Wartime Wife (22 page)

Her words were choked off. She had been going to say that it happened before she’d met him. Her parents had thought it best for her to marry, even though Henry was working class. They’d insisted and at the time he’d been pleased to do so.
She was pretty and had brought money to the marriage. If only Edward had come back. If only she had told him about the child. How many times had she regretted not doing that? Perhaps he would have been different – or perhaps he would have passed her by, too proud to take on soiled goods.

‘Stanley!’

She hadn’t heard him come in, but there he was, standing round-eyed in the doorway, his pink lips wet and shiny, and a bloom in his cheeks.

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He looked as though he had just opened his eyes from a nightmare that was still there before his eyes.

In that moment, she had never hated Henry so much as she did now.

As Henry’s arms dropped to his side, the fork clattering to the floor, she ignored the soreness in her side, her own arms reaching out to enfold her son. Sinking her head against his, she enveloped him, smelled his hair and the slickness of his skin.

‘Stanley. My dear love.’

She felt his eyes going beyond her, over her shoulder to where Henry stood, his arms lank at his sides.

Stanley’s bottom lip trembled against her face. ‘Why were you hurting my ma?’

‘He wasn’t really,’ Mary Anne protested, managing a laugh though her side ached badly. ‘Your father was showing me how he’d fought a German in the war …’

Henry’s face seemed to shiver as though he were searching for the right emotions to make the necessary changes to his face. She braced herself for the change of countenance, the corners of the down-turned lips tilting up into a smile, the softening of the square jaw, and the veins of his neck receding into the tough skin.

He could do it so easily, she thought; charm the birds off the trees if he wanted to …

She watched, feeling a little sick as Henry’s whole face beamed like the moon just coming out from behind a cloud. His voice was gruff.

‘We was just playing. Just having a bit of fun.’

Mary Anne felt Stanley’s eyes upon her, the tips of his fingers delicately tracing the redness around her neck. In that moment, she knew that he knew, that he had seen and heard too many times.

‘No you weren’t,’ he said. ‘You’re always hurting my ma, and if you hurt her again, I’ll kill you.’

Mary Anne shivered. The words were said with all the innocence of one without strength but with a great deal of endeavour. How could such a small boy speak so chillingly?

Henry’s expression hardened and, for one dreadful moment, Mary Anne had wondered, Would there come a time when he would strike one of his children? He’d come close with Harry, but that one was too fly and strong enough to fight back, and Henry knew that. But Stanley …?

She had resolved to stay close to him, to guard him with her life. Judging by the look in Henry’s eyes, she might very well need to.

The letterbox rattled and another letter from Patrick Kelly toppled onto the doormat.

‘One for me and one for you,’ said Daw, handing it to Lizzie.

‘I’ll read it later,’ said Lizzie, placing it in one of the tiny drawers of the hallstand.

Daw, of course, ripped hers open immediately, her eyes filling with tears and her face reddening with emotion as she read John’s letter.

‘He’s being transferred, but he doesn’t say where.’ She glanced at Lizzie. ‘Hope it’s somewhere in Wiltshire.’

They’d studied a map together, pinpointing airfields convenient for mainline train stations. At present both boys were in Suffolk – a fact they’d learned from John’s last visit home.

Patrick, who was training to be an armourer on fighter aircraft, had come home only briefly, gone to the pictures with them, called in on his mother, and then promptly went back to base. He’d explained to Lizzie that there was someone else in his bed at home and only a pretty broken down chaise longue was available for him to sleep on.

‘If only they were both closer.’

Lizzie echoed her sister’s sentiments, though her heart
didn’t jump for Patrick as much as Daw’s did for John. He was just a friend and always had been, but his letters were amusing. It had never occurred to her that he could write so eloquently; both his prose and his poetry had surprised her.

Unlike John’s letters, Patrick’s letters were passed around the family, an entertaining and enlightening read about what was happening. John’s, of course, were far more personal and for Daw’s eyes only.

Lizzie told herself that her relationship with Patrick could never be personal, but still she waited for the postman with just as much anticipation as her sister. So far she had not received one letter from Peter and it hurt.

The fact that it was Peter’s mother who had told her he was leaving for Canada, on the very day he was leaving, still festered like an open wound. Why hadn’t he told her himself? There’d certainly been enough opportunity. Only two days before, she’d been snuggled up with him on the back seat of his car, her eyes closed as she sniffed in the combined smells of the leather seats, his clothes and the scent of his hair.

‘Even if you die tomorrow, I’ll remember this moment for ever,’ she’d said.

He’d sat bolt upright. ‘Steady on. I wasn’t intending to be bowled out just yet.’

Trying to persuade herself that perhaps he hadn’t known he was about to leave was only partially successful and left her feeling disappointed. Another and quite unexpected side effect was that she kept analysing their relationship, comparing what she’d thought it had been to what it truly was.

Where did he actually take me?

Nowhere. They either made love in the grass, on the back seat of his car, or in his bed if his mother wasn’t at home.

Did he really love me?

Had he really said it?

She ticked off each answer from her mental list. Only after goading. Only in response to me saying I loved him.

Analysing spread through her thoughts just as a rash might spread over her body. Once she’d started working out the whys and wherefores of one subject, she couldn’t stop.

It’s about observation, she thought, and began observing other things, the results too worrying to face headlong. One of these was with regard to her family.

Lizzie had never noticed any problems in her parents’ relationship. They were pretty typical of middle-aged couples in Kent Street. Her mother kept house, providing a warm environment for her family, ensuring there was plenty of food on the table, and clean underwear when needed. On the whole, regardless of her father’s habitual drinking, they had a better standard of life than a lot of people. Now why was that, she wondered, and promptly did a few sums. After adding up the combined income of the household, it struck her that they must be living beyond their means. Her bike was new (bought by her mother), Harry dressed like a film star, and Mother was always slipping Daw a ten-shilling note ‘as a little treat’. Where did all that come from?

Her mother giving money to her and her siblings also gave rise to another observation. Her father didn’t like it. She had never studied his face at those times but now she saw the movement in his jaw, waves of dissatisfaction reverberating through his flesh from his clenched teeth. And sometimes there was an atmosphere – frostiness between her parents that she had never noticed before.

Working for Mrs Selwyn was not the same either. Peter wasn’t there and, although she had made up her mind that despite the better money she would not work in a factory, she felt like a change.

The house in Ashton felt incredibly empty – Mrs Selwyn
rattling around there all alone – and except for the casual help brought in to do extra cleaning, one day was very much like the next, rolling one on top of the other.

Somehow she had hoped Mrs Selwyn would confide in her, not quite taking her into her
total
confidence, but just enjoying her company, talking to her about Peter or her past life, but she didn’t do that. The only time Lizzie got a response from her was when she remarked that she hadn’t seen any letters arrive from Canada.

‘Is Mr Peter well?’ she asked.

His mother had flushed slightly. ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t he be?’

‘I would have thought we might have heard something from him,’ she said, dabbing a duster into a tin of beeswax and lavender polish and attacking the table as though it was her greatest quest in life.

She detected Mrs Selwyn’s uneasiness, apparent in the way she pursed her lips and her teacup rattled as she put it back on the tray.

‘Canada is a long way for the post to come, and you’ve surely heard about convoys being attacked. I expect the ship carrying it got sunk. I shall get one soon.’

And I’ll look out for it, Lizzie told herself.

Being observant went on; weighing up the good in people and the bad, deciding that Mrs Selwyn was deceitful and that Patrick, whose letter writing was very prolific, was totally open, and very sentimental.

It was like a new world had been discovered. I’m not going mad, and I’m not imagining things. I’m just seeing things more clearly, she decided. Suddenly, there seemed no point in staying in service; her connection with Peter was all but severed; not even a letter.

She thought more about it as she cycled home, the place
she’d regarded as warm and cosy all her life. What right did she have to condemn Peter for not writing? He was training to be a merchant seaman. Perhaps he was at sea at this very moment on one of the convoys bringing food from America to England.

No, said the more practical side of her character. She had every right to analyse, but no right to judge. He was doing his duty, and you, she decided, should be doing yours.

When she got home, bread, butter and jam were on the table, and neck of lamb stew bubbled on the stove.

Her mother slid the letter she’d put in the hallstand from her pocket.

‘It’s from Patrick,’ she said, placing it on the table beside Lizzie’s place.

Lizzie glanced at it before reaching for the bread. ‘I know.’

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

Lizzie shook her head and filled her mouth with a crust from the slice of bread she’d cut. ‘I’m starving. You read it.’

Mary Anne sighed as she flattened the paper.

‘My word, but he writes very beautifully. See?’ She flashed it across the table.

Daw nodded. Henry grunted approvingly and Lizzie continued chewing her bread. Harry was absent, a bit later than usual getting home from the factory.

Lizzie noticed the avid interest in her mother’s face as she silently read the letter, a slow smile gradually curving her lips.

As had become her habit, Lizzie eyed the other members of her family. Her father in particular was staring at his wife, impatience simmering in his eyes.

At last, unable to prevent himself, he demanded she read it. ‘Well, come on. Let’s be having it. Tell us what the brave young chap is up to.’

Her mother’s eyes stayed fixed on the letter. Her voice was gentle, almost whimsical.

‘It’s censored. He’s just saying that everything is going well and that he expects to be promoted because he was top of his class. As yet he hasn’t got a posting, but will let us – you,’ she said, correcting herself and nodding at Lizzie, ‘know if he can.’

Her smile remained, still reading the letter.

‘The rest is a poem,’ she said in response to Henry’s demand that she read on.

Lizzie had never been an avid reader of poetry, but the look of pleasure on her mother’s face intrigued her. ‘Yes. Go on. Read it, Ma.’

Mary Anne glanced at her, smiled and bent her head to the paper.

Remember me at dawn, when the grass shivers in an early breeze,

And is dappled by a shaded sun.

Remember me at midday, when shadows fall in blackened squares,

On the ground I left behind.

Remember me at evening, when swallows dip and dive around the setting sun,

That once gilded my face.

Remember me in the blue blackness of an England in darkness,

Awaiting my return.

Lizzie stared blankly at the far wall where a picture hung
of a great stag in a Scottish landscape, though she wasn’t seeing the fine beast. Observation and analysis had suddenly come into its own. Was this letter really from the Patrick Kelly reviled by some because his mother was a tart? He was doing his bit, just like Peter.

And you should be doing yours.

She caught the rest of the family doing what she was doing: staring into space, suddenly blinking themselves back to reality.

‘Beautiful,’ said Mary Anne, folding the letter back up and passing it to her daughter.

Daw made a small sound, like a hiccup, though Lizzie knew it was really a sob. Daw was trying to control herself.

Lizzie sighed and patted her arm. ‘It was sad, wasn’t it, Daw? But don’t upset yourself. John will be coming home, you just see if he won’t.’

‘At least he’s doing his bit not like me own son,’ snapped Henry, folding his paper, a precursor to making his way down to the privy at the bottom of the garden.

‘And I’m going to do mine,’ blurted Lizzie. ‘I thought about joining the Wrens or something.’

Daw looked astounded. ‘You can’t.’

‘Why not?’

The moment the words were out, she knew that now was not the right time. Daw burst into tears – only to be expected seeing as John had caught the train a few days before for pilot training, ‘destination unknown’.

Mary Anne seemed as stiff as the salt block currently sitting on the table. ‘Leaving home?’

Lizzie felt as though she were melting beneath her mother’s gaze. She’d always been proud of the fact that her mother looked so much younger than many of her friends’ mothers. A quick glance at her face now and she felt guilty. Worry and
having a family certainly aged people, though she thought her ma was still lovely.

‘Lots of girls are, Ma,’ she said lightly, as she spread butter on a doorstep of bread. She couldn’t see the problem. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’ She didn’t add that Peter Selwyn was doing his bit away in Canada and, in his absence, she felt obliged to do her bit too.