Our Lizzie (40 page)

“No, you're not ill at all. The murmur just means that you have a small hole in one wall of your heart—many people have the same thing without knowing.” Sympathy on his face, he added quietly, “It's just—you're not fighting material, Mr. Kershaw.” He scribbled that fateful word on Percy's papers, then began to gather his things together.

Percy couldn't move, so shocked was he.

Dr. Balloch paused. “You can live a long and useful life, Mr. Kershaw, marry, have children, do all the normal things a young man does, but you're not fit enough to fight.” He looked at Percy shrewdly. “Surely you've had some warning—an occasional pain in the chest when you've over-exerted yourself?”

And Percy remembered several incidents over the years, little things that he'd dismissed as the simple result of doing too much, too fast. He nodded reluctantly. “I never thought owt of it.”

“Well, it needn't make a big difference to your life.”

Dejected, Percy finished buttoning his shirt and walked out of the building. It had made a huge difference to his life already. A dreadful difference. Alone, he made his way back to Pilby's.

“What kept you, lad?” Rob asked as he came back into the office.

“Unfit,” Percy said dully, showing him the paper.

“Nay!” There was silence, then, “What's wrong?”

“Something to do with my heart. It's not bad enough to stop me living a normal life, but it makes me too much of a risk for the bloody Army.” He went and busied himself at his desk, hunching his shoulders against the world, so bitterly disappointed that he felt like weeping. “You tell the lads for me, will you? I'm a bit upset, like.”

At the end of the day, Rob hesitated. “Some of us are going out for a drink, to celebrate. Do you want to come? After all, you did
try
to volunteer!”

Percy shook his head. “No. I'll just get off home.” But he did nothing for a while, only sat staring out of the window blindly. His one chance to get away from her, ruined. Tears came into his eyes and he had to blink hard to clear them.

When he turned round, he found Mr. Pilby himself standing in the doorway. “I heard you'd been turned down, Kershaw. Mind telling me why?”

So Percy explained again.

His employer nodded. “Well, lad, these things happen. I just wanted to say—you can still do your bit, you know. We shall be depending on you to keep things going in the office here while the other lads are away.”

Percy frowned at him. “What?”

“You'll be second in charge here now, lad.”

It was an effort to say, “Yes. I see.” He stood up. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm still getting used to it. I'll get off home now, if you don't mind?”

Pilby nodded as he watched him go. A decent young fellow, Kershaw. Had tried to do his duty. And was showing promise in the office, too. A bit of luck for Pilby's, him not being fit to fight. You wanted to do your bit, but you couldn't run a company if everyone rushed off to war.

*   *   *

Percy couldn't face the thought of going straight home. Instead, he called in at Cardwell's and had a cup of tea with Emma. She didn't ooze sympathy all over him, just nodded acceptance when he told her, then got out a bottle of whisky to lace his tea, sitting quietly with him as he sipped.

“Thanks,” he said, when he felt up to facing his mother.

“I didn't do anything.”

“You were there.”

She laid one hand on his shoulder. “Percy, you did your duty. You volunteered. No man can do more. You shouldn't blame yourself.”

He gave a shamefaced grin. “It's not just that—I know it sounds silly, but I was actually looking forward to getting away.” He didn't need to add “from her.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

August–November 1914

Every day seemed to bring more war news and there was an atmosphere of feverish excitement in the town, with people gathering in small groups to discuss the latest rumours. Mothers threatened their children with “The Kaiser will get you!” if they misbehaved. Children played war games with sticks for guns. Those who had seen service in the Boer War were much sought after for opinions.

On 12 August, Britain and France declared war on Austria-Hungary.

“Where will it end?” some people asked.

“It'll end when Britain has defeated those scoundrels,” others said stoutly.

On the fifteenth, there was news of a battle the previous day between French and German forces on the frontier between the two countries. People who had never previously had a good word for any foreigner were suddenly cheering the French on and talking about “our gallant allies.”

Peter Dearden was torn between a wish to volunteer and do his bit and a need to help his mother, who was spending most of her time caring for her dying husband and was little seen by customers these days. He hung a big map of Europe in the window of the shop and small groups gathered around it at regular intervals, pointing fingers and earnestly discussing the fate of countries they hadn't heard of since their schooldays.

No one had blamed Peter for not enlisting, as they did Sam Thoxby, because everyone knew that Bob Dearden hadn't long to live. Besides, his brother Jack had gone off to volunteer almost as soon as war was declared, not lining up at the Town Hall like the others but going off with a hastily packed bag to find a way of getting into the Royal Flying Corps.

His mother wept over the letter he left. And wept again when she got an excited letter saying he'd been accepted because of his knowledge of planes and flying.

*   *   *

“It makes you realise how lucky we are to live on an island,” Blanche Harper said over tea one night. “It'll be a lot harder for the Huns to invade us here than it was for them to crush poor little Belgium.”

Funny how patriotic Blanche had suddenly become, Emma thought. “Yes. We are lucky.” She stared down at her plate. She wasn't really hungry, but if she didn't eat something, her sister would notice and worry. Wherever James was, Emma hoped he wasn't involved in fighting. But she wouldn't know. That was what made it all so hard. She had no right even to expect a letter.

“Have you seen Percy lately?” Blanche asked, with a coy look on her face.

“No. Why? Should I have?”

“Oh, I just thought—you and he seem to have grown very friendly lately. Look at the way he came round to see you when he found he was unfit to serve.”

“Percy is just a good friend. Nothing more, dear, so don't start speculating.”

“The way he looks at you sometimes is more than friendly. And—I'd like to see you happy.”

“I can only hope you're mistaken about the way he looks at me because I don't think of him like that.” She cared too much about another man. “And anyway, I'm happy here with you.” She started talking about her day at work and the account books she'd brought home to study, relieved when nothing more was said about Percy.

*   *   *

Lizzie did not find out that Sam was being shunned by most of the other men left at Pilby's until a woman stopped her in the street, blocking her way, arms akimbo. “You want to tell that husband of yours to do his duty.”

“I don't understand what you mean?”

“A big, strong fellow like that should be in the Army, helping defend his country against the Huns. My Will's only a little feller, but he's gone.”

Lizzie gave a short, bitter laugh. “If you think Sam listens to anything I say, you're wrong. He goes his own sweet way, my husband does.”

“Well, you should be persuading him to enlist. That's a woman's duty.”

Lizzie stared her right in the eyes. “He put me in hospital for a week last time I spoke out of turn.”

The woman met her gaze for a moment, then her eyes fell. “So it's not you who's holding him back, then?”

“No. I'd be delighted for him to go.”

The woman looked surprised at this bluntness, then her expression became sympathetic, but she didn't say anything, just nodded and stood aside.

Lizzie hurried away. She hated it when people pitied her.

She couldn't help stopping to stare at the recruiting poster outside the Town Hall and wishing Sam would heed its message. There were posters everywhere. He must see them every day. If the war went on, surely he'd have to enlist? Then she gave a snort of laughter. Her husband put his life at risk for other people? Never.

*   *   *

When Sam came home that night, he was in such a foul mood Lizzie's heart gave a lurch.

“Isn't tea ready yet?”

She lowered her eyes. “It'll be ready as soon as you've changed.”

“You make sure it is.”

Later, as he sat shovelling food into his mouth, making the snorting, snapping noises she hated, he said savagely, “Well, it won't be long before I leave that bloody place.”

Hope flickered for a minute. Was he thinking of enlisting? But she kept her eyes down, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

He leaned forward and thumped the handle of his knife beside her plate, making her spill the peas from her fork. “I said, it won't be long before I leave that bloody place. Are you deaf?”

Lizzie risked a glance sideways at him. “Pilby's, you mean?”

“Of course I mean Pilby's. Where else have I been working these past few years?”

“W-what will you be doing instead?”

“Working for meself. Making some real money.”

“Doing what?”

“Never you mind.” He stabbed his fork towards her. “And think on, you're not to mention that to anyone.”

“No, Sam.”

“Have you started your monthlies?”

“Yes.” Thank goodness. She didn't want a child any more, not
his
child, anyway.

He glared at her. “You can't do nothing right, can you?”

Rage swelled in her because he was the one who'd killed their unborn child, but she held it back. No use earning herself another beating.

After the meal, as she was bringing his cup of tea across to him, she tripped on the edge of the rug and nearly fell, spilling tea into the saucer and splashing his trouser leg.

One fist thumped down on the arm of his chair. “Clumsy bitch. Get that wiped up or—” He shut his mouth and breathed deeply, his expression furious.

Then she knew that he would hit her soon. He was brewing up for a release from anger. Panic fluttered in her breast. Would he hurt her badly, put her in hospital again? Even—kill her?

He looked at her and gave a slow smile. “Frightened, are you?”

She could only swallow and look at him.

“Come here!”

“I've got the t-tea things to clear up.”

His voice grew even softer. “Come here when I tell you.”

He held her at arm's length and deliberately slapped her face. Just one quick slap, but it brought the terror throbbing back through her, the terror that seemed to sap her will to resist.

With a laugh, he flung her to the floor. “Useless, that's what you are. Your mother's right.”

There was a knock on the back door and Josh came in without waiting to be invited. He looked at the woman sprawling on the rug, his eyes knowing, but didn't comment.

“Sit down, lad,” said Sam genially, suddenly in a good mood again. “Get him a cup of tea, you. Then go and clear up the bathroom.”

Her hands were shaking as she carried the cup over to Josh. He noticed that, too.

In the bathroom, she turned the tap on and sank down on the floor, burying her face in her hands. She couldn't go on like this much longer. She just couldn't. If only she could save money more quickly.

*   *   *

Strangely enough, Sam didn't hit her again for a while. He and Josh were plotting something and he seemed preoccupied, hardly sparing a glance for her. Lizzie no longer cared that they were probably thieving, so long as they didn't involve her in whatever it was.

Then one evening Sam came in scowling and after that he started on her again—just a slap here and a brutal pinch there—enough to make her shiver with fear every time she heard him return from work. But he was very careful not to mark her where people might see it. And she could hardly go into Dearden's and roll up her sleeves to show them the bruises, let alone lift up her skirts to show them the blue pinch marks on the tender white flesh of her thighs.

*   *   *

One night in early November, Lizzie gasped and stood motionless for a moment as she took off her wedding and engagement rings to wash up. The rings! She could pawn them! Real gold and diamonds, he'd said, and they had the marks on them to prove it. So she didn't need to save as much money as she'd thought. She stood with her hands poised over the enamel bowl of steaming water, tears of sheer relief in her eyes.
She could pawn them!

So many women were doing the same thing, because the Army wasn't sending families the allowances it had promised, even though their husbands had signed the forms and they'd produced marriage certificates and been interviewed by the local committees. With rent to pay, children or elderly parents to feed, coal to buy, they were getting desperate. She had seen women go into Pettit's carrying all sorts of things, dejection and shame in every line of their bodies. She'd also seen the pawnbroker with his eye glass, haggling over the price of the wedding rings as she passed the dark cluttered shop with its three balls outside. She wouldn't go to him, though, because he was a mean old devil, and anyway someone might see her. She'd pawn her rings in Manchester or London, going round several shops to get the best price—and she'd be glad to get rid of them, too. And of everything else that reminded her of Sam. Her spirits began to lift.

That night she lay in bed, listening to the rain dripping along the gutters and trickling down the drainpipes. It seemed to be raining all the time lately. On his way home from work, Sam had encountered a group of women, who'd harangued him about enlisting, and he had come in sizzling with fury. Tonight, she'd seen that wild light flaring in his eyes again. So tomorrow or the day after, she was going away and never coming back. Never.