Wartime Family (16 page)

‘Well now you ’ave, what you gonna do about it?’

She sensed by the way his body was looming over hers that he had his own ideas about what she should do. She made a movement as if to leave. ‘Excuse me. My boyfriend will be looking for me.’

Reggie Warren was hardly her boyfriend, but he was a good enough excuse. She tried to sidestep round the man blocking her way. He sidestepped too, countering her move.

‘Let me pass.’

‘Fair exchange is no robbery. Your bloke can ’ave that frigid cow that’s just gone back in, and in exchange …’ In the dim light, she fancied he licked his lips.

‘Let me pass.’

‘Not likely!’

He was so much bigger than her and when he lunged, wrapping his arms around her, it was like being hugged by a bear.

His lips were hard and cold upon hers and somehow, as he held her, one hand dropped on to her rump, tugging at her skirt. Cold air licked at the bare flesh above her stocking tops. She struggled for all she was worth, but his arms were huge and strong, his hands everywhere at once.

She tried to bring her knee up, to hit him where it would really hurt.

‘Naughty,’ he snarled, wrapping a huge hand around her neck and lifting her so that only her toes remained in contact with the ground. ‘Do that again and I’ll …’

Suddenly he was yanked backwards. Coughing, spluttering and clutching at her throat, Lizzie fell backwards too, hitting the wall of the building behind her before sliding to the ground. Her head swam. Her eyes closed. It was like being under water; she was out of breath and trying to get to the surface.

In her bleary state she heard a single, sickening thud, then a groan.

As she started to come to, she became aware again of a shadow falling over her. A hand reached for her. She hit it away.

‘No! Leave me alone!’

‘Randall? It’s OK. He’s out cold.’

The voice was familiar. As her reopened eyes adjusted to the darkness, she recognized the features of Wing Commander Guy Hunter.

‘A letter for his dear mama,’ said Edgar as he came into the kitchen holding a handful of post. He handed Mary Anne a single letter, keeping the rest for himself.

Mary Anne stopped stirring the leek and potato soup she was making and looked at the handwriting. Definitely Harry. This was the first letter she’d received from him in over a month. The thought turned her mind back to the last time she’d seen her son, when his leave had ended. She remembered clearly what she had said – something about her always standing in railway stations since the start of the war. She’d also remembered stamping her feet against the cold.

Harry had said something noncommittal like, ‘That’s wars for you.’

He had said very little indeed that day. Mary Anne had eyed him worriedly. Something had changed between them. So far she hadn’t come right out and asked him what the problem was – if there was one. Perhaps she was imagining it.

It was a week after that when Stanley blurted out the truth. He’d come in upset because someone had stolen his roller skates. He blamed his father then went on to tell her the reason why he suspected him.

‘It’s Dad!’ he wailed. ‘Harry called him a pig ’cos he was dancing with Mrs Young and drinking again. I was there. I saw it all.’

After seeing him on Christmas Day, it came as no surprise to Mary Anne to be told that he was back on the booze. To be told that he’d been dancing with Biddy was a little harder to swallow.

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she’d said, bending down and shaking him by the shoulders.

Everything about that day had come tumbling out. Harry had sworn Stanley to secrecy, but the young lad, not quite eleven, couldn’t keep it in – not once he was questioned by his mother.

Mary Anne had immediately taken pen to paper. Late at night, a time when she could think straight and there was no one else around, she sat down and wrote an apology and an explanation to her eldest son. At the same time she did the same to Daw and a third letter to Lizzie. They all had to know. What point was there in doing otherwise? And so she’d explained about Edward going off to war, leaving her in the family way, and then how she’d been sent away to give birth, and forced to give the baby away and marry an oblivious Henry.

After turning the gas off and taking off her apron, she made her way to where a handsome wickerwork chair caught the light from the window. Fearfully, she prodded the paper until the letter lay in her hand. Merely unfolding it sent shivers down her spine. Her heart was in her mouth.

The letter contained three paragraphs. She read through quickly, finally returning to the second paragraph, the most important of all.

It felt strange being the eldest son one minute, and the next being the second son. A few words describe how it was: cheated, abandoned, unloved, untrusted. All of those words count towards my feelings, but when I wrote them down and reread them again and again, only one word described my behaviour – selfish. It was selfish of me to react as I did, not to think how you must have felt when Edward did not return. I cannot even begin to imagine how it must have felt to give your firstborn away. You have loved and lived through all our growing pains, never condemning us for what we had grown into
–
me most of all.

Lizzie had already written back telling her about her friend Bessie who was pregnant and engaged. A wedding date had been set before the bridegroom got his marching orders. She said little about having a sibling she’d known nothing about, except to say that there would probably be a lot more women left in that state if this war went on for much longer. She could say little about what she was doing, but just enough to let her mother know that she was doing fine and had met some very interesting people.

Before we know it, thousands of American troops will be over here as well. Imagine the birth rate when they arrive! I’ve met a Canadian, but that’s not quite the same thing is it. But he’s very nice.

Strangely enough, those few words were enough to worry Mary Anne. There was so much that could not be said and her thoughts turned to Patrick. Patrick loved Lizzie. She was in no doubt about that. Lizzie hadn’t really said anything in her letter about being enamoured of this ‘very nice’ person. In fact all she’d said was that he was
nice.
That was what fuelled Mary Anne’s imagination.

Suddenly wearied by all the disturbance around her, she lay her head back against the cool leather and closed her eyes. Everything was so unsettled. With the exception of Stanley, her children were scattered to the four corners. Of course Daw wasn’t that far away, but there had been an atmosphere between them ever since Mary Anne had left her father and set up home with Michael. Daw liked the world around her to be at peace with itself. She easily turned a blind eye to things she didn’t want to see – hence she had never accepted that her father had acted violently towards her mother. She never would.

Behind her closed lids, she dreamed of the day when she would have her own home again. Michael would be in it and so would her children.

Her son’s flat was exquisite, but although Edgar was kindness itself, she was not at home here. It was too crisp, too clean, without the gathered clutter of a lifetime – of more than one person’s lifetime.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought about Henry. She’d been right not to believe that he’d changed. The thought of what might have happened, of the life she would have returned to, sent a shiver down her spine.

If only, if only … It would be so easy to break down and cry, but she couldn’t. She had Stanley to consider. He hadn’t always been a healthy child. He still needed looking out for and she knew from experience that he wouldn’t rely on his father.

She remembered one terrible time when Henry had been brutalizing her in the privacy of their bedroom. He’d ripped at her clothes and taken her forcibly and in a bestial fashion. Only they hadn’t been doing it in private; Stanley had been watching from the doorway.

The sudden clump-clump of Stanley climbing the stairs brought her back to the present.

She could see from his pained expression that something bad had happened.

‘I took off me roller skates so I could play football with me mates. Brian was going to be in goal because he’s got his leg in plaster and he can block the goalmouth, so I put me skates behind him. And someone took them! Someone took them!’ He looked and sounded totally distraught.

Mary Anne sighed. ‘This war. It’s making saints of some and sinners of others.’

Stanley looked at her in disbelief, not quite understanding what she was saying. He screwed up his face and rubbed his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Why are so many bad things happening, Mum? Is it me dad doing it all?’

Mary Anne’s answer caught in her throat. Many bad things had happened, but were they really down to Henry? Or were some of the things – like mislaying Mathilda in her pushchair – purely coincidence?

She got up from the chair. ‘We’ll go out and look for them. Someone might have picked them up by mistake.’

Deep down she knew there was little chance of finding them, but she had to do her best for her son, just as she tried to do her best for all her children. She’d spent years trying to please Henry, but all to no avail. Michael had been her departure from living for others, but there were still occasions when they took precedence.

They passed Edgar on the stairs. He had a flower shop not far from Eastville bus depot. He was young but had a bad heart, one reason why he did not participate in very strenuous war work, but instead ran first-aid courses and rolled bandages for the Red Cross.

‘Good evening, Mrs Randall. I’ve brought you these.’ He handed her a bunch of snowdrops and crocus.

Mary Anne bent her head to smell them. ‘That’s very kind of you, Edgar. They’re lovely, really lovely.’

He looked from mother to son. ‘Are you going out somewhere? If you are, I can put them in water for you until you get back.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Someone’s taken Stanley’s roller skates.’

Edgar sighed. ‘A sign of the times. You wouldn’t believe what people get up to in the blackout. I’m surprised more people don’t get murdered. And the thieving!’ He rolled his eyes dramatically as he took back the flowers that he’d only just given her. ‘I’ll deal with these.’

The door had slammed shut, so she left him rummaging for his keys. ‘Oh no! I’ve lost them.’ He continued to hunt in each pocket.

Mary Anne stopped and turned round. Stanley tugged at her sleeve. ‘Come on, Mum. It’ll be dark soon.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Mary Anne. ‘I’ve got my key handy.’

Edgar continued to mumble and search his pockets, his right hand diving from one side to the other, his left holding on to the bunch of flowers.

‘We won’t be long,’ Mary Anne called to him over her shoulder as she followed Stanley down the stairs.

Twilight was fast turning into night by the time they were out in the street. Fifteen minutes or so and total darkness would descend.

They searched where Stanley had been playing football and asked the few people still out and about whether they’d seen anyone carrying such objects. No one had.

Finding them was always going to be a fruitless task, but Mary Anne couldn’t let Stanley know that. She was determined to do her best, to make up for … The thought came unbidden into her head, yet she knew beyond doubt that it was always there. She was always trying to make up for the fact that she’d taken up with Michael. She’d run bleeding and battered from Henry and fallen into Michael’s shop doorway. It had been months before she’d seen Stanley again. The guilt had never quite gone away, and yet Stanley showed no sign of condemnation – on the contrary he had seemed to accept the situation totally.

A thick fog began to descend. What with that and the blackout, it wouldn’t be long before they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces.

Mary Anne put her arm around Stanley’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, pet, but we have to go back. This is hopeless.’

With slumped shoulders, his hands slung hopelessly in his pockets, Stanley dragged his feet all the way back. Darkness came down like a thick blanket. Mary Anne firmed her grip around Stanley’s shoulders. A few feet apart and they wouldn’t see each other at all.

Southern Mansions, where Harry had his flat, had an apron frontage of black and white tiles and pillars on either side of the door. The white tiles gave them some idea of where they were. Mary Anne kept looking downwards ahead of her feet. The tiles must be here somewhere.

Just as she spotted the small white squares, the door ahead opened. Someone rushed out, almost knocking her over. Still clinging to Stanley, she gasped as the figure swept past. She narrowed her eyes in an effort to see who he was and where he was going. It was useless. The blackness swallowed him as though he’d never existed.

‘Quickly,’ she said to Stanley.

There was no obvious reason for them to ascend the stairs at break-neck speed, just an inner feeling that something was badly wrong.

‘Wait here,’ she said to Stanley once they were on the landing. He didn’t argue for once, perhaps because her fear was apparent on her features.

The door to the flat was open. Light should have fallen out on to the landing, but it didn’t. All was darkness.

Heart racing, she stepped inside.

‘Edgar?’

‘Here.’

His voice quivered from the direction of the sideboard, but she couldn’t see him. She reached for the light switch. Edgar was crouched against the front of the sideboard. Blood was streaming from the side of his head.

‘Oh my God!’

She raced for the bathroom and ran a scrupulously white flannel beneath the tap.

‘Who did this?’ she asked, dabbing at the cut in his temple.

‘A very masculine man, no doubt. It’s nothing new, but at least he didn’t call me Nancy Boy or any of the names I’ve been called in the past.’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘I quite expected him to. But he said nothing. That was what was so strange. He just came up behind me, punched me in the kidneys and hit me over the head.’