‘I was travelling by train to Liverpool to visit my dear, dear sister,’ she began, imagining an emotive scene straight out of a movie, ‘when I became ill and put myself off at the township of Rainhill. I was dizzy, sir, I had a fever and it came on me so suddenly,’ she declaimed with great emotion, enjoying the effect her words were having on her audience. They were riveted, wanting to know more.
‘I could hardly walk, Your Honour, and this man …’ she said, looking down at Billy’s hard face, ‘this man walked me to the Black Horse Inn, then plied me with alcohol until I was barely conscious.’ There was some murmuring from the gallery. ‘I was married, Your Honour, but my husband was killed recently on the Western Front, something I told this man when we met,’ she stated loudly and clearly.
‘I was sick, Your Honour—sick with grief. I was led away, filled with alcohol and I awoke the following morning in a bed, naked, with him beside me!’ More gasps and murmurs from the crowd.
Ethel took a breath and felt tears of anger threatening—she let them flow.
‘I could not leave the bed for days I was so ill.’ She covered her face with her hands and gently sobbed for a moment. She looked up at the magistrate with tear-filled eyes. ‘And I certainly did not know he was married and had children!’ She realised a moment too late that perhaps she had no need to add that last statement if she was the wronged woman, but her words created angry murmuring from the gallery at the reminder of Billy’s behaviour.
She looked at the magistrate as earnestly as she could, and implored in her proper English: ‘I have been these last two days in hospital, sir. I came here today, still unwell, to defend myself and tell my story. I have been wronged, sir—I do not know how I will ever face my family again.’
With that she sat down, her face in her hands, and sobbed. Billy sat beside her dumbstruck.
‘Thank you Miss, eh, Mrs Smith.’ The magistrate cleared his throat, looking at the pair in the defendant’s box. After what Ethel felt was a long time, he finally declared, ‘As you are no doubt the victim in this case, Mrs Smith, and in such a precarious state of health, I find the charge against you proven, but I dismiss the charge against you. You are free to go.’
‘Private William Taylor,’ he said, turning his full attention to Billy. ‘Your conduct has been nothing short of appalling, not worthy of someone serving in the King’s Army. I sentence you to gaol for six months.’
Ethel left the courthouse as quickly as she could. She never even looked as poor Billy was led away, amid howls from his wife. She was elated and relieved that she was free to go, of course, but she was also still angry with Billy. How dare he treat her like that! She had thought that they might be together—that he would have given her a ring paper—but he obviously had no such intentions. She was angry with herself as well—she’d been foolish letting him use her like that. She vowed it would never happen again.
Ethel took her purse from her bag and sadly counted out the few coins it contained. Clicking the catch closed, she looked into her handbag and slowly pulled her husband’s crumpled ring paper from the bottom. She read her name—Florence Elizabeth Ethel Carter—and thought of Alec. So much had happened in a short time. She thought of him lying somewhere dead, his mangled body unclaimed. Then she thought of her baby, who she had never even held. She couldn’t imagine bringing him up by herself—he was better off without her.
She crumpled up the ring paper and let it drop onto the pavement, then straightened her shoulders and strode off down the street.
5
MRS WARD
Barely two weeks later, on 30 December 1916, Ethel married again.
Florence Elizabeth Ethel Carter married Corporal Raymond ‘Ray’ Ward at the registry office in Old Flyde, just outside Blackpool.
Corporal Ward met the attractive war widow one night in the busy resort town of Blackpool, where he was enjoying a spell of rest and recreation leave. They were married the following day, just before he was to return to the battlefield. Ethel once again had money—a ring paper that she could draw her husband’s wage on.
She politely refused Ray’s offer to live with his parents, telling him she would wait for his return to meet them. Instead, she found a cheap room in the lodging house of a Mrs Skerratt, within walking distance of the Blackpool Promenade. Mrs Skerratt was nice enough, always complimenting Ethel on how she looked, and wasn’t intrusive, so Ethel came to look upon Mrs Skerratt more as a friend than a landlady.
Ethel had wonderful memories of her childhood holidays in Blackpool. Once a year the big cotton mills in Manchester would shut down for maintenance, for what was called ‘wakes week’, and all the staff would flock to Blackpool or Southport for a holiday. Each town or mill would take a separate week off between July and September, and the seaside towns thrived. These were happy times for Ethel—even after her little sister arrived—as there was always so much to see and do.
Now, having her own room and having to feed herself, Ethel didn’t have as much money as she would have liked, but she still dolled herself up and socialised. She was restless, and didn’t like things standing still.
She decided it was time to write to her father, to let her family know she was safe, and to ask what had become of her son. She had yet to mention baby Frank to her new husband, but Ray seemed so kind, she was sure he would welcome Frank into their family. No point telling him until he returned; she’d deal with it then.
She filled her days going to the shops, the movies and the theatre. On tour in the town at that time was a popular actress who shared her new name, Ethel Ward. Curious, Ethel took in her show at the Majestic Theatre, and watched the elegantly dressed Miss Ward on stage playing the lead role in a romantic drama. Miss Ward’s hair was piled high, with lace covering her shoulders and long neck as she played the wronged woman with style and grace. Ethel felt that was her up on that stage; it was her drama she was watching unfold, an innocent woman scorned by a cruel man, in her case Billy.
From then on she avidly followed Miss Ward’s reviews and write-ups in the newspapers. She wasn’t interested in politics and politicians, intellectuals, what was happening on the Front—she preferred the papers that covered fashion and the goings-on and gossip about famous people, rich people and movie stars. She loved reading the descriptive articles, using her imagination to read between the lines. The actress Miss Ward was based in the Midlands, and Ethel would eagerly read what dramas she was headlining in, both on and off the stage.
Then Ethel started going out at night, pretending to be the young actress, dyeing her hair chestnut and wearing it in the same style as Miss Ward. She could often be found in the company of soldiers and sailors on leave, despite her husband still being at the Front. She had always preferred the company of men, especially those who paid her a lot of attention and spent money on her.
Ethel told the men various stories about herself—she was sometimes an actress, sometimes an artist, but most often her story was that her husband had been killed at the Front and that she was there to forget; at that time Blackpool was full of people trying to forget there was a war going on.
After hearing of her husband’s death, one soldier, ironically called Smith, felt sorry enough for Ethel that before returning to battle he organised a ring paper for her, stating on it that she was his wife. Ethel conveniently forgot to mention her husband, Ray Ward, to Private Jack Smith, and now she had two lots of wages to draw on, though she would have to be careful to go to the correct post office with each.
Letters would arrive from Ray and she’d send back brief replies, filled with love and stories about how wonderful life was in Blackpool, omitting the fact that she was entertaining other men. She saw it as her duty to make them feel better and forget about the war—and besides, they looked after her.
Blackpool was busy, there was always something going on. On one occasion she even watched a pilot on leave land his plane on the main beach, before walking into one of the pubs for a drink. The hotels were still runn
ing, the restaurants were full, even with war rationing; the ballrooms played music and were filled with dancers. Even the shops had stuff on offer. Exciting things were always happening. Blackpool was the perfect place to forget.
Ethel always felt better going shopping, and it helped fuel her fantasy life—and with two ring papers to draw on, she could spend a bit more on things she wanted. Rather than move to finer lodgings, her extra money was spent on more clothes, and visits to the beautician and hairdresser. After all, she needed to look like the star she was.
But it was never enough, and soon she started telling her fantastic stories to the shop owners. One of her favourite shops was behind the Promenade, near the Winter Gardens. The owner, Mrs Hall, happily listened to her regular customer Mrs Ward, a war widow who had tragically lost her first husband, but had again found happiness with her second, a wealthy decorated army officer. Mrs Ward spent up big, and Mrs Hall did not hesitate to offer her a line of credit. Ethel loved that shop and purchased numerous outfits, hats, bags, shoes and even a bright red feather boa, just like the Hollywood actresses wore. But after racking up an account close to £20 (over $2000 in today’s money), Ethel stopped going to the shop, and Mrs Hall began to wonder if the fabulous Mrs Ward was ever going to settle her account.
One Saturday evening, at one of the classier dance halls, Mr and Mrs Hall were seated at a table close to the dance floor when a flash of red whirled past. There in the arms of a uniformed sailor was a laughing Mrs Ward, wearing the red feather boa she still hadn’t paid for. As the dancing couple made their way past the Halls’ table, Ethel gave the shop owner a quick smile. The shopkeeper glared in return and watched as the couple finished their dance and made their way to their own table, the sailor’s arm slipping comfortably over Ethel’s shoulders.
The following Monday morning, Ethel woke late. The weekend had been a whirlwind of fun—she had met a charming sailor and they had laughed and danced the entire weekend. He had left with promises of seeing her again when he was next on leave. She stretched out under the bedcovers, wondering what she would do that day, when she heard the post arrive.
Dressing with her usual care and attention, she made her way downstairs to see what was in the mail. It was usually only bills, which she would ignore for as long as possible, but today a letter sat on the doormat, bearing her father’s familiar handwriting. She scooped it up to open it, but a feeling of dread stopped her; this was real life.
She made her way to the kitchen and put the letter on the table, busying herself making a pot of tea. While waiting for the water to boil she stared at the letter. Her father would be upset with her, but he would forgive her; he always had. She could explain.
Ethel suddenly snatched the letter up, turned it over, took a deep breath, and then slowly, carefully, opened it. She pulled the single page out and started reading her father’s neat writing, covering just about every space of the frail piece of paper, but the words and letters seemed to be jumbled up, dancing before her eyes; she couldn’t believe what she was reading. She sat down at the table and forced herself to start again at the beginning. Her father was concerned about her; baby Frank was now living with her in-laws. But the one sentence that caused her the most consternation was, ‘Alec is alive.’ He had been wounded, but was in hospital, wanting to know where she was. Her father insisted she come home immediately.
Alec was alive? So many emotions raced through her—happiness, shame, anger, fear. How could he be alive? How could she face him? No—he wasn’t alive; it was her father trying to get her home. Alec was dead.
She sat down heavily at the table, and through her jumbled thoughts heard the doorbell ring. Almost in a trance she stood to go and answer it, slipping the letter back into its envelope. The doorbell rang again impatiently. Still feeling a little dazed and confused, she opened the door and to her surprise found two policemen standing on the doorstep.
‘Mrs Ward?’ the taller one asked. ‘Mrs Ethel Ward?’
Ethel stood dumbfounded. Was that her?
‘Are you Ethel Ward?’ he again asked. She could only nod.
‘You’re under arrest for obtaining goods under false pretences,’ he announced. She stood stock-still and stared at the pair of them.
‘I, uh I,’ she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry gentlemen, there must be a mistake,’ she replied.
‘You are Mrs Ethel Ward, wife of Raymond Ward?’ the constable asked again.
She nodded her head slowly, yes, she was.
‘You are under arrest for obtaining goods under false pretences from a Mrs Hall on Birley Street,’ the man said. ‘Mrs Ward, you need to accompany us to the station.’
Ethel couldn’t think of anything to say, so she again simply nodded.
‘I need to get my coat,’ she finally managed in a quiet voice. The police followed her into the house as she went into the kitchen and took the kettle off the stove, grabbing her father’s letter and turning to go up the stairs. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said, turning to them, smiling sweetly.
To her annoyance they followed her up to her room and watched as she fished her coat out from under a pile of clothes and picked up her handbag. She looked in the mirror and automatically searched out a lipstick from her bag and shakily applied it to her pale lips.
The shorter constable spoke for the first time. ‘Come on, Mrs Ward, we don’t have all day!’
Ethel looked around her messy room, then walked between the policemen as they headed back downstairs and out the front door.
The court case was all a bit of a blur to Ethel. She kept thinking about her father’s letter, which she had read and re-read while stuck in the watchhouse. The dark, cramped cell matched her mood, the grim warden she all but ignored as she gazed at her father’s handwriting trying to figure out what to do. It couldn’t be right—surely her father was mistaken. But what if he was telling the truth, and it wasn’t a ruse just to get her back home? How could she face Alec and her son?
Mrs Hall stood in court and told the story Ethel had given her, finishing her evidence by recounting the shameless behaviour she had witnessed at the Blackpool ballroom. Ethel’s landlady, Mrs Skerratt, then stood up and happily told all about Ethel’s vast array of beautiful new clothing and costume jewellery, and most damningly, men staying at her establishment in the company of Mrs Ward. Some friend she turned out to be.
Ethel sat in the dock, half listening to the magistrate, lawyer and everyone drone on about her behaviour, just wishing they would be quiet. Her arrest had made the evening papers, and everyone in the crowded courtroom seemed to be staring at her, her world closing in; she felt so let down, by Mrs Hall, Mrs Skerratt and even her own father.
Eventually Ethel was asked to stand. She pushed herself up and forced herself to listen to the magistrate. ‘Mrs Ward, you have had very little to say for yourself in this case, but your father-in-law has spoken with me,’ he stated.
Ethel stared at him, trying to hide her surprise. Her father-in-law? But Alec’s father was still at the Western Front, surely.
‘Mr Ward has assured me he will take responsibility for you and make recompense,’ he continued.
Mr Ward? Ray’s father? She quickly looked around the courtroom before the magistrate continued: ‘I will therefore place you on a two-year bond to be of good behaviour and that £10 compensation be paid to the prosecutrix Mrs Hall.’ He stopped and looked at her expectantly.
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ she blurted. She looked around the court again in confusion and waited for the magistrate to leave before she was shown out.
There, standing in the hall, was an older and slightly stooped version of her husband Ray, staring as she approached.
‘Mr Ward?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
She stood awkwardly in front of him and was unusually lost for words. He grabbed her by the elbow. ‘I need to take you home,’ he ordered, leading her out of the building. Her mind raced. She was free—but free to do what
, go where?
She stopped. ‘Mr Ward, I need to thank you for coming and helping me, but I will be fine now.’
Her father-in-law seemed to look right through her. ‘You! You have brought disrepute onto our family, young lady!’ he thundered.
Ethel didn’t know how to reply. All the time she had spent in the cells, she had been focusing on trying to explain everything to Alec and the Carter family, not Ray’s.
Mr Ward again pulled her roughly by the elbow.
‘I have the most wonderful present for Ray when he returns,’ she said suddenly. ‘It is in my rooms.’
Mr Ward stopped and stared at her in disbelief as they stood on the busy pavement.
‘Could we go and collect it?’ she asked meekly, to his grim-set face. He looked about to refuse, so she tried again. ‘And, I, I need to collect my things.’
Mr Ward sighed heavily. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Not far from here,’ she replied sweetly, feeling a little more in control. ‘I’ll show you,’ she said, walking off in front of him.
They arrived at her lodgings and Ethel let them in, glad to see Mrs Skerratt hadn’t yet returned. She made her way up the stairs, with Mr Ward senior following.
Entering her room, Ethel was conscious of the unmade bed and clothes strewn around the floor, as her father-in-law looked around in disgust. She grabbed a carpetbag, opened the wardrobe, and they both looked at her vast array of clothes.
‘You won’t fit them all in that,’ Mr Ward said in annoyance, indicating her bag. ‘Don’t you have anything bigger?’ She shook her head and looked sadly at him.
He looked at the bag, then the wardrobe and back again in exasperation. ‘You sort through them and I’ll find another bag. We won’t be able to take it all—you decide what you want to leave. I will be back shortly.’
Ethel heard him go down the stairs and the front door close. She grabbed the most expensive items and shoved them in her carpetbag, looking wistfully at all the marvellous clothes, hats, coats and shoes she would have to leave behind.
The Amazing Mrs Livesey Page 3