A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  During those months of captivity and terror, Edward Maybury had become a stranger to his wife, to his family and – perhaps worst of all – to himself. That he was in desperate need of help was obvious to all of them, but even had they known how to offer it, Edward, it seemed, was past accepting it. And to make matters worse, he hated himself for it. After each violent outburst, each rejected attempt of Libby’s to break through the barrier that stood between them, he would weep in her arms in the darkness, the desperate and inarticulate crying of a lost child. He slept hardly at all; his stomach would hold little food. In these austere days of shortages – of carrot cake and Woolton pie, of little meat and often no fish at all, of a stodgy diet of little variation and even less interest – Libby could find nothing to tempt his appetite. Physically, he improved a little, mentally, not at all; indeed, the black moods became blacker, the violent outbursts more frequent, and gradually – unsurprisingly – the never very patient Libby began to shout back. In the middle of one blazing quarrel, Edward caught her by the shoulders and threw her with frightening force across the room, sending her sprawling across the low coffee table and onto the floor. In a second he was beside her, trying to help her up. ‘Libby – Libby, I’m sorry!’

  ‘Get away from me!’ she spat, enraged. ‘You’re mad!’

  He buried his face in his hands. ‘Don’t.’

  She scrambled to her feet, blazing with outrage, rubbing a bruised knee. ‘What’s the matter with you? What do you want from me?’

  ‘Libby – I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘You never mean to! Edward – where are you, for God’s sake? Where have you gone? Don’t you understand? You’re safe now. You’re home. Why can’t you forget – at least start to forget – what’s happened? Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me help? It’s as if I – our life – doesn’t mean anything to you any more. Oh, Christ, sometimes I wish—’ She stopped.

  He lifted his head slowly. ‘What? What do you wish?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, shaken. ‘Nothing.’

  He looked at her from his changed, anguished face, bitterness in his eyes. ‘Libby, what do you wish?’

  The tears came suddenly. ‘What do you think? I wish things could be as they used to be! Why can’t they? Why?’

  She did not see him turn from her but, hearing the frustrated violence in him as he slammed the front door behind him, she wept.

  * * *

  Allie had moved out of Rampton Court when Edward had returned, and, accommodation in London being almost impossible to find, had moved into the Kensington flat with her mother and father. She had still told neither her family nor Tom of the coming child. Letters from Tom arrived irregularly from ‘somewhere in Italy’, and she wrote to him, invariably, twice a week. September 1943, the month of Edward’s return, had seen considerable problems in the engineering industry culminate, in the middle of the month, in the first offensive strike in the industry for two years. Against the wishes and instructions of their own union executive, engineers in Barrow, a town almost totally dependent upon the vast Vickers Armstrong Company, went on strike directly against a decision of the National Arbitration Tribunal, a body set up by the Minister of Labour as a final arbiter in industrial disputes. The men had been agitating to have part of their national bonus, paid for war work, consolidated into the basic rate for the job so that it could not be so easily withdrawn at the end of hostilities. The tribunal ruled that this should be so, and that one pound should be consolidated into the basic rate – but due to a lack of clarity in the ruling and to the incredibly complicated pay structure of the industry, this turned out to mean that, in fact, many piece workers would be taking an actual cut in their weekly wage. Many of the men greased their tools and packed them away even before they went to the meeting where the vote to strike was taken. A week later the women and apprentices of Barrow had joined the striking men, and production in the town was virtually at a standstill.

  The whole industry felt the repercussions, with most workers solidly behind the strikers. George Jordan nearly had an apoplectic fit when he discovered that the Jordan employees were contributing to the strike fund. In October, the dispute ended in compromise, but a residue of bitterness was left that some took care to foster; the rank and file were unhappy that, in their eyes, the union executive had not supported them, indeed had actively taken sides against them, and strong feelings spread nationally through the activists of the union, especially the shop stewards. The short-term effect, so far as Allie was concerned, was that MacKenzie, who had supported the strike and had organized the fund collections, was more strongly entrenched than ever. It was not, however, until the beginning of November, with the Japanese fighting fierce and suicidal rearguard actions against the Americans and Australians in the Pacific and an air of perhaps dangerous optimism pervading the European front, that trouble threatened at the Jordan works in Coventry, and it had, in fact, nothing to do with the national controversy but was once more a direct clash between MacKenzie and George Jordan.

  ‘George, for God’s sake.’ Allie was exasperated. ‘Why didn’t you mention this when I was with you the day before yesterday? And when will you understand that this isn’t 1850? You can’t just sack people because – oh, all right. Yes, tomorrow. No, George, I can’t get there in the morning. Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see you then.’ She cradled the phone, thoughtfully.

  Her father, sitting by the tiny, dust-choked fire, looked up from his newspaper. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘And a half, I’m afraid. A girl has been behaving badly and George has dismissed her out of hand, and the union’s up in arms. Unfortunately he’s picked one of their new women members, and it’s a heaven-sent opportunity for Alistair MacKenzie to refute the accusation that he’s biased against women in the union. He’s blotted his copybook once or twice in the past – he’s bound to make a big thing of this. Needless to say, he and George have antagonized each other to the point where negotiations have broken down entirely.’

  Her father lifted the paper again. ‘Never thought I’d see the day the AEW opened its doors to women, I must say.’

  ‘Something good had to come out of this bloody war.’ Allie perched on the arm of his chair, leaning over his shoulder, glancing at the headlines. ‘What news? Anything interesting?’

  ‘According to this, the Russians are within seventy miles of the Polish border.’

  ‘Heavens, that’s good, isn’t it? Anything else?’

  ‘The fighting in Italy’s still pretty bad. But it looks as if we’ll make it. And there are more scare stories about this secret weapon the Germans are supposed to be developing.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  Her father shrugged.

  ‘Would they be allowed to print such rumours if there were no truth in them at all? I mean – do you think the government is – well, preparing us for something?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Robert leaned back in his chair and, not for the first time, Allie noticed how these years of war were beginning to age him. He looked drawn and tired. Impulsively she laid a hand on his arm and, without turning his head, he covered it with his own. She dropped to one knee beside the chair.

  ‘Daddy?’ She hesitated. He looked at her questioningly. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. Want to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  How to say it? There could be no easy way. ‘I’m expecting a baby.’

  In the silence, a bus rattled by in the street below.

  ‘I want to keep it,’ she said.

  Still he did not speak, but the hand holding hers was firm. Allie ploughed determinedly on. ‘I’ve worked it all out. If you agree, I’d like to work up to about six weeks before it’s due—’ She held up a hand at his swift movement of protest. ‘I want to, Daddy. I’m not ill. In fact, I’m very fit indeed. I’ve had umpteen checkups. Everything’s going fine. There’s no reason why I can’t work, if you’ll allow it. After the baby – well, I haven’t quite thought that f
ar yet.’

  He made a small, helpless motion with his free hand.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Rose Jessup. Remember her? She looked after me when I was ill after – after Buzz died. Her son married again after her husband Charlie died, and young Stan’s gone to live with his new mum and her two little girls. It’s left Rose quite alone. She says she’d be pleased to come and help me. It was Sue’s idea.’ She waited for a moment for him to speak, tightening her grip on his hand. Still he said nothing. She went on, her voice stubbornly calm despite the hammering of her heart. She had not until this moment realized how much the re-establishment of her relationship with her father had meant to her. Was she about to shatter it again? ‘I thought I’d buy a cottage, somewhere near Ashdown. If you and Mother don’t mind…?’

  ‘Mind?’

  ‘My being – where people know you.’ She spoke with difficulty.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Where else could you possibly think of going?’

  She stared at him. His voice was matter-of-fact, his expression showed pure concern. What had she expected? Anger? Pain? Disgust? He turned in the chair to face her, lifted her hand in both of his. ‘Allie, darling – are you sure? About keeping the child? Do you know what it could mean? What you – and the child – might have to face?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the father?’ Robert’s voice was still quite astonishingly normal. ‘What does he have to say about it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. And I don’t want to tell him yet.’

  ‘I see.’ Her father’s face was pensive. ‘How the world has changed. Am I allowed to know who he is?’

  She had not intended to tell him – had not intended to tell anyone. Yet, somehow, she felt that he of all people had a right to know. ‘It’s Tom. Tom Robinson.’

  His look was pure astonishment; in other circumstances it might have been comical.

  ‘I love him. I can’t explain it. I just do. I don’t know how it happened—’

  To her surprise, her father laughed, gently. ‘Still trying to explain love? Allie, my dear, somewhere inside you is still, after all these years, that little girl who wants everything in black and white, everything neat, and tidy, and explainable. Don’t tell me that you haven’t discovered yet that life isn’t like that?’ He put a hand to her smooth hair. ‘Don’t worry, my darling. Everything will be all right.’

  She felt as if someone had undone a tight and tangled knot in her stomach. ‘You mean – you aren’t upset?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Of course I am. For you. For the circumstances. But I didn’t spend the best part of twenty-five years bringing you up to have a mind of your own to throw a fit when you decide to use it. Don’t you know me better than that?’

  She hugged him, wordlessly and hard for a moment, then sat back on her heels, frowning. ‘Daddy – please – don’t tell Mother about Tom? I’ll tell her about the baby, of course, but it’s best she doesn’t know – at least for a while – who the father is. She dislikes him so—’

  ‘Then it’s a pity,’ Myra said from the doorway with some asperity, ‘that you couldn’t keep your voice down. You’re quite right, Allie, I do dislike that young man. And with good reason, I begin to think.’

  Allie stood up awkwardly. ‘Mother. I thought you were resting.’

  ‘So I was.’

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Most of it.’ Myra came into the room. She still limped slightly and her movements were a little stiff as she favoured her damaged and still painful ankle. Her fair hair was fashionably swept up and away from a face that seemed to Allie to become more beautiful with each passing year. She was unsmiling.

  Nervously, Allie waited. ‘Do you mind terribly?’ she asked at last, weakly, when her mother did not speak.

  Myra lifted her head and stood perfectly still for a moment, her hand resting on the back of a tall chair. ‘May I speak plainly?’

  ‘Of course.’ Allie’s heart sank.

  ‘Yes, I mind – fairly terribly.’ Myra’s pleasant voice was quiet. ‘One cannot change one’s feelings and opinions about such things from one moment to another. An illegitimate child is no more…acceptable or excusable now than it would have been ten years ago. To me, anyway. I know the difficult circumstances. I know too – as Allie so often tells us – that the world is changing about me. I don’t have to like or agree with those changes. When this wretched war is finally over, they tell me that a new world will have emerged. Whether that world will be better than the old one I personally take leave to doubt. For myself – I have no intention of changing. Morals remain the same. Civilized behaviour remains the same. Disgrace remains the same—’

  Allie flinched. Her father moved sharply in his chair. ‘Myra!’

  Myra ignored him. She was watching her daughter, and Allie suddenly realized that the expression on her face far from matched her harsh words. ‘However, I’m not one to cry over spilt milk – and I have always been ready to recognize and applaud courage when I see it. I long ago gave up arguing with you, Allie, once your mind was made up. Once, I might have tried. Now –’ she smiled a little ‘– you’re a woman grown. Your life is your own. How may we help you?’

  Allie repeated the words blankly, like an idiot. ‘Help me?’

  ‘Well, of course.’ Myra was brisk. ‘In heaven’s name, what did you expect? That we would turn you out into the snow and tell you never to darken our doorway again?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Ridiculous. Now – from what I heard, you seem to have made a good start on planning the future. Do you need financial help?’

  ‘No. I have the money Grandmother left me, as well as my savings.’

  ‘Good. But if you do need anything, then please ask, and let’s have no silliness about that. It’s an excellent idea to have Mrs Jessup take care of you. When is the child due?’

  ‘At the end of March.’

  ‘Then you’ll leave Jordan’s at the end of January.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No “buts”. You’ll need a couple of months to get yourself settled and comfortable. Have you started looking for a house yet?’

  ‘No.’ Allie was bemused.

  ‘Then it’s time you did. You may have to rent, of course, at this short notice. We can furnish it from Ashdown, if you like. We’ll start looking at the weekend.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ Allie said meekly.

  ‘You’re sure you are well?’

  ‘Perfectly. In fact I’ve never felt better.’ And, with the weight of confession lifted from her mind, she knew it was true. Pregnancy this time had been nothing like the trial she had experienced before.

  ‘There remains, of course, just one question.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tom. I won’t question you about your reasons for not telling him now – but what will happen when he finds out, as he surely must?’

  ‘I don’t know. Truly I don’t.’

  ‘I assume that you are still –’ Myra paused, delicately ‘– friends?’ The word was imbued with an edge of distaste that brought a faint, uncomfortable flush of colour to Allie’s face.

  ‘Yes. We are. But if you’re asking if we’ll marry – I don’t know.’

  ‘I see.’ Her mother’s voice still held that slight acidity. ‘Well, we must just hope that you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Mother, I don’t blame you for not liking Tom. Heaven knows I don’t think I like him much myself from time to time, even now. But you mustn’t blame him for this. Honestly, it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. As the decision to keep the child was mine. As for marriage…’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘Truthfully, I just don’t know. About him, or about myself. We haven’t got to know each other well enough. I’m not going to force him to marry me. It simply wouldn’t be worth it in the end. We must just wait and see. The war isn’t over yet. Anything could happen. I’m not going to worry about tomorrow, about plans for the future’ – about German fighters in an Italian sky fighting a
savage rearguard action against opponents as war-weary as themselves. She did not speak the words.

  Robert stood up and put an arm lightly about his daughter’s shoulders. He was smiling at Myra in a way that softened the lovely face into an answering smile. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said.

  Myra lifted fine-plucked brows. ‘Was there ever any doubt about that?’ And Allie, happily, took the hand her mother offered.

  * * *

  Allie was not so happy the following afternoon. ‘George,’ she said, for what seemed the hundredth time, ‘I understand how you feel. Clearly the girl has behaved badly—’

  ‘Abominably,’ snapped her cousin. ‘You just met the Dexters…’

  ‘And I agree with you. Obviously we must do something about the situation. The girl can’t stay with them—’

  ‘I should damn well think not. They’re a decent, hardworking couple and they have two young grandchildren living with them. Out of the kindness of their hearts they offer this girl a home and, in return, what do they get?’ He glared at Allie as if she were personally responsible for the situation. Allie, hoping the question to be rhetorical, tried remaining silent for a moment. George waited with grim self-righteousness.