A Wartime Family

by Lizzie Lane

  She folded up the letter and slid it into her breast pocket. As usual, she had picked Wing Commander Hunter up at seven thirty that morning. Since he’d arrived she’d been ordered to pick him up at the same time every morning. Each day, she’d open the car door for him, he’d tell her where they were going, and that would be it. He never indulged in small talk, never asked her how she was, and never mentioned what he was doing at each of the airfields or other places he visited. And she never asked. Since the time he’d refused her leave to see her mother following the destruction of the pawn shop, she had been as cool towards him as he was towards her.

  She was presently sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for him to return from a morning briefing at a Bomber Command air base. The moment he got back to the car he would tell her where to go next. As they drove he would spend some time writing in a notebook. All they shared was the interior of the car. Meal times seemed not to exist for Guy Hunter, and so they did not exist for her. Although her stomach rumbled, she abstained and was therefore always starving by the time she got back to Lavenham. Margot would have saved her something from the mess, which she’d guzzle down before falling into bed.

  The last base they were visiting today had an air of expectancy about it. Twilight was fading into night and the moon was rising over the tin roofs of the nissen huts. In the diminishing light, she could see people moving in the control tower, black figures silhouetted against the silvery sky. The blackout was total, and there was not even a Christmas tree light to see by.

  A roar of engines had heralded the take off of bombers some minutes earlier. She wasn’t quite sure why Guy Hunter didn’t fly. Some wing commanders liked to keep their hand in, but he seemed more interested in writing copious notes, as though he were researching or planning something for the future. Quite possible, she supposed. Someone had to do it.

  She got out to stretch her legs, paid a visit to the women’s lavatories and had a quick word and a puff of a cigarette with a member of the ground crew.

  ‘I wonder who’ll get it tonight,’ she said to him between grateful puffs.

  ‘You mean besides us?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  He pointed. ‘Look at it. That’s a bomber’s moon. We’ll give the enemy a bit of a pasting alright, but our boys had better watch it. The targets on the ground will be well lit up, but on the other hand, so will they.’

  Lizzie put out her cigarette. ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘You driving for that chap Hunter?’ He made a clicking sound through the side of his mouth, as though he greatly approved. ‘A real war hero. DFC, DSO and bar and God knows what else. Brought his plane in on one engine and didn’t get out until his crew had. Carried one of them out on his back. Heck of a bloke. Canadian, ain’t he?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘You gotta watch these colonials, mind. They do like the girls.’ He winked. ‘I bet a pretty girl like you knows that already, yes?’

  ‘No.’

  A clock chimed on a far distant steeple, its sound easily heard over the flat East Anglian fields.

  Lizzie glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, shucks!’

  After thanking her companion for the cigarette, she walked briskly back to the car. At no time did she break into a run. Hunter brought out the stubborn in her, doubly so now she was convinced he didn’t fancy her. She’d gleaned something of his character. She intended getting back to the car before he did. The wing commander was a stickler for time and expected her to be standing there by the passenger door, waiting for him.

  Tonight she was late. She prayed he’d been held up.

  My prayers fell on deaf ears, she thought as she rounded the corner of a brick building. She saw a dark figure walking towards the car. He was bound to get there before she did. ‘Oh, crumbs,’ she groaned. A ticking-off was likely; some withdrawing of privileges, perhaps of leave.

  Please, not leave! Her groan of frustration turned to teeth-grinding despair.

  She badly wanted to get back to Bristol and see how her mother was faring. Living with Daw must be a nightmare.

  Hunter was standing next to the car looking for her. She slowed and clenched her jaw. The nerve of the man; he was waiting for her to open the door for him. Open the door yourself, you hopeless colonial! she thought, but as usual the comment remained locked inside her head.

  Maintaining an air of defiance, she opened the door.

  ‘Lavenham,’ he barked, sliding into the back seat.

  He didn’t look at her, but immediately got out his notebook and began scribbling.

  What was in that notebook? What was he writing down?

  She started the engine and headed back to Lavenham and Ainsley Hall.

  On the way back to his billet, it was his habit to stop in Lavenham High Street. Every night was the same: park the car and wait for him. She’d watch him stride over the cobbles. He’d pause here and there, perhaps to admire one of the old, timber-framed houses, some of which leaned precariously against their neighbours. Eventually he would duck his head beneath an oak beam and enter the Swan, an ancient hostelry of bulging walls and a thick, thatched roof. Tonight was no exception.

  Lizzie sighed and settled into the warm leather of her seat. Her stomach rumbled on cue. She wondered whether the Swan offered anything to eat. Some of these old inns offered bed and board. It certainly looked big enough to do so.

  Hunter wouldn’t like it if he saw her sneaking off, but she was starving! She surveyed the length of the old building. What if there were a back entrance where she could sneak in and ask for a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese? Her stomach rumbled encouragement.

  ‘Dammit!’ she muttered under her breath.

  She swung her legs out of the car, careful not to snag her army-issue stockings. They were thick and of the type grannies wore. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of silk stockings, or even the new nylon range. Sheer luxury!

  The street was deserted, the moon outlining the cobbles, houses and nearby church tower with a slim line of silver.

  She moved cautiously along the front of the inn and around the side. Small windows looked out over a side garden and yard. There were dustbins and pig bins. The latter gave off the recognizable pong of food waste. The pigs had to eat. Nothing was wasted in this war.

  A sliver of light showed from beneath the ill-fitting back door. No doubt the blackout curtain was a little short. She would point it out to them. They’d be much obliged and might even insist she stayed and ate something, she thought.

  They did exactly that.

  ‘What do you do then?’ asked the landlady when Lizzie had got herself settled.

  ‘I’m a driver. Mostly I just sit and wait.’

  ‘For ’im in the bar?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her stomach chose that moment to churn like a tractor engine. Everyone heard it. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast,’ she explained.

  The landlady gasped. ‘That’s terrible. I shall be ’avin’ a word with that man!’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Lizzie, seeing her leave evaporating at the thought of it.

  A little while later a plate of freshly made bread, local cheese and butter was placed in front of her.

  ‘You get that down you,’ said the landlady, and Lizzie instantly obeyed. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Soon her stomach stopped rumbling.

  ‘Something to drink?’

  Lizzie swallowed the crust of bread she’d been chewing, aware that her lips were smeared with butter. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind …’

  Half a pint of pale-green cider was poured from a wooden barrel. Lizzie eyed the pea-soup colour with some misgiving and deftly took a sniff of it before she sipped.

  She checked her watch. Hunter was a man of habit. Another ten minutes and he’d be back in the car.

  ‘I have to go,’ said Lizzie getting up from the wooden stool she’d been sitting on.

  ‘Of course, me dear.’

  ‘Can you settle my cur
iosity before I go?’

  The landlady had a broad face that broadened further when she smiled. ‘If I can.’

  ‘What does he do in there?’

  ‘Drinks two pints.’

  ‘Does he meet anyone?’ She’d thought perhaps that was why he insisted on being there by a certain time. She’d surmised that someone – a woman of course – might be waiting for him.

  The landlady shook her head. ‘No. He’s a bit of a loner. Doesn’t talk much except to order drinks and bread and cheese. Just like you, though ’e likes pickles as well.’

  ‘He eats?’

  Lizzie could hardly believe her ears. She was livid. The blasted man ate and drank inside while she waited in the cold dreaming of her evening meal!

  Anger warmed her cheeks despite the chill evening air. Grim faced, she marched back to the car, her fists clenched. She wanted to punch him – impossible of course, as it was probably a court-martialling offence. She must fix her thoughts on going on leave. She must!

  She sat in the car seething, waiting for him to appear.

  A small chink of light showed as Hunter opened the door and shrugged aside the blackout curtain. She got out and stood ready to open the rear passenger door.

  Instead of getting into the car, he paused and looked directly at her. ‘Are you feeling better, Randall?’

  His question caught her off guard. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your bread and cheese. Did it fill a gap?’

  She felt herself blushing. He’d found her out. ‘Yes, sir. It did.’

  ‘That’s fine, but just make sure your dining out doesn’t interfere with your duties. I might have needed to leave quickly.’

  This was too much for Lizzie. Suddenly she didn’t care if she got put on a charge. ‘Sir, I’ve had nothing to eat since six this morning. I might have got so faint you’d have to have driven yourself!’

  She could see from his expression that she’d offered too much information. He hadn’t asked her when she’d last eaten. She should know better than to give anything more than the basic facts.

  ‘Is that insubordination I hear in your voice, Randall?’

  She couldn’t find it in herself to back down. ‘No. Just information. An army marches on its stomach and I drive on mine. A little consideration wouldn’t come amiss!’

  The moment it was out, she knew she’d gone too far. Her stomach tightened so much, she was sure it was stuck to her spine. She waited for the consequences: a charge, loss of leave, perhaps even a posting to somewhere she didn’t want to go.

  The moon did something to his face. The firm jaw seemed to slacken, though it was hard to tell in such a light.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  He got into the car. She shut the door and slid back into the driving seat. In the rear-view mirror she saw him pause before reaching for his pen and notepad. His eyes met hers.

  Lizzie considered what could happen if he did report her and the thought made her gulp. ‘I apologize for being insubordinate, sir.’

  ‘No need to. I was partly at fault – just partly, mind you. I assumed you use the mess.’

  She noted that he didn’t apologize.

  ‘No, sir. I’m back too late. All the best is gone, and seeing as I have to pick you up early, I usually skip breakfast. I don’t like eating that early.’

  He nodded slowly as though he were thinking things through. ‘My fault, but I figure I’ve made up for my shortcoming in more ways than one.’

  Her response was out before she could stop it. ‘Why’s that, sir? Sorry, sir. I’ve got no business asking—’

  ‘They charged me for your bread and cheese.’ He dropped his eyes to his notepad. ‘Drive on.’

  ‘Oh!’ She paused. ‘If you’d allow me to pay you, sir.’

  His head jerked up from his notes. He looked surprised. ‘No need, Randall. No need at all.’ His eyes returned to the paperwork.

  Lizzie smiled. One up to her and no mention of her leave being postponed.

  ‘Shall I see you in the morning, sir?’

  ‘No,’ he said, then got out of the car, walked up the steps and disappeared behind the heavy oak door.

  Only the knowledge that she wasn’t far from her bed kept her eyes open as she drove back to her cosy billet above the stables. But before she collapsed into bed she first reported to the adjutant.

  ‘You’re not required any more,’ Charlie Grimsby said when she looked into his office.

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘No. You must have blotted your copy book.’

  Lizzie thought of the bread and cheese and smiled. ‘I must have done.’

  She left the adjutant’s office still smiling. What did she care? She was going on leave in two days and was looking forward to it.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Mrs Randall!’

  Mary Anne was ironing and Daw was folding pillowcases when John’s uncle came hammering at the door. On opening it, she found him standing there restlessly, his eyes round with shock.

  ‘Your things, Mrs Randall. They are thrown all over the place.’

  Mary Anne rushed down the stairs and out into the yard. Things she’d rescued from the pawn shop – sheets, clothes and shoes – were thrown haphazardly all over the place. Fingers covering her mouth, she ran over the flinty yard. Whoever had done this had not been content with just throwing her things around. Footprints blackened by coal dust had trodden some items into the puddles. Although not quite ruined, everything would need laundering, which was a tremendous task given the number of things strewn around.

  ‘Vandals,’ said John’s uncle, shaking his head as he patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. We will soon clean this up.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s my fault.’

  He shrugged and spread his hands in the dramatic way he used daily. ‘How can you be? It is us this is aimed at, me and my darling Maria. We are Italians. People around here know we are Italians and despite us living in this country for years, they see us as the enemy.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He shrugged again. ‘It is not your fault. It is I who must apologize. These are your things.’ He gestured at the ruined cottons, linens and tapestry prints.

  Mary Anne began picking things up and a thought occurred to her. Only the family knew she’d rescued a little of the stock and stored it here. One thought followed another and her hands started to shake.

  ‘Just kids all the same,’ John’s uncle was saying.

  Auntie Maria, his wife, was less forgiving. ‘Wait till I get my hands on them. I’ll give them such a wallop.’

  ‘Not kids.’

  They both looked at her.

  ‘Not kids,’ she repeated, her voice trembling as much as her hands.

  ‘Then who …?’

  ‘I can guess who,’ she said, lowering her voice.

  They waited for her to enlighten them, but she did not do so. In her heart she felt a bitter anger. Henry! It had to be Henry.

  He’d tried soft-soaping her to get her back, telling her he was a changed man and would never hit her again. She’d rejected every plea he’d made. Michael had made her happy, and with Michael she would stay.

  ‘Look,’ she said, holding up a white sheet complete with a size-ten boot print. ‘Call this a child-sized foot print?’

  No one met the accusation in her eyes! Even Daw, who continually fought her father’s case, did not deny the likelihood that he could be responsible for this.

  ‘Your father’s quite capable of something like this,’ said Mary Anne in a brief burst of accusation. White faced, Daw just shook her head.

  ‘Wait till I see him,’ her mother muttered into the sheet. Raising her head, her eyes blazing with anger, she repeated the same words to her daughter. ‘You tell him that,’ she said, more strident now. ‘You tell him that I’ll be round to see him. You make sure you do.’

  Just then a series of firm knocks came from the shop door.

  ‘We’re closed,’
Auntie Maria shouted in response, but the knocking continued.

  She marched off, crossing herself and asking the dear Lord why she couldn’t have some peace on her afternoon off. The knocking stopped and she wasn’t long coming back. A big smile was spread all over her face.

  ‘It’s your Lizzie,’ she said to Mary Anne. ‘She’d gone by the time I got there, but—’

  ‘Gone!’ Mary Anne dashed past her, a satin slip – slightly muddy – fluttering over her arm.

  ‘She’s only down the road,’ Auntie Maria called after her. ‘She wanted to see the place where the old house used to be.’

  Mary Anne heard. Although December had gripped the air with icy fingers, she felt warm. Lizzie was home. She could see her standing on the pavement, studying the bombed-out ruins of what had once been their home. Six houses had been hit that day, and theirs was one. Biddy Young’s was another. Luckily no one had been in either of the houses. Only Mr and Mrs Crawford in number fifteen had refused to go to the shelter. They’d both been in their eighties; one bedridden and one hard of hearing. ‘If Hitler wants me, he’ll have to come and get me. I won’t be up for any fighting, that’s for sure,’ old Mr Crawford had said.

  Seeing Lizzie was like seeing a mirror image of herself, but younger, her slim body enveloped in an ill-fitting uniform. Mary Anne’s heart skipped a beat. Her little girl had become a young woman and liable to make the same mistakes she had. She remembered Peter Selwyn Kendall, son of Lizzie’s former employer, and prayed it would not be so.

  ‘Lizzie!’

  Lizzie turned round. ‘Mum!’

  They threw their arms around each other. Their affection was and always had been totally spontaneous. They had the same elegance, the same hair colouring – although Mary Anne’s was a little faded with the years.

  For a moment they stood silently looking at the bombed-out ruins.