Polly's War (22 page)

Then Sean realised he’d left his cap in the Sunday school cloakroom and she called out to the others not to wait for them while she ran back to fetch it. After a hasty search Sarah Jane found the cap fallen into a corner.

‘Here it is Mam.’

‘Dozy,’ Lucy teased, pulling it on to the little boy’s head where it nodded against her shoulder. After sitting down a moment to tie his shoe laces which had worked loose they set off again, Sean in her arms and Sarah Jane holding her hand, singing
Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.

It happened so suddenly. One minute Michael had appeared out of the darkness to wish her and the children goodnight, the next he was falling, blood spurting everywhere. Lucy screamed, watching in appalled horror as he hit the ground as if in slow motion.

‘
Conchie
!
Conchie
!
Bloody conchie
!’

There was a hissing voice she heard without quite registering as she fell to her knees beside him, desperately trying to staunch the blood with her scarf, her handkerchief, whatever she could find. She could hear Sean starting to cry. Sarah Jane shouting Michael’s name. Where did all this blood come from? And she must have been shouting for help too, for it came in the form of running feet and noisy shouts, yet no one came to kneel beside her. When she finally glanced up it was to find themselves surrounded by a small group of curious onlookers.

‘Whoever it were, hit him wi’ that brick, love,’ said one.

‘It’ll need stitching,’ agreed another.

‘Aye, proper mess, eh?’

Lucy looked into their faces and knew that for all they were happy to gawp, not one of them was willing to offer help. She’d always believed this to be a neighbourly district with the kind of people who, despite their predilection for gossip, would rally round if someone was in trouble. Salt-of-the-earth types. They’d bring food to the sick, wash bed-linen, mind a woman’s family while she was occupied delivering yet another mouth to feed. They’d make sure the old folk had coal in their buckets in winter and always found time to stop for a bit of a natter on a front doorstep. But these same people had lost sons, husbands, lovers in the war and not one was prepared to lift a finger for an accused conchie. Lucy struggled to lift him, feeling as if her fury might choke her. At least he was awake now, thank God, and then Minnie Hopkins came galloping out of the darkness, her skinny legs and arms pumping like pistons and together they helped Michael to his feet. There was no sign of Polly, or Benny or Belinda.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ Lucy shouted to the gathered crowd as she pulled her children close and offered her own shoulder for Michael to lean on. ‘Thanks for bloody nowt.’

Later, when she’d got the children safely tucked up in bed she marched straight round to the shop and accused Benny of throwing the brick. He vehemently denied it, saying he might be a bit of a loud mouth but violence wasn’t his style.

‘And what’s that then?’ Lucy mocked, pointing to the bruise on his chin. Benny rubbed it, looking shamefaced and privately thanking his lucky stars that Belinda was in bed.

‘I had a straight and fair fight with someone, but I don’t go in for those sort of tactics. I don’t hit folk behind their backs, or on their head wi’ a brick. What d’you take me for? Anyroad, I’ve enough troubles of my own, without taking on yours as well.’ He looked so hurt by her lack of belief in him and so sincere in his protestations of innocence that Lucy felt half inclined to believe him. But then if Benny hadn’t thrown the brick, who had?

The next day, calmly shredding lettuce in Minnie Hopkin’s kitchen, Lucy rehearsed how she would explain to Michael that they must never see each other alone again, not till she’d got things sorted out. She was thankful that no real hurt had come to him beyond a cut on his head that Minnie’s nursing skills would soon mend, but those stolen moments together in the shelter had made her think.

Lucy made up her mind to write to the army, to ask them if it was true that she had to wait seven years for Tom to be declared officially dead. Seven years sounded like forever. She knew in her heart that no one could hold on that long, not loving each other as much as she and Michael did.

There came a rat-tat on the door knocker. She wiped her hands and went down the hall to find Lily Gantry standing on the clean doorstep with an expression like sour milk on her face.

‘Thee’s to come home at once.’

‘Has something happened? Is it Sarah Jane? Sean?’ There was panic in her voice. Aunt Ida had promised to collect them both from school, now fear flooded through her even as the old woman shook her grizzled head.

‘Nay, nowt like that. But you’re to come quick.’

Minnie appeared, scowling with disapproval at this interruption of the morning’s work, wanting to know what was going on but Lucy was already reaching for her coat. She was quite certain something terrible must have happened and the old besom was trying to break it to her gently.

Minnie interrupted her. ‘Thee can’t run off wi’out a by-your-leave. You’re not done yet. What about dinner? Our Michael’ll be home and wanting his tea in half an hour.’

‘I’ll be back by then,’ Lucy said, wrapping a scarf about her head and, since she could hear rain pattering on the windows, starting a search for an umbrella. If Sean had run off again he’d be wet through by the time she found him. Oh lord, where would he have gone this time? The air-raid shelters where Gran was found? She really must hurry. She half ran along the passage to the front door where Lily Gantry stood watching events with interest. Minnie gave chase and brought her up short.

‘But what if you’re not? What’ll I give ‘im?’

Lucy paused long enough to think and draw breath. ‘Uncle Nobby brought us some fresh vegetables yesterday so I was in the middle of doing a nice salad, and I’ve already made the Californian Meat cakes from the recipe Aunt Ida left me.’

‘Californian Meat cakes?’

‘Yes, I know. Aunt Ida has been as close to California as I’ve been to the Sahara Desert but all they are is corned beef, chopped onion and mashed potato, mixed together with beaten egg and formed into patties. I’ve done all of that, even rolled them in bread crumbs, all you have to do is fry them and prepare the salad. You can manage that surely?’

Minnie was about to remark that with her standard of cooking, they could turn into Lancashire Coal Mine meat cakes but the front door knocker rattled again.

‘What is it this time? If something’s happened to our Sean, I’ll kill him,’ Lucy gasped, rather contrarily. The last thing she needed right now was trouble with her son. Wasn’t it difficult enough hanging on to this job? Pushing passed both Lily Gantry and Minnie, she flew to the door and flung it open.

But it wasn’t young Sean standing in the small front garden, nor Sarah Jane but a stranger, his coat collar turned up almost to the brim of his trilby hat against a brisk wind that had blown up.

‘If you’re wanting Michael,’ Lucy began, irritated by this interruption. ‘I’m afraid he isn’t home from work yet.’

‘Lucy. Don’t you recognise me? Benny told me I’d find you here. Don’t scowl at me lass. All I ask is a friendly welcome,’ and the stranger took off his hat so that she could see him properly. At which point, for the first time in her life, Lucy fainted.

Chapter Fourteen

Minnie had galloped off for Michael the moment she realised who their unexpected visitor was. Now he’d arrived, out of breath and clearly in torment at this stunning realisation of his worst nightmare. He focused on Tom’s lopsided smile and decided instantly that he couldn’t compete.

‘They told me you were dead.’ Lucy sat in the kitchen facing her husband, hands clenched tight in her lap. Michael could see she was shaking, her face ashen as if she were sickening for something. ‘At least,’ she remembered the exact wording of the telegram. ‘Missing, presumed killed in action.’

‘They presumed too much. Here I am, fit and well. Never better.’

She looked at him oddly for a moment, then said a strange thing. ‘I’d forgotten how full of confidence you always were.’

Michael called it arrogance.

He was also tall, admittedly thin but with light brown hair cut close to the head. His shoulders were broad, his skin tanned as if from years in the sun, not at all the yellowish tinge usually seen on POW’s. He had the kind of good looks and easy smile that any woman would fall for. Michael had no difficulty in seeing why Lucy had fallen in love and married him. It was a wonder she saw anything in himself to love at all, after living with such a demigod.

Now she’d fallen silent, seemed struck dumb by events, overwhelmed perhaps by her good fortune at Tom’s return from the dead or too dazed to deal with the reality of it, let alone work out all the implications. It was up to him, Michael decided, to ask the relevant questions about where Tom had been stationed and where he’d been since the war ended, which he proceeded to do, at length. He heard a convoluted story of how Tom had escaped from prisoner-of-war camp some time before the end of the war, crossed the Italian Alps, been sick and nursed back to health by a generous and kind French family.

‘So where, exactly, were you imprisoned and how did you manage to escape?’ Michael persisted, still puzzled. ‘Were you alone? I mean, why didn’t you let Lucy know you were safe?’

Tom seemed to be searching his heads for facts, dragging them out reluctantly, one by one. ‘I had malaria. All sorts of wounds and sores, barely alive for months.’

‘Malaria? How could you catch that in Italy, or France?’

Tom answered sharply, as if with a simmering anger. ‘I was also stationed in Africa and Egypt for a while. Anyway, I was too ill to write.’

‘You could have got someone else to write for you.’

Lucy interrupted, putting out a hand as if she couldn’t bear any more questioning, the appeal in her eyes almost breaking Michael’s heart in two. ‘It’s all right. I’m sure Tom would have let me know, if he could.’

‘Course I would. Later it seemed a better idea to come and surprise you.’

‘You’ve done that all right,’ Michael said, hearing the sour note in his own voice and hating himself for it.

Lucy was actually shaking. ‘It’s been such a sh-shock. I’d best get off home, speak to Mam and Charlie. And find you somewhere to sleep tonight.’

‘I rather thought I’d be sleeping with my wife.’

A small silence in which Lucy put a hand to her head, as if it had suddenly started to ache. Michael felt his jaw tense and sweat break out on his brow but managed to address his rival with perfect calm for all there was deep bitterness in his tone. ‘I should think patience is called for here. Can’t you see how stunned she is. Give her time for God’s sake.’

‘When I want advice on my marriage, I’ll ask for it,’ Tom coldly responded, and taking hold of Lucy’s arm, propelled her towards the door. Michael instantly stepped in front of them, blocking the way to speak softly to Lucy. ‘Go home and get a good night’s rest. You look worn out. We’ll talk tomorrow.’ And then to Tom, ‘You can stop here tonight, if you want. We’ve plenty of spare bedrooms - till you’ve time to sort something out.’ He issued the invitation like a challenge which, for one awful moment he thought Tom Shackleton was about to refuse. But then he turned to Lucy with that winning smile.

‘Why not? It has been a shock, I dare say. And there’ll be plenty of time, the rest of our lives after all.’ And he met Michael’s glare with what could only be described as triumph.

After what seemed an endless afternoon of family talk and excitement, Tom did indeed go up the street to number 179 when darkness came, though he made it clear it was only to give Lucy time to make more satisfactory arrangements, insisting he would be back for his breakfast, sharp at eight.

Lucy didn’t sleep a wink. She couldn’t stop shaking as she lay flat on her back in bed, with her children for once cuddled beside her, even though liquid fire seemed to be coursing through her veins. Her brain couldn’t seem to digest all the facts, or work out what she should do about them.

Sean and Sarah Jane had been by turn delirious with delight and oddly shy and bemused. It had taken hours to settle them so that in the end she’d relented and let them into bed with her. Lucy lay with her arms about them, breathing in their sweet fragrance, feeling calmed by the rhythm of their breathing and thinking what it meant to them, to have their dad back home. Sean in particular was beside himself with excitement. All the little boy could talk about was going fishing.

‘Of course I’ll take you,’ Tom had promised, tickling the little boy under his chin and making him giggle. Sarah Jane had hung back, shyly clinging to her mother while Tom had laughed and patted his knee, asking her to come and sit on it.

‘Do I have to?’ she’d softly asked and Lucy had leaned down to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.

But the implications of Tom’s return were far wider ranging than Sean and his fishing. Where would he sleep tomorrow? The idea of having him in bed with her so haunted Lucy that she couldn’t settle either. It seemed a longer, even more agonising night in many ways than the one following the news of his death. Perhaps on that day it hadn’t been quite such a shock as it might have been because it was so long since she’d seen or heard from him. Since then, she’d never, not for one moment, expected him to return. She’d been absolutely certain he was dead.