alone at the table now, Olive’s fears had come to fruition. She knew she would miss Tilly more than life itself and worried what the big bad world had in store for her little girl who had suddenly become a woman who made decisions of her own now. And Olive did not think she could bear it as she put her face in her hands and quietly sobbed whilst her heart shattered into a million pieces. Everything was changing and there was nothing she could do about it.

Long into the night Olive sat at the kitchen table knowing that even the most basic of necessities were rationed now; coal and soap and food were the stuff of life, yet, along with her daughter, they were things she had to do without – and not only that, but do it with a smile on her face to lift morale. Olive wondered if she could keep up the charade, alone, for the rest of this awful, awful war.

Only a Mother Knows

Sally stifled a yawn as she headed down Article Row and longed for the comfort of her own bed. Last night had been exceptionally busy as incendiaries had set fire to a warehouse on the docks. When the roof collapsed a number of people were trapped inside, but it wasn’t them that had caused the staff to be almost run off their feet, it was the explosion of tar barrels that had spread and injured workers in the next warehouse too. There had been complete mayhem right up until first light; even some of the fire crew were coming in for burns treatment. Then there was George, quiet, unassuming George who had volunteered to serve in the Royal Navy and had left yesterday stating that he would consider himself a failure if he didn’t do his bit.

A failure? George? Sally had been so shocked by his sudden outburst that she could only reassure him that he wasn’t a failure, far from it; he was the kindest, most talented doctor she had ever met, to which he had said with a hint of uncharacteristic cynicism that she would think that, wouldn’t she? And no matter how much she tried to coax or even bully him into staying here with her, George could not be persuaded – he had to do it, she knew.

In one way Sally was extremely proud of his sacrifice and in another she wanted to shake some sense into him. However, she had come to realise that she couldn’t stop him doing what he felt was right. That would be beyond selfish, and she couldn’t live with herself if he felt a failure because of what she had said. But it didn’t make their parting yesterday any easier.

‘You do understand, don’t you, darling Sally?’ George had asked before he boarded the train to Devonport in Plymouth to join his ship. She wanted answer no, she didn’t understand, but he kept talking, not letting her tell him how much she would miss him until the very last minute. He was a good man, a caring doctor who was doing an excellent job. He would be an asset to the navy, she knew.

As her scrambled, weary thoughts flickered and waned in the half-light of dusk she saw something, or someone, dart into the vicar’s garden. Sally knew it was strange at this hour for the vicar to be gardening, as he was no longer in the first flush of youth and much preferred to do such work when it was light enough to see properly. And also, she could tell that the person was too small to be an adult.

She stopped and watched for a moment, unsure if whoever it was had seen her and was hiding behind the privet hedge. She waited, not moving, for a while longer and then to her complete surprise she saw young Barney creeping out of the vicar’s garden and, crouching, looking the other way.

‘What are you up to, young Barney?’ Sally demanded, making her voice as stern as possible, although she felt sorry for the kid, who hadn’t had it easy before he was taken in by Sergeant Dawson and his wife.

However, she was worried that Barney was going back to his old ways after seeing him loitering around the underground a few days earlier. It used to be a favourite hangout of his rather dubious older acquaintances and she had to have a little chat with Sergeant Dawson, who told her that Barney was still settling in and he was sure that the boy wasn’t up to anything untoward. Be that as it may, thought Sally, but what child wanders around the neighbourhood this late in the evening? One who was up to no good, that’s who.

‘I wasn’t doing nothing, honest.’ Barney looked the picture of guilt.

‘You weren’t doing “anything”, you mean.’

‘That’s what I said, miss. I was just looking for shrapnel …’ His words dissipated into the evening air as Sally drew alongside him.

‘Does your father know where you are?’

‘I ain’t got no father, miss, he’s lost in the war.’ His grubby face and crumpled pyjamas were a far cry from Mrs Dawson’s usual tidiness, thought Sally.

‘I meant Sergeant Dawson,’ she said patiently. Sally had seen many young lads just like Barney who’d had their childhood stolen from them by the war; they had to grow up fast and take responsibility. Luckily for Barney, the sergeant and his wife had taken pity on him and given him a good home and plenty of care and attention. And this was how he repaid them?

‘I ain’t done nuffin’, miss, you can search me if yer like, I ain’t got nuffin’ I shouldn’t.’

‘I should hope so too, Barney,’ Sally said, giving him the benefit of the doubt, ‘but why are you out at this hour of night in your pyjamas? You should be tucked up in your bed.’

‘I can’t get in, miss,’ Barney said in simple matter-of-fact tones. ‘I ain’t got no key an’ Aunty won’t let me in.’

Sally’s forehead puckered in doubt, as she knew that Mrs Dawson doted on young Barney; he was like a substitute son after the tragic death of her own young boy years earlier.

‘She dragged me out of bed and would you Adam an’ Eve it, she told me I was trespassin’. Frightened the life outta me, she did!’ Barney’s eyes widened and Sally instinctively knew he was telling the truth.

‘Mmm,’ she said, confused. ‘Let’s get you home and see what can be done.’ Barney seemed reluctant at first but Sally persuaded him that he was not in trouble. ‘Your aunt doesn’t sound too well,’ she said, putting her arm around his shoulder, guiding him up the street. It was on the third knock that Mrs Dawson came to the door. Sally could hear her shuffling down the hall like an old lady, but assumed she must only be in her late thirties, much the same age as Olive, she guessed.

‘Ahh, Nurse, you’re here at last,’ Mrs Dawson said, her dull eyes brightening. Then she caught sight of Barney and shooed him off the step. ‘Be off with you, boy, you have no business here. Now go away before I call my husband; he’s a policeman, you know.’

Sally’s eyes took in the woman’s appearance. She was dressed in every stitch of clothing she owned by the looks of it, and it didn’t need Sally’s professional assessment to see that the woman was, perhaps temporarily, not her usual self as she took on a condescending manner in dealing with Barney.

Mrs Dawson looked twice her usual size as dresses and cardigans were piled on top of each other and her dark coat was dragged over the clothing in such a way that she could hardly move her arms. Sally turned to Barney who was sniggering behind her and quickly shushed him with a stern glance.

‘Here, take my key and let yourself into number 13,’ she told him in a low voice. ‘Tell Olive to go to the police station and fetch Sergeant Dawson, he needs to come home urgently. I will explain everything as soon as I can. Now hurry and don’t dawdle around the street, you don’t want Nancy Black seeing you when she’s putting her milk bottles out and complaining again.’

Barney took the key and sped down the street as Sally ushered Mrs Dawson into her front room. When she went to turn on the light the other woman stopped her with a strength that had gone previously undetected.

‘Don’t turn the light on or open those curtains!’ Mrs Dawson’s voice was shrill, making Sally turn towards her. ‘I don’t want them looking in the window.’ She didn’t elaborate on who ‘them’ were. Sally realised that the woman could be very volatile if not handled correctly as Mrs Dawson grabbed her hand and said, ‘They took my baby, you know.’ She was shaking all over, Sally could see. ‘They took my boy! Don’t you see? I’ve got to get away from here! I’ve got to find him quickly!’

‘Who took your boy, Mrs Dawson?’ Sally’s gentle tones brought a little calm and, still in her uniform, her medical expertise came to the fore. By the looks of it, Sally thought, Mrs Dawson was able to recognise that she was here to help her.

‘The Germans. They came in the middle of the night and they stole my boy – and they took my husband too. You’ve got to help me. It’s not safe here any more.’

Sally could see, even in the very dim light of the room, that Mrs Dawson’s eyes were wild and she tried to calm her whilst she still had the other woman’s attention, because any minute now Mrs Dawson might not recognise Sally as someone who was here to comfort her.

‘I knew something like this would happen, I said to my husband that I wanted to move but he wasn’t having any of it – he’s in league with them, you know, he has a uniform and everything. And he keeps a gun. Did you know he keeps a gun? The vicar would be scandalised!’ Sally listened to Mrs Dawson’s rambling with the serenity honed from years of nursing.

‘Shall I make us a nice cup of tea, Mrs Dawson?’ she asked, when Mrs Dawson grew calmer.

‘Who is Mrs Dawson? My name is Miss Teasdale.’ Mrs Dawson looked suspicious. ‘I think you may have me mixed up with somebody else my dear,’ she continued, seeming very lucid. If a stranger was to come in here now, Sally thought, they would possibly believe that Mrs Dawson was Miss Teasdale, such was her conviction. It was all very worrying.

‘I do apologise, maybe you would like a cup instead then, Miss Teasdale?’

‘How very kind of you, I’m sure, but I shall wait until my guests arrive and then you may serve tea.’

Sally noted that Mrs Dawson, wearing a mountain of clothing with her arms outstretched, was talking like the lady of the manor – which Sally supposed was half-true as she had done a very good job keeping the house going, even though she was giving the impression of belonging to a more refined Victorian establishment. Sally knew that something had clearly snapped in Mrs Dawson’s vision of reality; she had seen this type of dislocation from the real world since the beginning of the war. Women who had been getting on with their daily routine without a word of rebuke or fuss suddenly could take no more – and it was usually, like now, when things had settled down a bit after the earlier blitz, that they could no longer cope.