War Baby (37 page)

Mike got up from his chair. ‘No need to trouble, Stan. I can go with you and come back for Mary,' he offered.

She held up her hand like a policeman directing traffic. ‘No. I insist you stay. The night is young and so are you. Anyway, we have things to discuss. You don't mind, do you, Stan?'

Stan didn't hesitate. Ruby retrieved Bettina's walking stick from the side of the fireplace while Stan fetched her hat, coat and knitted navy blue scarf that the cold evening called for.

Mary and Ruby exchanged worried glances. It was only just gone teatime and everyone had expected Bettina to stay longer. She didn't usually tire easily, although of course she had been ill before Christmas with a severe cold.

After fetching his own coat and hat, Stan accompanied her to the door, and opened it, his arm arched protectively around her shoulders as he ushered her out.

The night sky was full of stars and a bright moon was turning everything silver. Chimneys and the tops of trees showed starkly black against the sky. The air was crisp and they could see their breath.

‘Another frost tomorrow,' Stan proclaimed.

Bettina made no proper comment. In the blackout proper he wouldn't have been able to see her expression, but thanks to the moon he could see her face clearly. He sensed her apprehension and guessed there was a specific reason she'd asked him to see her home.

‘So. What's on your mind?'

She didn't attempt to prevaricate, but then Bettina wasn't the sort to do that. That was what he liked about her.

‘I can't help but think of that conversation we had not long ago.'

Stan nodded. ‘Yes. It's been on my mind too.'

‘You know that there were rumours about that young Methodist Minister, the one that shot off to join the army as a padre?'

Stan frowned. Bettina Hicks was one of the shrewdest women he'd ever known, just as shrewd as his Sarah had been. He should have known she'd jump to the same conclusion as he had.

‘So you think we were right: she might have had a baby and her mother might have pressured her to give it away?'

Bettina fell silent. ‘Or Gertrude could have done worse, I wouldn't put it past her. And I wouldn't mind betting that that poor girl has been punished beyond endurance. If there's one thing her mother cannot cope with, it's what she regards as the sins of others – especially the sins of the flesh.'

‘We know she's a bit overzealous for the church. Hard to believe she's Ada's daughter.'

‘Humph,' grunted Bettina. ‘She changed the minute she fell for Godfrey Powell. Sometimes I think that man thought he was God; Gertrude worshipped him, that's for sure. The only thing Gertrude wanted from him was a child. It was the only time he gave into her wishes. I think he also thought it behove him as a Christian to be a family man. I believe once that was done, they never slept with each other ever again. That was when Ada left. She couldn't stand her son-in-law and he never let her visit the child unless he was there.'

‘Stupid people.'

‘Nasty people.'

Stan tried to read the look on her face. ‘What is it you're trying to say?'

Bettina folded both hands on to the top of her stick and breathed deeply, the cold air sharp in her chest. ‘I think you should take your spade to the graveyard.'

The ground stayed solidly frozen during those first weeks of 1942. When he went to St Anne's to visit Sarah, he made a point of wading through the long grass and thistles to look at the spot where he'd seen Miriam.

Even though he visited Sarah's grave at least once a week, he never saw Miriam once and wondered why. Perhaps she'd got over her loss – if indeed there had been a loss. He couldn't know for sure.

There was no sign of any disturbance among the long grass, no sign of the earth being turned over and something – a baby – buried there. Stan concluded that in all probability Miriam had miscarried over in the forest, perhaps with her grandmother's assistance. Yes, it was illegal to perform such operations, and he had no proof that she had done. But to his mind it was the obvious conclusion.

The only thing he did find were screwed up pieces of paper made crisp by the frost, the writing made illegible by virtue of those days when the temperature had risen above freezing and the ice had melted.

He reported his findings to Bettina in the cosiness of her living room.

‘As long as you're sure,' she remarked as she passed him a cup of tea and a slice of what remained of the Christmas cake.

He nodded. ‘I'm sure there's nothing buried there. I'm not saying there wasn't a baby. There might very well have been, but …' Brow furrowed with thought, he sipped his tea.

‘Ada,' said Bettina.

Stan's eyes met hers. ‘My feelings exactly. Ada is the only person who can help. After all, it is her granddaughter.'

 

 

‘
JANUARY BRINGS THE
snow, makes our feet and fingers glow. February brings the rain, thaws the frozen lake again … Not that you'd notice, eh, Charlie! Never mind. I'll just have to walk faster. How about that?'

Charlie gurgled a happy response. Frances loved taking him for a walk even in February. The rain that was supposed to thaw the frozen lake hadn't arrived. The wind was bitingly cold and a crisp layer of ice covered the ground.

Although Charlie could toddle along quite efficiently, he soon got tired so she still made a habit of bringing the pushchair with her. Just as she'd guessed, by the time they'd got to the bottom of Cherry Garden Hill he was asking to be picked up and placed in his pushchair.

‘You've only got short legs and they've got a long way to grow before you can walk everywhere you want.'

Frances sighed with satisfaction. She liked to think that Charlie loved her more than anyone else in the family. He certainly did when she took him out for walks and especially if she had enough money to treat him to a lollipop at Mrs Powell's shop.

She'd bought one this morning though had peered between the chequered notices on the shop door beforehand checking that Miriam was serving behind the cramped counter before pushing open the door. Mrs Powell had forbidden her ever to cross her threshold again because she'd been cheeky. Frances had considered her cheekiness justified. Mrs Powell had made some pretty mean remarks about Charlie and his parents.

Miriam looked pleased to see her, especially with young Charlie hanging on to her hand, his little feet carefully negotiating the high sill that separated the inside of the shop from the street outside.

‘Charlie!'

Miriam's voice had been no more than a hushed whisper. Her eyes shone with delight but every so often she glanced furtively over her shoulder, terrified her mother might appear and explode with anger.

‘Your mother won't eat you,' said Frances.

‘No,' whispered Miriam. ‘But she might lock me in the coalhouse again. In the dark. I hate the dark …' She shuddered before changing the subject. ‘Are you going somewhere?'

‘Only for a walk.'

Frances thought back to the smell of coal and the smattering of dust on Miriam's coat. She did not know what to say in response to the older girl. Shutting Miriam in the coalhouse was wrong – very wrong.

Miriam bit her lip. ‘I wish I could come with you.' Her eyes glistened as she regarded the little boy. ‘If you ever need anyone to look after him …'

Miriam was the last person Frances could ever leave Charlie with, though the poor girl didn't seem able to accept that.

Frances had given up feeling guilty about leaving Charlie the day he went missing. Nor could she believe that the little boy had managed to undo the buckles on his harness. Deep down she was sure it was Miriam who had taken him as well as ‘found' him.

Once Miriam had handed over the lollipop and put the money in the wooden box on the shelf behind the counter, she held her finger up to her mouth. ‘Shush. I'm going to run away,' she breathed, her eyes fluttering from side to side as though afraid somebody might hear her.

Frances was dubious as to whether Miriam could actually plan anything without her mother finding out. ‘Will you go to your grandmother's?'

Miriam had stared at her. ‘You mustn't tell. Promise you won't tell.'

So that was it. Miriam was going to run away and live with her grandmother in the Forest of Dean. Frances decided that if she was in Miriam's position she would do the same.

‘I lived with Ada for a while,' said Frances.

Miriam sucked in her breath. ‘You mustn't call her that. My mother says I must call her Grandmother – even Gran, but never Ada – even if Grandmother insists.'

‘Why? She's not my grandmother,' Frances said gently, before wishing Miriam good luck with her plan and promising to keep it to herself. Now, far away from the shop at the bottom of Cherry Garden Hill, Frances thought about how much she'd enjoyed living with Ada Perkins in the Forest of Dean. One day she would go back there, but that depended on her uncle having petrol for the car and the prospect of her old friends still being there. Deacon, Ralphie, Merlyn and the rest of them. What fun they'd had and what a lot she'd learned. She didn't think any of them had been called up yet – none of them were quite old enough. But if the war went on much longer they might be.

‘Time to go home,' she said to baby Charlie. Getting a good grip on the handle, she turned the pushchair around so they were pointing back up the hill. ‘Sounds like thunder,' she said to him. Not that Charlie understood what she was saying. He was still sucking his lollipop.

Although the sky was dark grey, it didn't seem warm enough for a thunderstorm.

The rumbling sound got louder and louder, rolling towards her from some way along the road that connected Bath with Bristol. Holding tightly to the pushchair, she peered to where the road snaked over the railway lines that dropped down the slope from Bitton Railway Station. The actual village of Bitton was some way further on towards Bath, a place of stone cottages and substantial houses belonging to people of note – land owners and business people. All of the houses were quite old, some dating back to Jacobean times. There was also a pub, the White Hart.

However, there were few houses lying in the direction of Bristol, but there was something there. She detected humps of blackness moving along the road towards her.

Grabbing the pushchair handle more tightly to her chest, she flattened herself against the hedgerow behind her, curious to see what this noise was about.

Gradually the shapes she'd interpreted as black humps took on recognisable forms. The sound of engines, metal and wheels grinding along on gritty tarmac became louder. The first hump – some kind of vehicle – appeared, followed by more vehicles of differing shapes and sizes, though all of the same shade of khaki, army vehicles sporting a white star on the doors of the drivers' cabs.

Lorry after lorry and open cars with canvas canopies rumbled past. The curious faces of soldiers peered out from the open ended trucks from beneath a covering of tarpaulin. There were wolf whistles and waves.

Frances felt quite breathless, both flattered that she was deemed old enough – and pretty enough – for such attention and embarrassed.

‘Hi there, honey.'

The voice of the soldier who'd shouted out to her was joined by other voices, more whistling; more waving.

The cavalcade slowed suddenly as though the vehicles heading the column had ground to a halt. There, right in front of her, was the rear end of one lorry from which a sea of youthful faces grinned at her and eyed her in a way nobody had ever eyed her before – certainly not in such large numbers.

‘Hey, doll,' said one of the GIs.

Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed with pleasure. First she'd been honey. Now she was a doll. She loved it.

‘Hello.' Even to her own ears she sounded nervous, yet she didn't really feel that way. She felt excited. She also thought she knew who these young men were.

‘Is that your baby?'

She shook her head. ‘He's my nephew. His name's Charlie.'

‘Want some chocolate?'

Chocolate? These young men had chocolate? Sweets were on ration and chocolate had become a luxury. The young man was offering her a whole bar. She could see it in his hand. She nodded avidly, her eyes fixed firmly on the chocolate.

After a quick glance to see that nobody in charge was looking, the young soldier leapt over the tailboard of the lorry, his boots making a loud thudding sound as he landed.

He was grinning at the same time as chewing something, his teeth glowing white as he tossed it from side to side in his mouth. He was holding the bar of chocolate at shoulder level. Frances assumed there was a price to pay for that chocolate, though wasn't too sure what it would be.

‘So,' he said, still grinning and still chewing gum. ‘What's your name?'

‘Frances. Frances Sweet.'

‘Frances. That's a pretty name. Pretty girl too. You live around here?'

His grin was infectious. And he was tall. She had to crank her neck back to look up at him. She liked him immediately.

‘Up in the village.' She pointed back up the hill. ‘My uncle has a bakery and my cousins bake cakes and things and give talks and demonstrations for the Ministry of Food. I live there. And work there,' she added, just in case he thought she was a kid and still at school.

She became self-conscious about her skirt. It was an old one, navy blue and cut down from a school gym slip. And she was wearing socks. If only she had stockings; even lisle stockings, thick and black and itchy. But she didn't. She was wearing grey socks.

The young man in the uniform didn't seem to notice. He kept smiling and chewing, his teeth showing brazenly white even when he nodded. She couldn't help fixing her eyes on that grin, those white teeth. Didn't he ever stop grinning?