Wartime Wife (29 page)

Seats were upholstered in red velvets; the wood-panelled walls shone and smelled of beeswax. Fine porcelain and cut glass blinked like stars from behind beautifully etched glass doors, and mirrors set into wooden panels sparkled with reflected light.

‘Right!’ said Mrs Riley. ‘I don’t say this ain’t goin’ to hurt, but I guarantee it’ll work – and it’ll cost ten pounds – payment in advance.’

‘So I understand.’ She wasn’t the only one in Kent Street to have paid for the services of Mrs Riley.

She handed over the money, which Mrs Riley tucked into her bodice, nestling the notes between her meagre breasts.

‘Now,’ she said, turning her back and opening a cupboard from which she took out the infamous carpet bag that Mary Anne remembered having a rose motif on the side. ‘Let’s get started. Sooner started, sooner finished.’

Taut with nerves, Mary Anne continued to stand, harbouring the ridiculous notion that she’d snap in half if she sat down, from tension rather than cold. Besides, she hadn’t been asked.

Instead, she watched fearfully, the barbed wire ball in her stomach turning ever more taut as she watched Mrs Riley prepare for this sacred rite – the rite of ending life.

A piece of red flannel was laid out on a narrow table standing against one wall and on it she placed the knitting needle and a chunk of carbolic soap. Next, the kettle was placed on the glowing coals of a tiny cast iron range.

‘I made meself a cup of tea before you came, so it won’t be long before it boils.’

Mary Anne shook her head. ‘I don’t want one, thank you.’

‘Goodness, me dear, you’re more naive than you look. It ain’t for that.’

It was as if a lead weight – like the ones inside a grandfather clock – had plunged to her stomach. Everything laid out and being done was for one purpose only. Suddenly, she weakened and sank onto a velvet-covered bench let into the wall.

‘Aye! It ain’t an easy thing to do,’ said Mrs Riley, taking a puff from her pipe before putting it back on the hob. ‘Shall I take yer coat?’

Mary Anne struggled to her feet, feeling naked after taking off her coat.

The coat was placed in what had looked like a ground-level
cupboard but turned out to be a bed, sliding doors hiding it from the rest of the room.

She turned her back, her stomach growing queasy at the thought of what was about to be done to her. The less she saw of the preparations, the calmer she would be and the more likely to go through with it. And she had to go through with it, though it was against her nature. Her children were her joy. She had made sure they were well clothed, well fed and happy. She had protected them from the bad things and now they were grown. They didn’t need such a high degree of protection as in the past. She was growing older and could concentrate on Stanley. Henry had not wanted any of the children, though no one would think so now. He’d been furious each time she’d reported herself pregnant. The way he had treated her, it was a wonder her pregnancies had gone full term. She couldn’t go through that again.

‘Did you ’ear what I said?’ Mrs Riley’s voice invaded her thoughts.

‘What?’

‘I said, now yer drawers.’

Sensing her shyness, Mrs Riley concentrated on taking a pinch of snuff from a small red tin before taking another puff of her pipe.

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Mary Anne did as she was told, pushing her knickers inside her handbag with the spare pair.

‘I brought another pair,’ she blurted without really knowing why – just that she wanted to say something, to hear her own voice, to know she was still there and really doing this.

‘You’ll need both pairs if it comes away quickly,’ Mrs Riley said, wiping her hands over her hips to get rid of the surfeit of snuff.

The thought of what she was suggesting would have made the bravest woman reconsider. Mary Anne was certainly not
the bravest, but reminded herself that those already in the world still needed her to make their paths through life run smoothly.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Riley, taking the boiling kettle off the coals and picking up the knitting needle in her right hand. ‘I’m going to stand yur. I want you to roll up your skirt and put your feet up on the cupboards to either side of me.’

She did what she thought was being asked of her, feet braced against the cupboards to either side of Mrs Riley, who stood in between her legs, knitting needle in hand. Mary Anne turned her head to one side, unwilling to see Mrs Riley’s face, let alone look into her eyes.

There was no way to describe how vulnerable and ashamed she felt, and age had nothing to do with it. No one, absolutely no one, should have to submit to such an ignominious procedure, she thought. She felt that she was no more than a lump of meat.

She wanted to cry out her despair; she wanted to tell someone just how bitter she felt about hopes she’d once cherished and shared with a man who had truly loved her.

She did none of those things but bit on a piece of wood given her by Mrs Riley, wincing as the needle probed her insides, piercing something soft and as vulnerable as her, and leaving behind a mix of pain, relief and a terrible surge of guilt that threatened to drown her.

Lizzie frowned and counted the eggs again. There were only two, but surely she’d bought six plus a free one. Mr Nixon at the corner shop had winked at her and slipped her one extra. She’d thanked him kindly but stayed on her toes ready to sprint out of range of his roving hands should he come too close.

Surely Mrs Selwyn hadn’t used four in two days?

The most obvious explanation was that Mrs Selwyn had used it for visiting relatives but hadn’t told her. Friday was her day for checking the larder, and it wasn’t just about eggs. Lizzie didn’t live in and Peter was in Canada, so only Mrs Selwyn counted as far as ration books were concerned. Provisions at the house in Ashton were being devoured at a rate of knots, according to what was left in the larder, and Lizzie was keeping such a close check nowadays. She could hardly accuse Mrs Selwyn of eating more than she should of her own food, and although well built, she wasn’t fat and gave no signs of having put on any weight.

That afternoon she took in afternoon tea, the teapot, milk and sugar accompanied by a plate of bread, butter and the last of homemade strawberry jam sent up from the farm in Shepton Mallet by Mrs Selwyn’s sister. As she set the tea tray down on the table, she scrutinised her employer as closely as she dared.
No extra weight being discernable, there was no alternative but to ask the pertinent question.

‘Mrs Selwyn, I fear we won’t have enough eggs to last the week – not if I’m going to make a cake and a Yorkshire pudding on Sunday. There were seven and now there are only two.’

As usual, Mrs Selwyn had her nose buried in a trashy romance, something entitled
Lord Ramsden and the Gypsy Girl
. Raising her head, her eyes met those of Lizzie.

‘Then get some more.’

‘I can’t.’

Inwardly, Lizzie sighed. Mrs Selwyn had no idea about rationing. When the books had arrived, she’d simply handed them over to Lizzie who had studied the contents over toast and tea and duly reported back to Mrs Selwyn, who frowned in a very accusing manner.

‘Do you mind repeating that?’

Lizzie obliged. ‘I can’t. Not until next week. And then there’s the bread, the bacon and several other things …’

‘Don’t keep on so!’

Lizzie started, her expression full of surprise.

Like a wax tableau, both seemingly surprised by the other, they stood looking at each other, one awaiting an explanation, the other seemingly loath to give one.

‘It’s the cold weather,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘I keep feeling hungry. Just do what you can, will you?’

She immediately dropped her eyes back to the book, leaving Lizzie looking at the top of her head.

‘Then I’ll have to go out this afternoon. There’s a few things needed—’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’

Without bothering to look up from her book, Mrs Selwyn dismissed her with a casual wave of her hand. ‘Take the rest of the afternoon off, if you must.’

Closing the parlour door behind her, Lizzie considered how easily she had acquired an afternoon off without even asking for one. Even after meeting Peter on those sweet summer afternoons, she’d still had time spare for shopping, but that was in the days before queuing had become normal.

There was a long queue outside the corner shop; women huddled against the plate glass window in an effort to escape the bitter wind, clutching ration books in gloved hands, shopping bags braced against their sides. Things had certainly changed. It occurred to her that she might as well head home and call in at the grocer’s shop next door to the pawnbroker’s just off East Street and see if he had any room on his list. Every household had to be registered. So far it was a pretty lackadaisical affair, people diving from one shop to another in a bid to escape the queues and get a bit more than they were entitled to, but it was worth a try.

It was after four by the time she got there and the worsening weather had driven all but the most hardy home to their hearths and a hot meal singing on the stove.

To her great relief, she found the queue was not so long outside this particular shop, and even though they didn’t have exactly what she wanted, there were a few extras that weren’t on ration.

‘Wonderful,’ she murmured, as she placed her purchases into the basket just below her now blacked-out headlamp.

Hearing a series of hoots and shouts, she looked up to see a group of boys on the corner of the street. One of them was a little smaller, a little slighter than the rest.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Stanley?’

No response.

Say it louder, prompted a suspicious voice inside.

‘Stanley!’

Startled faces turned in her direction. She thought she
recognised the cheeky little sods that had made faces through the butcher’s shop window.

Like a flock of frightened starlings, they turned and ran, knocking Stanley to the ground in their effort to escape.

She propped her bicycle against a wall, ran to help her brother up from the ground and immediately began brushing the dirt from his clothes.

‘Look at the state of you!’

Stanley wriggled his little body, but wasn’t strong enough to escape her firm grip.

‘I’m all right,’ he grumbled. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘No. Look at the state of those knees. There’s enough dirt on them alone to grow potatoes.’

Stanley continued to squirm. He suffered being fussed over when he was ill, but at no other time and Lizzie was unwilling to let him go. It was a matter of responsibility, and she had always been the most responsible in the family.

‘Come on. Home with you!’

‘Awww … Leave me alone.’

‘No!’ she said sharply, just as they were passing the pawnshop.

She was surprised to see Stanley’s eyes grow wide with fear.
Now what?

‘Ssshhh!’ he said, his eyes sliding sidelong as he raised his finger to his lips. ‘He’ll hear us.’

She frowned, thinking her little brother was quite consternating at times. ‘Who will?’

‘Him,’ he whispered, pointing to the open door. ‘That’s where Mr Hitler lives.’

Lizzie shook her head in disbelief and laughed out loud. ‘Mr Hitler lives there? I don’t think so, Stanley. I think he’s got deadlier things to do than run a pawnshop!’

The house seemed abnormally quiet and cold when she and
Stanley got home. Normally, the smell of the evening meal and the warmth of a heap of glowing Welsh Steam coal would funnel down the passage like a welcoming arm, pulling them in. Music from the BBC Home Service would be floating on the air and Lizzie would feel every bone in her body relaxing because this was home, the safest and happiest place in the world – or it had been before Stanley had sown doubt in her mind.

This evening there was no welcoming smell and no sound except the rhythmic drip of the kitchen tap.

There’s nothing wrong, Lizzie told herself, though in reality she sensed the opposite was true; something was VERY wrong.

Henry Randall had spent the day helping to repair an engine problem on one of the older taxis in the depot. The garage manager had made his presence known, urging Henry and the mechanic to mend it quickly, bleating that he couldn’t afford to have it off the road for too long. The job had taken all day and at the end of it Henry’s mouth was dry and the smell of hops hung over the brewery where the workers wore clogs and the women swore like troopers. The Red Cow beckoned!

‘Wet yer whistle with that, Henry. A fresh barrel just tapped,’ said Jack Skinner, landlord of the Red Cow.

Henry was about to take a swift sip, but being straight in such matters as paying on the nail, he first searched his pockets for the right money, dug his fingers in and found – nothing!

Frowning, he searched first one pocket then another, inside his coat, outside his coat, from coat to trouser pockets. Not a penny.

Jack saw his consternation. ‘Forgot yer money, Henry?’

Never in his whole life had Henry felt so embarrassed as he did now. In the past he’d denigrated those who never stood their round or got it poured, took a sip then owned up to not
having a penny on them when they knew all the time they were out of funds.

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ he said at last, his face stiff with indignation. ‘I ain’t got a penny on me.’

Jack Skinner smiled and slung his bar towel over his shoulder. ‘I trust you fer one, Henry.’

Henry shook his head. ‘No. I don’t drink if I can’t pay.’

Luckily, someone else was standing next to him who
did
have the money and luckily drank the same bitter, but it did nothing for Henry’s sense of pride.

Bitter and humiliated, his bristled chin tucked into his collar, he left the Red Cow long before he wanted to. For the first time in months, or was it years, he was going home sober and he didn’t like it. It was like giving in to what everyday civilians were like – upright and sober, just like them who preached salvation and banged tambourines with their uniforms and their calling themselves an army. Well, he wasn’t like them, and he didn’t want to be.