We'll Meet Again (28 page)

‘I don’t want that child in here.’ Her aunt’s voice, coming from the bed, had been still a little watery but stronger. ‘Send her away.’

‘Tell you later,’ Prue whispered.

Annoyed at being excluded, Sheila went back to the kitchen and began preparing the vegetables for the evening meal. She had barely started when she heard the doorbell. Sighing, she went to answer it.

‘Oh, it’s you again.’

‘Yes. I want to talk to you. Where is she?’

‘My aunt? Prue helped her to bed. She is very upset. We all are.’

‘Can I come in?’

Without speaking, she opened the door wider to admit him. He followed her to the kitchen. Pretending indifference, she picked up the kitchen knife and returned to her task at the sink.

‘Put that down,’ he said. ‘I can’t talk to your back.’

She did as he asked and turned to face him. ‘I thought you didn’t want to see any of us again.’

‘I was mad.’

‘You had no right to be mad at me. I had nothing to do with whatever it is that’s bugging you.’

‘I know. I was wrong to shout at you. I’m all mixed up.’

‘Is Aunt Constance your mother?’

‘Yes, and I wish I’d never tried to find her. Except it saved me making a terrible mistake.’

‘Oh.’

‘Marrying you.’

‘I don’t remember you asking me,’ she snapped. ‘And I certainly don’t remember saying I would.’

‘Sorry. What I meant was that we would have been breaking the law. You’re my cousin. It’s incest. At least it is where I come from.’

‘So, is that all?’ She was doing her best to take it lightly but inside there was a hollow feeling that, once again, love had slipped through her fingers.

‘No, it’s not all. There’s a helluva lot more. D’you want to hear it or not?’

She drew out a chair from the table and sat down, indicating that he should take the one opposite. ‘Go on then, tell me.’

After a hesitant start, he told her everything. By the end of it he was holding both her hands across the table and she was trying not to cry.

‘I can see why you are angry,’ she said. ‘But have you tried to understand?’

‘Understand what?’

‘Well, I don’t know much about it, but my ma had seven children. I was the eldest, so I know a bit about having babies. It’s a very emotional experience and I remember Ma saying that sometimes it all got on top of her, that she felt depressed when she really should have been happy, that she felt tied down with all the feeding and nappy changing and always being so tired. No one seemed to understand how she felt. Pa did try. He used to look after the little ones sometimes to let her go out on her own and
treat herself to a new hat or something. It didn’t mean she didn’t love us. And she got better very quickly. Aunt Constance was older when she had you and it might have been worse for her, but taking her baby away from her was cruel, really cruel.’

‘Oh, so you are blaming Pops.’

‘No, I’ve no right to do that, and anyway he kept you and made sure you had a good life, so who am I to criticise? Perhaps he should have told you, perhaps not. I don’t know. All I’m saying is, don’t be angry.’

He smiled at her. ‘You really are a wise old owl, aren’t you?’

‘Not so much of the old.’

‘No, you’re still my songbird. Am I forgiven?’

‘Nothing to forgive. Do you know, when I first met you, I thought you reminded me of someone and now I know why. There’s a family likeness, the same colour hair, yours is a bit lighter perhaps and the shape of your face is very like Ma’s. Charlie’s is like that too. I can imagine him growing up to be just like you.’

‘Everyone says I look like Pops.’

‘So you may, but the people who said that had never met Ma. You two would have got on well, I think.’

‘Sometimes it slips my mind that you’ve had your troubles too. I’m real sorry.’

‘Don’t keep apologising.’

Prue came into the kitchen carrying the tea tray. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’

‘No,’ Sheila said. ‘Johnnie came back to try and explain how he felt …’

‘Pretty awful, I expect.’

‘Sheila put me straight,’ he said.

Prue laughed. ‘She would. She does that to me.’

‘Did my aunt tell you anything?’ Sheila asked.

‘Quite a lot, actually. It goes some way to explaining why she is the way she is. All those years, regretting what she had done, pretending her husband had been called up and died of gas poisoning and telling her friends the baby had died too. The only way she could cope was to be hard. She fell out with your mother over it.’

‘So that’s why they never stayed in touch. I wonder if Ma knew what had happened to Johnnie?’

‘Does Mrs Tranter know I’m back?’ Johnnie asked.

‘We heard the jeep draw up and then voices and she asked me who had come, so yes, she does,’ Prue told him.

‘Will she talk to me again?’

‘Perhaps, but not today.’

‘My leave ends tonight. I’ve got to go back.’

‘Next time, then,’ Prue said. ‘You could try writing, preparing the way.’

‘OK. I’ll do that.’ He stood up to leave.

Sheila followed him to the front door. ‘We’ll still be friends?’ she queried.

‘Would you like that, knowing …’ He stopped.

‘Of course. You are my cousin. I thought I didn’t have any family left except Aunt Constance and now I have. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘Kissing cousins.’ He laughed and dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ll write. Shall I write here or to that London address? Why is your address so secret?’

‘It’s not the address that’s secret, but where I work. And you mustn’t ask about that.’

‘OK, I won’t.’ He put his cap on, dropped another kiss on her cheek and climbed into the jeep.

She watched him go and turned back indoors. Her aunt had
come downstairs and was busy in the kitchen cooking dinner. Sheila went to join her.

‘Aunt, I’m sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for?’

‘I’m sorry that you have been so unhappy all these years. I didn’t know …’

‘It’s my punishment.’

‘Is that what you thought, that you were being punished?’

‘I was, wasn’t I?’

‘But you were unwell. Mum used to feel like that sometimes after giving birth; she told me about it one day when she almost lost her temper with Annie. I am sure she would have understood if you had talked to her. It might have helped.’

‘I was never very close to your mother, Sheila. She was lucky, she had a good husband and lots of children. Clifford wasn’t like that. All he was interested in was getting on in business, climbing the ladder.’ She banged a saucepan of potatoes on the stove and lit the gas under it.

‘But he loved his son?’

‘He doted on him.’

A pattern was beginning to emerge and Sheila could easily imagine what life had been like in Victoria Villa at that time. A woman unable to cope with motherhood, a woman jealous of her own son, a woman lacking love, a desperately unhappy woman. She was beginning to feel quite sorry for her. ‘Did you ever try to trace Johnnie?’

‘His name is Jonathan. Oh, I knew where he was, at least in the beginning. I wrote to Clifford but had no reply. Then I heard his father had died and his mother had had a stroke and he had gone away. After that, nothing.’

‘Until today?’

‘Until today.’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘How should I feel?’ The potatoes were boiling over. She lifted the lid and turned down the gas.

‘Glad your son has come back to you perhaps.’

‘Has he? He didn’t seem like the prodigal son to me.’

‘Give him time.’

‘Hm, we’ll see. Are you planning to marry him?’

‘No, Aunt, I am not. He is my cousin, part of my – our – family, but we are going to keep in touch. I think he would like to keep in touch with you too.’

‘He’s got another mother.’

‘Two is better than one, don’t you think?’

For the first time ever, Sheila heard Constance laugh. ‘My, you’ve got an old head on young shoulders, miss.’

‘Perhaps that’s because I had a mother who talked to me and a host of brothers and sisters to help look after. And war makes people grow up fast, don’t you think?’

‘Probably. Now will you go and lay the table before these potatoes turn to mush.’ She bent to take a pie out of the oven as she spoke. ‘And then call Lady Prudence.’

Sheila went to do as she was told, smiling to herself. Her aunt was human after all, but she hadn’t unbent all the way. She was still correcting her over names, still holding out a little, but it was a start. As for Johnnie, she was surprised to find she was not unhappy about losing him as a potential husband; she felt far more comfortable with him as a cousin. He went a little way to make up for the loss of Charlie.

It was fiddly and boring work. It wasn’t as if they ever saw the finished aircraft. He wasn’t even sure where the bits he was making went. All he knew was that he churned them out by the thousand and was paid well for doing so. Of course accuracy was important, but he had been doing it long enough now to do it in his sleep.

He had been too young to enlist at the beginning of the war but he could go now if he wanted, that is if he managed to pass the medical. The only reason he didn’t was Bella, who worked the cutting machine next to his and with whom he lived. Both orphans of the Blitz, they had learnt to get by. Instead of relying on charitable handouts and foster homes, they had camped out in bombed-out houses, scavenged and earned a few pence running errands, buying and selling second-hand stuff, collecting discarded bottles and returning them to the makers for a penny a time. There had been a crowd of them doing the same thing, too big a crowd as it happened. They had been rounded up and the younger ones sent to children’s homes.

Too old for a children’s home and with no evidence that they
had been doing anything illegal, he and Bella, whose real name was Isabella Malloney, had been found digs and a job, here at the factory in Croydon. The jobs were a godsend but they hadn’t liked being in different digs and had soon found a couple of rooms of their own. He supposed one day they would get married, but there was plenty of time. After the war perhaps.

He looked at the clock. Two minutes to go for their dinner break. If they scuttled off on the dot of eleven, they might find themselves at the head of the queue in the canteen and have a decent half hour to eat it. He looked over at Bella and put his thumb up. She grinned and set aside the sheet of metal she was about to work on and pretended to be studying the blueprint to use the time before the hooter went. As soon as they heard it there was a mad scramble by everyone to get to the canteen and be the first in the queue.

With twenty minutes of their break still left, they found a table and sat down to enjoy liver and bacon, mashed potatoes and cabbage. Having a good meal at work saved them having to cook when they went home; they were usually too tired anyway. Away from the noise of the machinery they could enjoy ‘Music While You Work’ in peace. Sometimes, if they ate on the second shift, they listened to ‘Workers’ Playtime’, which was broadcast from different factories.

‘This ain’t half bad,’ he said. ‘Not as good as my mother used to make, though.’

‘Do you still miss her?’

‘Course I do. All of them.’

He stopped suddenly to listen. The clear voice of someone singing ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’ came over the airwaves. It mesmerised him. ‘My mother used to sing that,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would think that was her.’

‘It can’t be though, can it?’ she said.

‘Not unless you believe in ghosts. Who do you think it is?’

‘Well, it’s not Gracie Fields, that’s for sure, nor Vera Lynn or Anne Shelton. I know their voices.’

But he wasn’t listening to her; he could hear his mother singing as she dusted.
‘When you wish upon a star your dreams come true.’
He blinked back unaccustomed tears.

The song ended. ‘Thank you, Sheila,’ the announcer said. Then to the listeners. ‘A delightful song sung by a delightful singer. That was Sheila Phipps. I am sure we shall be hearing a lot more of her in future.’

His jaw dropped open. ‘Sheila!’ He reached across and grabbed Bella’s sleeve. ‘She’s alive! She’s alive!’

‘It could be someone with the same name.’

‘Not with a voice like that. Oh, Bella, I’ve got to find her.’

The hooter went for them to return to their work benches. He could hardly contain his excitement, but as the last three hours of their early shift wore on, his euphoria evaporated. How had she escaped the bomb? Where had she been all this time? Why had he never seen her about? How could he find her? He hadn’t visited Ma and Pa’s graves lately. Perhaps it was time he did. At least one question he had been asking himself over the years had been answered. There was no grave for Sheila because she had not died.

There was a policeman with Lady Winterton and Ronnie was immediately on the alert. He hadn’t nicked anything for ages, but he supposed he was doing wrong using the bunker. Could they prove he had? Auntie Jean was looking as if she were going to cry and that bothered him. In his experience, grown-up people did not cry.

‘Ronald,’ the Countess said gently. She was wearing her WVS
uniform, which was another sign something was up. ‘You are needed at home. Your mother is in hospital and asking for you.’

‘In hospital? What’s wrong with her? Was it a bomb?’

‘No, not a bomb. She has been hurt. I don’t know any details. I am going to take you to her.’

‘I can go on my own.’

‘I’m sure you can, but I think it is best that I come with you.’

‘What’s he here for?’ He nodded towards the policeman. Policemen were not good news.

‘Constable Finch received the news by telephone and fetched me. I am here in my capacity as billeting officer for evacuees.’

‘He won’t be coming to London with us?’

‘No, he is needed here.’

‘I will be coming back, won’t I?’

The Countess looked from the constable to Mrs Potts. ‘I don’t know. We shall have to see.’

This sounded like very bad news. There was nothing for it but to shrug his shoulders and accompany the Countess to London.

His mother was hardly recognisable; her face was a mass of bruises and she had her arm in plaster. ‘So you got here,’ she said, ignoring the Countess, who stood just behind him.

‘Who did this to you?’ He could recognise a beating when he saw it. He’d had plenty of those himself when his pa was at home.

‘That no good father of yours.’

‘But I thought he was in …’ He stopped, remembering the lady behind him.

‘He’s out, came home unexpected he did.’

‘Oh.’ He was beginning to understand. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. He stormed out again. The police are looking for him. He’ll probably come after you. I didn’t tell him where you
were, honest I didn’t, but I don’t suppose it will take him long to find out.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘There’s some money in a box under the floorboards in the corner of my bedroom. I don’t want him to find it. I’ve been saving up to get away. Bring it to me. And I’ll have my make-up bag while you’re about it. It’s on my dressing table.’

‘Then what?’

‘Go back where you came from before you get taken into care.’

He turned to look at the Countess who had not said a word but he could see by the expression on her face she had understood. ‘I’ll take you,’ she said.

If he could have rid himself of his escort, he might have done, but he realised it would be an unwise thing to do, especially if he wanted to avoid being picked up by the welfare or the police. And if he should encounter his father, he would be safer if he had an adult with him. There was the added advantage that the Countess went everywhere in a taxi and that was an unheard-of treat. And safer.

The house was a shambles. Pa had obviously turned everything upside down looking for money. It was also very dirty; unwashed crockery and saucepans in the sink, an unmade bed, the overpowering smell of stale perfume mixed with the odour from an overflowing ash tray. It all made him ashamed. Shame was something he had never felt before. Goodness knew what the Countess thought of it. But the box with the money was still there. He retrieved it and picked up the make-up bag. ‘Let’s go before he comes back,’ he said.

They went out to the cab, which had been kept waiting. ‘Shall we buy some flowers to take to your mother?’ the Countess suggested as they were driven back to the hospital.

‘If you like.’ He was glad she wasn’t going to quiz him about his mother and father.

They stopped at a florist’s shop. It had been damaged by bombs but was still in business. There were no exotic blooms and it was too late in the year for summer flowers, but there were some bronze chrysanthemums, and her ladyship bought those. It was as they were turning to leave, Ronnie recognised another customer looking round the sparse display.

‘Whatchya, Charlie,’ he said.

The young man looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh, it’s you, Ronnie Barlow.’ He looked from the boy to the lady who was evidently with him. She was not the sort Ronnie would normally associate with, probably an authority figure of some kind.

‘This here’s Charlie Phipps,’ Ronnie told her. ‘He’s Sheila’s brother.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘But I thought …’ She turned to Charlie. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes, young man?’

‘Do you know my sister?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘I think I might. Shall we go and find somewhere to talk?’

Ronnie hadn’t known Sheila thought her brother was dead or he could have told her he wasn’t. He had seen him once before when he came home, but didn’t think anything of it. He listened to the conversation between the Countess and Charlie as they sat on a park bench, but his own problems loomed large. Where was his father? Would he really come for him, make him go back to a life of crime? He didn’t want that. He wanted to stay with Mr and Mrs Potts. But if he couldn’t, what then?

‘He’s alive? Charlie’s alive?’ It was almost too good to be true and extraordinary that the person to be telling her this was Prue. It
was just after breakfast, which she and Prue were having in the canteen. Prue had been reading a long letter from her mother which she hadn’t had time to read before leaving for work. Sheila, who had been on night duty, would be going home to Victoria Villa after breakfast.

‘So Mama says. She met him in London and they had a long talk. He’s living with his girlfriend in a flat in Croydon and working in an aircraft factory.’

‘He’s well? Why hasn’t he been in touch with me in all these years?’

‘He thought you were dead, just as you thought he was. He realised you were alive when he heard you singing on ‘Music While You Work’ and he was buying flowers to take to your parents’ graves when he met Mama and Ronald Barlow.’

‘Ronnie?’

Prue laughed. ‘That’s another story.’

‘I must go to him! Do you think I’ve got time to get to London and back before my shift tonight?’

‘Sheila, you’ve been up all night. You need to sleep. And he will be at work. Mama has sent his address for you to write to him, then you can arrange a proper meeting. Here, you read it.’ She handed the letter over.

Sheila scanned it quickly and then again more slowly. ‘Oh, Prue, I hardly dare believe it. After all this time. I must go home and write to him at once.’ She offered the letter back.

‘You keep it. I have to go to work.’ She stood up and gathered up their trays and crockery to take back to the counter. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Sheila cycled home as fast as her pedalling feet would take her, propped her bicycle against the wall and went in by the back door. Constance was having her breakfast in the kitchen. She
had softened considerably since Johnnie’s sudden arrival and his subsequent correspondence. ‘Aunt, guess what? Charlie’s been found.’

‘That’s what you thought before.’

‘I know, but this time it’s real. Prue’s mother has met him and talked to him. He thought I had died with the others, but then he heard me singing on the radio.’ She was bubbling with excitement. ‘He lives in Croydon.’

‘What’s he been doing all this time?’

‘I don’t know until I meet him. I’ve got an address to write to. I’m going up to do it now.’

She hurried up to her room and sat on the bed to read the Countess’s letter again. The Countess had explained why she was in London with Ronnie and how they had met Charlie and recounted the conversation she had had with him on the way back to Longfordham. ‘He has always been unforthcoming about his past,’ she had written. ‘I think he was ashamed of it, but knowing I had met his mother and seen the conditions in which he had lived, he opened up. He told me all about his appalling childhood. His father is a notorious thief and his mother is a woman of easy virtue and they expected him to steal for them. He was beaten if he didn’t. Being evacuated was the saving of him. He wants to lead an honest life, but there is little chance of it if he goes back to them. We could get the welfare people onto it, but that would mean putting him into a home for delinquents. I doubt that would set him on the right path. When I took him home, I spoke to Mrs Potts. She has grown very fond of him in spite of his cheeky ways and appalling manners and would like to keep him. He will soon be old enough to leave school and go to work and he likes Thomas Green, so your Papa has decided to offer him a job in the gardens if his parents agree. I don’t see why they shouldn’t. His mother
doesn’t seem to care and his father is on the run. We shall have to wait and see.’

Sheila could have told the Countess all of that, but had kept quiet because Ronnie had asked her to, and everyone ought to be given a chance. Perhaps it was just as well, considering she might not have heard about Charlie if it hadn’t been for him.

She folded the two closely packed sheets and set them aside to write a long, rambling letter to Charlie, all about living with their aunt and her search for him. ‘Just when I had almost given up hope, I received the wonderful news that you are alive and have been looking for me too,’ she wrote. She ended, ‘Can I come and see you? I’ve got Saturday off this week. Will you be at home then? Or would you rather come here? I can’t wait to get a letter from you and to see you again. There is so much to talk about. Your loving sister, Sheila.’

She sealed it in an envelope, addressed it and put a stamp on it, then went out to post it. Saturday was only four days away but it seemed like an eternity.

‘Bella, what are you doing?’ Charlie asked. On her instructions, he had been to the grocer’s with their ration books and bought a tiny joint of brisket, a couple of sausages, some potatoes, a cabbage and a ready-made apple pie. He put the shopping bag on the kitchen table and stood watching her. She was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen lino.