A Wartime Family

by Lizzie Lane

  He left her at the bottom of the steps leading to the arched doorway of Ainsley Hall after telling her to call for him at seven thirty sharp in the morning.

  It was a forty-five minute drive back to base. The rain thundered down all the way, dripping from trees and dropping like metal shot on to the roof of the car. The shiny road helped to eke out the meagre gleam from the hooded headlights.

  After parking the car, she first had to report in at Stratfield’s office – not that it would be him sitting there after six in the evening; at night Sergeant Grimsby took over.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you,’ he said before she had a chance to head for the canteen. He handed her a written note. ‘It’s from your mother.’

  He told her exactly what was written on the paper.

  ‘Shop bombed. Have to find temporary accommodation. Will move in with Daw for now. Love, Mother.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  Her head began to ache. Poor Mother. The shop had become everything to her. She’d been looking after it for Michael and would feel guilty that it had been destroyed – as though she could have done anything!

  She clutched the note, her head aching with increased tension.

  ‘I wonder …’ she said, leaning on the desk with both hands as she thought things through. ‘Do you think I could have leave to visit my mother?’

  Sergeant Grimsby opened the file in which he kept copies of the roster. ‘I don’t see why not. It all depends on whether your latest assignment wishes to swap to someone else, or insists on keeping you.’

  ‘Can you phone him? He’s at Ainsley Hall.’ Her voice pleaded. So did her eyes.

  Sergeant Grimsby took in her pretty face, the big eyes begging him to do something. He patted her hand. ‘I understand, me dear. We all have only one mother. I’ll ring right away.’

  It seemed to take an age from him placing one digit in the first number to someone answering. After that he asked to be put through to the wing commander.

  ‘Randall has asked for compassionate leave. You see her mother’s been bombed out of her accommodation …’ He paused to hear Hunter’s response. Then she heard the click of the connection being cut.

  Even before he said anything, Lizzie knew by his expression that the answer was no.

  ‘He says plenty of people have been bombed out of their homes. Everyone has to manage. You’re to report at seven thirty precisely.’

  Quaking inside, she saluted, turned and shut the door behind her. Deep breathing did nothing to quell her fury. At the sound of footsteps, she turned her head. Margot was marching briskly along the corridor and looking pleased with herself.

  ‘Guess what! I’ve done it. I’ve bagged myself a major.’ On seeing Lizzie’s expression, her own gleeful beam sagged and finally vanished. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  Lizzie explained. ‘You know what,’ she added, ‘I was really enjoying this job until he turned up. Now I’m thinking of getting a transfer closer to home. And all because of Wing Commander Guy bloody Hunter!’

  Chapter Four

  Daw was taking advantage of having her mother staying with her for a while. Mary Anne knew it but bit her tongue and said nothing. She enjoyed looking after her first grandchild. Mathilda was a joy, a little girl full of gummy smiles, coos and chuckles. Mary Anne looked after her while Daw did the queuing for rations, helped in the shop and also filled in a few hours at the air-raid warden’s post at the end of the street. The main bugbear of living over the shop was having to sleep on the settee. She was getting older and her back was telling her all about it. Besides that, Daw had stipulated it could only be temporary.

  ‘John’s coming home at Christmas, Mum, and we do like the place to ourselves,’ she said coyly. She was folding up baby clothes brought in from off the washing line and looked suddenly thoughtful. From experience, Mary Anne knew what was coming. ‘Dad’s got room. You don’t have to commit yourself. I’m sure he’d let you take things slowly—’

  ‘No!’

  Mary Anne’s response was sharp and loud – much sharper than she intended in fact. Mathilda jerked awake from her nap and began to wail.

  ‘There, there,’ said Mary Anne, and was about to pick her up but Daw pushed her aside.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ her daughter snapped, cuddling the red-faced, yelling Mathilda against her shoulder.

  Hiding her hurt, Mary Anne turned aside and began folding the washing Daw had left in a pile. It was becoming more and more apparent that her daughter was preventing her from cuddling Mathilda by way of punishment for leaving Henry her father. Daw wanted them reunited. ‘It’s where you belong,’ she kept saying.

  Her eldest daughter had never believed that her father had abused her mother. Harry and Lizzie had tried to convince her, but because she’d never seen it happen, as far as she was concerned it hadn’t happened. Henry was benign in front of his children, clever at hiding what he didn’t want them to see. But once they were alone, Mary Anne had known the darker side of his character.

  The postman came just after Daw had left to do her fire-watching duty. John’s uncle handed her the mail. ‘There’s one from our John,’ he said, a gleeful look in his eyes. ‘We’ve got one from him too. And there’s two for you, Mary Anne. I expect it’s your Lizzie and your Harry.’

  ‘I expect it is.’ She glanced at the envelopes before taking them.

  Mathilda had been given her feed and was dozing when she got back upstairs. Mary Anne put John’s letter behind the clock for Daw to read when she got home. She poured herself a cup of tea, scraped some margarine over a single slice of toast, and picked up her letters.

  She read Harry’s first and felt guilty for doing so, but she couldn’t help it. He was her son and the most likely to get injured or killed even though he was ‘doing something clerical’, as he never stopped reminding her. She knew he was doing a little more than that, but realized he was trying to spare her worries. Harry had always been a caring son – an attribute he had not inherited from his father.

  His letter was reassuring but guarded – just like the ones she’d had from Michael. She’d gone along to the burned-out remains of the shop and stuck a notice on what remained of the door advising of her forwarding address. She’d also managed to salvage a few things which were now stored in a lean-to shed behind the corner shop. The back half wasn’t as badly damaged as the front, but the smell of fire damage was suffocating.

  Lizzie’s letter told her exactly what she already knew; that she couldn’t get leave to see her for a few weeks yet. She wasn’t allowed to say why – obviously because loose talk could betray secrets – but she did say that she wasn’t enjoying the job as much as she had been.

  But don’t worry, Mum. Chin up. I’ll be there when I can.

  Mary Anne folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Her eyes glazed over as she looked around the tiny room. The window was small, the curtains red and yellow. The wallpaper was speckled and scattered with red leaves. Daw had done her best with what she had, and at present she had more than her mother did. It was her nest, her little home, and Mary Anne was beginning to feel uncomfortable there.

  She tried to persuade herself that she was just imagining that Daw was trying to get her back with Henry. She shook her head. Times were hard and living with her daughter wasn’t easy. A few more days, that was all she could allow herself. And of course there was Stanley to think about.

  After washing her cup and saucer in the tiny sink in the corner of the room, she dressed Mathilda and strapped her into the pushchair. Tying a sack full of things she’d rescued from the pawn shop – mostly old clothes she had no use for – she set out for a walk. The Red Cross shop in the high street would welcome the stock. From past experience, she knew they would also probably force some wool on to her, begging her to knit socks, mittens or balaclavas ‘for our gallant troops’.

  Parking the pushchair outside, she undid the sack from the handlebar and took it into the shop. A woman with
wide hips and wearing some kind of uniform beamed at her as she entered.

  ‘All donations gratefully accepted, my dear,’ she said. Her no-nonsense attitude was well meaning but overpowering.

  Mary Anne had expected the sack to be snatched from her immediately. But no, this was Gertrude Palmer. Of good family and name, Gertrude was a well known organizer. If anyone wanted a team of middle-class women to get things done, it was Gertrude who recruited and organized. What she lacked in height she made up for in width, carrying a stout bosom before her and an exceptional rear behind. Short hair clung tightly to her head. Her clothes were good quality but not fashionable. Like the wearer, they were neither fluffy nor frilly.

  She called to someone at the back of the shop. ‘Daisy! Come and take this. You and Edith can sort it and iron where necessary.’

  She wrinkled her nose as she opened and inspected the contents. ‘Ooow! Smells a bit burned.’

  ‘My shop burned down during a raid, but I’d thought you’d still be glad of it.’

  Gertrude’s frown turned to a breezy smile. ‘How very dreadful for you. Never mind. Daisy?’ She turned to the volunteer she’d summoned from the back of the shop. ‘Wash it first, then iron it. But be careful with the water and keep beneath regulations if possible. Two inches is quite adequate.’

  Mary Anne hid a knowing smile. Gertrude had a will of iron when it came to rules and regulations. She could almost imagine her using a ruler to measure the depth of water in her bath before stepping in.

  Before she could leave, Gertrude caught hold of her arm. ‘Can you knit, dear?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Take this.’ Gertrude handed her a brown carrier bag with string handles. ‘Socks, mittens and balaclavas and the odd jumper wouldn’t come amiss.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Of course you will, dear. Bring them in when you can.’

  Protesting was out of the question. Gertrude had already turned her attention to someone inspecting a black velvet hat with purple feathers.

  Mary Anne smiled as she shut the shop door behind her – but not for long. Surely she had left the pushchair to the right of the door? Perhaps not. She looked to the left. No pushchair. No Mathilda. Panic gripped her. Dropping the carrier bag, she darted up and down the pavement, terror gripping her heart. She searched the length of the street, looked across the road, then walked up and down it between the morning traffic.

  ‘Mathilda!’

  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! As if a baby could call back! Where was she?

  She saw the policeman long before he saw her and ran towards him. ‘Someone’s taken my granddaughter! Please help! Please!’

  ‘Now, now, madam. Calm down. Tell me it from the beginning.’

  The policeman had kindly eyes and white whiskers – one of those called back in from retirement at the outbreak of war. She couldn’t think straight. She certainly couldn’t be calm.

  Her legs must have suddenly gone weak because he seemed to grow taller. He caught her by her shoulders before she crumpled to the ground.

  Having seen what was happening from inside the shop, Gertrude Palmer came to the rescue, holding a cane chair before her. ‘Here’s a chair. Sit her on this.’

  The policeman obeyed. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me what happened. You say you left your granddaughter in her pushchair outside a shop.’

  Mary Anne nodded.

  ‘And which shop was this?’

  Gertrude answered for her. ‘This shop, of course. I saw her arrive.’

  ‘Right. And at what time?’

  ‘No more than twenty minutes ago.’ Gertrude replied.

  The policeman patted her hand. ‘Now, don’t worry, me dear. It could be just kids playing a prank. That’ll be all it is. Leave it to me. I’ll take a walk around and see if I can see her. If I don’t find her, I’ll blow me whistle and get some help.’

  ‘Daisy! Edith! Henrietta!’

  Gertrude was holding the shop door open. Her three assistants came rushing at her call.

  ‘This lady has lost her granddaughter. She was in a pushchair—’

  ‘A cream-coloured pushchair with chrome wheels,’ Mary Anne interjected.

  ‘A cream-coloured pushchair with chrome wheels,’ Gertrude repeated. ‘Now hurry up and find it. Whoever’s taken it can’t have got far. And run,’ she added when it seemed as though they might only stroll. Her three assistants scurried off in three different directions.

  ‘A nice cup of sweet, strong tea is in order.’

  ‘I could do with one,’ said the police sergeant.

  Gertrude threw him a sour look. ‘I was referring to this lady. It’s her that’s in shock.’

  He looked crestfallen.

  Gertrude partially relented. ‘You’re welcome to a cup, Sergeant, once you’ve found the baby.’

  ‘Of course!’

  He sounded as though he’d been fatally wounded, but he went to do his duty, striding off down the street, looking over the crowds for some sign of the missing pushchair.

  ‘You’d better come inside, dear,’ said Gertrude.

  Gently but firmly, Mary Anne was taken back into the shop, the chair hanging over Gertrude’s free arm.

  Tea was poured from a steaming brown pot. After two sugars and milk had been added, the cup and saucer were forced into Mary Anne’s shaking hands.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gertrude.

  ‘I can’t help it. I keep thinking the worst might have happened. Perhaps some woman who can’t have children might have taken her. And then what do I do? What will my daughter say if that’s happened?’

  ‘It won’t have happened,’ said Gertrude. ‘Just because a woman can’t have children doesn’t mean she steals them off the street. I certainly wouldn’t.’

  Gertrude’s voice had softened. Mary Anne looked into the kind, grey eyes and instantly understood.

  Gertrude smiled. ‘Quite right, dear. I can see you’ve guessed.’ She sighed. ‘Percival and I were never blessed. But …’ She straightened and slapped her hip. ‘We both found other things in life to fill our time and take pride in. Helping those less fortunate than us, whoever and wherever they may be. That’s our creed. Ah!’ she said, looking suddenly straight at the window. ‘My troop has triumphed. They’ve found her!’

  Mary Anne leapt from her chair as the women and pushchair bundled into the shop.

  ‘Mathilda!’

  Her granddaughter was sound asleep, pink face against white cotton pillow.

  ‘She was outside Reynolds, the biscuit shop,’ said the woman called Edith, a lady with honey-coloured streaks in her hair and a twinkle in her eye. If anyone ever stood up to the overbearing Gertrude, she was the one most likely.

  Mary Anne’s attention was focused on Mathilda. She wanted to check her all over to make sure she was unharmed.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Edith, smiling up into her face.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Mary Anne. ‘Did you see who did it?’

  Edith shook her head. ‘No.’

  Mary Anne frowned. ‘But why?’

  The police sergeant had heard the news and joined them. ‘Just kids,’ he said with an air of having experienced the very worst of what youngsters could do.

  She could do nothing but accept he was right. There was no other explanation.

  Henry Randall dragged his pint mug towards him, lifted it up and took a long, deep draught. His hard eyes closed as he savoured the deeply satisfying taste of hops and barley. He took a breath, then knocked back the last mouthful. As he returned the glass to the bar, he licked the remnants from his lips then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The Lord Nelson was his favourite pub. It had a high ceiling and big windows. The bottom half of the windows was opaque, a mix of dimpled and coloured glass set in lead. The top half was clear and afforded quite a good view. The best view was of the Red Cross shop along a bit. Mary Anne was always in and out of the place. Knowing her she’d probably enrol as a volunteer bef
ore long. He smiled. Best thing she could do; easier than ever to keep tabs on her.

  ‘A great pint, Jim,’ he said to the ashen-haired man behind the bar. ‘I’ll have another.’

  Jim took his glass and began to refill it. As he did so, his eyes wandered enquiringly to Henry’s ruddy face. ‘I thought you’d signed the pledge, Henry. Tea only. Teetotal!’

  Henry shoved the money across the bar, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid pouring from the brass tap. ‘A hard-working man deserves a pint or two.’

  ‘That’s three you’ve had, Henry.’

  ‘And I’ve money for three more – maybe six.’

  The landlord chuckled. ‘I didn’t think you being teetotal would last for long.’

  Henry smiled. ‘Well you know how it is with women, Jim. If it looks as though you are putting yourself out for them, they’ll coming running in the end. They can’t resist. It’s a well known fact.’

  Jim poured himself a half and joined him, elbows leaning on the polished mahogany bar top. ‘I thought the best advice was to beat ’em and bed ’em.’

  ‘That too,’ laughed Henry, raising his beer in a toast. ‘That too. Keep ’em guessing. Keep ’em on their toes, show ’em how frightening life can be and in the end they’ll come running back!’

  Chapter Five

  That’s one thing you can say about Patrick Kelly, thought Lizzie. He writes a good letter on a regular basis, and they’re always interesting.

  Her eyes followed his well-formed writing.

  Can’t tell you where they’re thinking of sending me, but let’s put it this way, I won’t be needing long underwear. Rumour has it that I’ll get some leave before I go. So be ready for me.

  Lizzie smiled. Patrick had willingly joined the Royal Air Force along with Daw’s husband, John. He went on to say that both John and he were coming home on leave together. Her application for leave was already in place. She might not be able to have Christmas leave, but she had managed to get a few days before. She’d be sad to miss Christmas, but was glad the boys were getting the whole time off. They were the ones doing the real work and deserved to have a rest.