Our Lizzie (49 page)

Suddenly she had had enough noise, so she slipped out while they were still singing and made her way home alone, enjoying the crisp, frosty night and the hard twinkle of stars shining down from an almost clear sky. Mrs. Bailey was away, staying with her daughter who had just had another baby, and the other lodger had gone home to her family for a couple of days, so Lizzie had the house to herself, for once. Which made a nice change.

As she was opening the door, she felt a sudden awareness of someone standing behind her and turned to see her worst nightmare come true. “Sam!” The word was a whisper, then she fainted clear away.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

On Christmas Eve, Blanche finished her meal, then laid one hand on her sister's and said quietly, “Don't you think it's about time you told Mr. Cardwell about the baby? It'll start showing soon.”

Emma stared at her. “You know, then?” She had begun to wonder, with time passing and Blanche saying nothing.

“We live very closely together, dear. You've missed your monthlies the last few times and you've been looking distinctly queasy some mornings, though you've tried to hide it from me.”

“Oh, Blanche, I was so frightened to tell you!”

They stared at one another for a moment, then Blanche got up and went to put her hands on her sister's shaking shoulders. “Did you think I'd disown you?”

“I thought—thought you'd despise me. Be ashamed of me.”

“You're my sister, the only relative I care about. If you're in trouble, then I'm here to help you. The question is, what are you going to do? You haven't told him yet, have you?”

“No.”

“I thought not.”

“He has a right to know.”

Emma stared down at the tablecloth, making patterns in the crumbs on her bread plate. “But what can he do? He already has a wife and family.”

“He can help you financially at least. It's his child, too.”

“I'll write to him after Christmas, I promise.”

“Good. But even if he doesn't see his way to helping, we'll work things out. We can manage on my annuity and our savings for quite a while, then I could look after the baby if you went back to work and—”

At that, Emma let the worries slide off her shoulders, put her head down and sobbed her heart out. She'd been carrying this burden for two months now and it was such a relief to share it with someone.

When her sister had stopped weeping, Blanche guided her upstairs and put her into bed. “What you need now is rest. Set your worries aside until after Christmas. We'll sort it all out then.”

At the door she turned to smile. “Actually, I'm rather excited about becoming an aunt.”

*   *   *

When Lizzie came to, she was lying on the couch in Mrs. Bailey's parlour and Sam was sitting beside her, patting her hand. She closed her eyes again, trying to gather her determination together, then opened them and stared at him.

“I'm not coming back to you, Sam, even if you kill me for it.”

“You bloody are, if I have to drag you every inch of the way.”

“That's exactly what you'll have to do, and then tie me up. If you leave me alone for even one minute, I'll start walking away.” She had always promised herself that if he found her, she'd show no sign of fear and she wouldn't give in to him, not in the smallest degree. She held her breath, waiting for him to thump her, but he didn't, just sat there, looking solemn.

When he didn't speak, she didn't either, waiting to see what he would do.

“You're my wife,” he said at last. “You belong with me. And I
want
you with me.”

“Well, I don't feel like your wife any more, not since you started thumping me—and I'm not coming back to live like that. I'd rather die.” And perhaps she would do just that tonight.

“You've got another fellow,” he accused, his face turning a dusky red with anger.

“No. I've never forgotten that I'm a married woman.”

“If you're a married woman, you belong with your husband.”

“Not any more.”

“Why not?”

“I've told you. Because you thump me—because you don't love me—because you don't even know what love is.”

He frowned and stared down at her ringless hand, which he was holding tightly in his. Then, suddenly, he told her about Ronnie and his promise.

Lizzie listened quietly, then shook her head. “I don't believe you. You may think you mean it, you may even stop hitting me for a while, but you'll start again.”

“You don't understand—he was my best mate. He was dying!”

“You'll not be able to keep that promise.”

“I
told
you…” He broke off, realising that he'd got hold of the front of her dress and was holding her up in the air like a rag doll. He let her drop back on to the sofa. “I
told
you—that sort of thing is all finished now.”

“Even if it was, I'd not come back to you, Sam. We should never have married. We don't suit. I make you unhappy as well as you making me unhappy.”

Anger exploded in him, throbbing through his whole body, and he had to fight it back, fight the urge to smash his fist into her small, white face for saying something as horrendous as that. But he didn't, no, he didn't thump her as she deserved. He kept his promise to his mate. When he had control of himself, he repeated, “You're my wife. You have to come back. And I've a right to force you.”

She was lying with one arm covering her eyes, clearly expecting a blow. He stopped speaking to stare at her in bafflement, then at the softness of her arm, the gleam of her black hair, the slight curves of her breasts. Desire began to rise in him for the first time in years. He reached out one hand to touch the nearest breast and Lizzie tried to knock it away. He laughed softly then. He wouldn't thump her. He'd keep his promise to Ronnie about that. But he had a right to her body.

Sam took hold of her as if she were a child and began to take off her clothes, smiling and muttering encouragements to himself. He'd forgotten how small she always felt in his arms, how beautiful the white skin of her body was.

She was sobbing and fighting and pleading with him not to touch her, but he ignored that. He had a right. A husband's right. And he wasn't hitting her.

To his sorrow and annoyance, Lizzie continued to fight him every inch of the way, sobbing and pleading for him to stop. He pulled her to the floor and finished removing her clothes, then held her with one hand while he undid the buttons on his trousers and shrugged out of his braces.

Then he lay down beside her and took her quickly and savagely, exploding into her like one of those bloody shells that crashed into the trenches sometimes. He roared out his pleasure, but as he began to come to himself again, looked down at her angrily, for she was sobbing as if her heart was broken.

“You're my wife, Lizzie,” he repeated quietly. “You always will be. And I'll
never
let you go.”

Then he pulled her into his arms, waiting for the tears to stop. A little later, as desire rose, he took her again, more slowly. And again, she wept.

*   *   *

On Christmas morning, Sam woke up and smiled to see Lizzie sleeping by his side, tied to his wrist. He lay there quietly and studied her face. She'd grown up. She looked like a woman now, not a girl. He liked that. And she had a scar on one arm. How had she got it? Then he felt that stirring again and was nearly inside her by the time she woke.

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, no!” For she'd been dreaming that his return was just another of her nightmares. Only he was too big and sweaty to be a figment of her imagination.

Struggle as she might, she was no match for him and he took her at his leisure. Then he made her get dressed and when she at first refused, said simply, “We're going home. If you don't put your clothes on, I'll drag you naked through the streets, Lizzie. I mean that.”

She bit back a sob and began to pick up her clothes.

He watched her, enjoying the sight of her dainty underclothing, staring out of the window from time to time, for it had started to snow. “Now get all your things packed. There'll be trains to Overdale this afternoon.”

“I can't go there. I've got a job here, in munitions.”

“You can just forget that. You've a job looking after your husband now. I've been invalided out with this bleedin' foot.”

“Can I just leave them a note?” Maybe Peggy would think of some way to help her, for her friend would understand that she'd never go back to Sam willingly.

“You can send them a letter from Overdale.” Suddenly he was anxious to get home again, anxious for Lizzie's touch in the house. She'd make it shine like it used to. She'd cook him meals and wash his clothes. And he'd prove to her that he'd given up thumping her. It'd take a bit of time, but he'd make it all happen because that was how he'd planned it.

She packed a suitcase, managing to leave Peter's letters in their hiding place at the back of a drawer, and slipping her savings in among her things, hidden in the book she'd hollowed out specially to hide them. Sam was watching everything she did, but he didn't seem to notice anything different about the book, though she'd had to glue the edges of the pages together to make the hiding place.

With him carrying the suitcase and her arm firmly circled by his meaty fingers, she walked along the street beside him, hoping to see one of her friends but meeting no one she knew. Lizzie began to feel desperate. This was like a nightmare and she was still sore from Sam's forcing himself upon her. But, she told herself fiercely, she wasn't going to give in to her fear this time. She'd meant exactly what she said. Unless he spent every single moment by her side, he'd not be able to keep her with him. If she had to walk barefoot across the moors to Yorkshire to get away from him, she'd do it. Never, ever again, would she just stay passively with him, jumping to obey him.

And anyway, she'd managed to bring her savings with her. The thought of the money was her only consolation at the moment. It might at least give her a start on running away to Australia. She'd not dare to come back to Murforth now.

OVERDALE
. She stared at the sign through the train window and Sam had to pull her to her feet. She'd thought about this place so often and now she was back—but not to stay. She was glad to get off the train, which had been crowded with people wishing each other “Merry Christmas.” When they'd said it to her, she'd just stared at them, unable to form a word in reply. It was the most ghastly Christmas of her life. Hell could be no worse than this.

“My wife's been ill,” Sam had said to the other passengers.

After that, people left her alone, giving her sideways glances as if they thought she was crazy.

He kept hold of her arm all the way home, forcing her to walk with him through the whirling snow, for it was coming down more heavily now. They passed a couple of people she knew, but when they called out greetings and would have stopped to ask how she was, Sam just nodded and hurried her past them.

By the time they got to Maidham Street, she was panting and he was limping badly. The little row of houses looked like a Christmas scene from a magazine, with roofs and window sills covered in white. People had decorations in their windows, bits of greenery, red paper flowers—every house had something. Except hers. Keeping up morale, that was called, or “giving our boys a taste of home happiness.”

Sam had to thrust her through the front door, and even then Lizzie didn't move till he shoved her roughly along the hall into the kitchen. It was bitterly cold and everything was in a mess. “I got some food in,” he said. “I'm bloody famished.”

She sat down on a chair and folded her arms. “Well, I'm not cooking for you.” She stared into his face. “I mean it, Sam. I won't be a wife to you in any way. I won't housekeep for you, or wash for you, and you'll have to force me every time you want to do it. I'm never going to live with you willingly again.”

“You'll live with me, willingly or not.”

She just sat there.

He raised his hand to thump her, then let it drop and muttered, “Sorry, Ronnie.”

Lizzie was hungry and cold, but she'd sit here and freeze before she lifted a finger, she decided. So she just watched as he lit a fire, grunting awkwardly as he knelt and jarred his bad foot. Good. He deserved to be hurt. He'd hurt her already.

He stood up. “Lizzie, please—”

She just stared at him, not even bothering to shake her head.

He turned round and thumped one fist into the door, cracking a wooden panel. But still he didn't touch her and she found that unnerving. When he looked at her, anger was burning in his eyes, but something else gradually replaced it.

“Well, lass, if you won't do the housework, we'll have to keep ourselves warm in other ways, to take our minds off our hunger.”

When he reached for her, she let herself go limp and tried to slide to the floor. He had to carry her up the stairs. And take her clothes off. The thrusting and hurting seemed to go on for a very long time before he managed to get his release this time.

“Why won't you be a wife to me?” he yelled after he'd rolled off.

“Because I hate you!”

He smashed one hand into the pillow, then sat up again. “I need a bloody drink.”

When he went downstairs, she got dressed again, as warmly as she could, then tiptoed after him, wondering if she could rush out. But he appeared in the doorway of the front room, with a bottle of rum in his hand, and grabbed hold of her. The bottle was nearly empty.

He dragged her into the kitchen, which was a lot warmer now, and plonked her down forcibly on one of the chairs, then drained the bottle and stared at it in disgust. “A man needs a drink on Christmas Day,” he muttered.