A Wartime Family

by Lizzie Lane

Lizzie spoke first. ‘It seems an age since we lived here.’

  ‘I take it you went to the pawn shop first?’ Mary Anne said wryly. She’d written to Lizzie telling her what had happened.

  Lizzie nodded. ‘The bus stopped there. It made me cry to see it. An incendiary, I suppose.’

  ‘Apparently not, according to the fireman. He reckoned there were none dropped that night and put the blame on looters.’

  Lizzie frowned. ‘You mean they start fires deliberately?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She didn’t mention what the policeman had said about Lizzie’s brother, Harry. They both knew he had shady friends and moved in dangerous circles, but blaming those with no connection to their family lay easier on her conscience.

  Lizzie looked into her mother’s face. ‘Have you told Michael?’

  ‘Yes. He was very upset and is due leave, but says he’s too busy to come right now. He’s left me to do what I think best.’

  ‘I see.’ And Lizzie did see. She could see the barely concealed disappointment lurking in her mother’s eyes. She had fallen passionately in love with Michael, enough to make her leave her husband for good. There was about a fifteen-year age gap between them, and Lizzie had always thought they’d surmounted that particular obstacle with ease. But had they? Was her mother worrying that Michael might never come back? That he’d found somebody else, perhaps someone younger? She decided it would be unwise to broach the subject. Let it be for now. Let everyone be happy. Smiling, she hugged her mother’s arm close to her side. ‘Well, go on, Mother. Tell me all the gossip.’ Together they began to walk back to the shop.

  ‘There’s not much to tell – at least, not from around here.’

  Lizzie detected the sudden nervous dip in her mother’s voice. ‘Has our Daw been on at you?’

  Mary Anne shook her head. Her eyes met those of her favourite daughter. It was wrong to have favourites. She’d told herself that a hundred times. But it couldn’t be helped. She and Lizzie were chalk and chalk. She and Daw were definitely chalk and cheese.

  Lizzie’s smile stayed in place, but lessened. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Well, she wants me out before John comes home on leave at Christmas. Only natural of course … And then there’s our Stanley. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! You’re not thinking of going back to Dad, are you?’

  Mary Anne looked down at the ground.

  Lizzie was flabbergasted. ‘You’re not!’

  It was never easy to share inner thoughts and secrets, and very difficult when there were so few people to share them with. One thing they all knew and accepted was that her family came first.

  She slipped back into the old habit of making excuses. ‘I suppose I’m feeling a little down. Nothing seems to be going right just lately. I was brought up in a time when a wife was expected to stay with her husband no matter what.’

  ‘Times have moved on,’ said Lizzie, stressing each word like a school teacher determined to steer her pupil through the test. ‘We’re living in troubled times. People are grabbing happiness where they can, despite the consequences. You Shouldn’t be feeling guilty. Not now.’

  Mary Anne studied her daughter, the steadfast eyes, the confident chin. Who is this woman? she thought. A fire burned in her daughter’s eyes. Had it been there before and she merely hadn’t seen it? Or was it new?

  She turned away, not wanting to face the fact that Lizzie was very much following her own dictates. She wondered if there was another man.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she said, glad of the chill air on her face.

  ‘Something will turn up – and anyway, will you really miss our Daw that much?’

  ‘She’s not the easiest person to live with.’ It was a sad thing to admit to, but Daw could be a bit overpowering at times. ‘I’ll miss Mathilda though.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  Mary Anne bit her lip. The thought of not seeing her granddaughter so often was the hardest thing to bear. She’d got used to doing things for and with her. The child was a joy, far more amiable than her mother had been at the same age.

  Lizzie noticed. ‘What else, Mother? You look worried.’

  Arm in arm now, they stood before the house, sometimes looking at the tumbled bricks, and sometimes looking at each other.

  ‘I’m not getting daft in my dotage – in fact I don’t think I’m quite in my dotage yet – but the other day I took Mathilda out in the pushchair and I lost her. I left her outside the Red Cross shop whilst I popped in with some items they could make use of, and when I got back outside, she was gone. I found her, of course – or at least the ladies from the Red Cross found her. And then today …’

  She went on to tell Lizzie about the shed being broken into and about the things she’d saved from the stock being found scattered and dirty all over the yard. Not to mention the shop being damaged beyond repair.

  ‘And you think Dad did it?’

  ‘Who else?’ Mary Anne’s expression darkened. ‘I’m going round there to tackle him about it. I can get a tram to the centre and then another to Barton Hill.’

  ‘There you are then. Fancy even considering going back with him!’

  Girls turning a skipping rope parted as the two women passed by. The breeze blew colder, blowing Mary Anne’s hair across her face. Her hand shook as she pushed it back behind her ear. Lizzie noticed it.

  ‘Mum …’

  ‘No comments about my nerves, please. Yes, things are getting to me. But I’ll get through it. You just see if I don’t.’

  Lizzie withheld what she was going to say about her mother visiting a doctor or taking some rest. She certainly wouldn’t get much rest living with Daw, that was for sure.

  ‘What about moving in with Biddy? Doesn’t she have a house to herself?’

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘She did have. Apparently she had to move out to make way for a family that got bombed out at the beginning of December. They’re asking a lot of people to double up and take people in. Biddy didn’t want to stay there, so got moved into the ground floor rooms in the same house as your father. He’s got the upper floor.’

  Lizzie looked shocked. ‘I bet me dad wasn’t too pleased about that!’

  ‘I doubt it too. I saw her the other day. She was visiting her sister down in the Chessels. She was telling me that she’s got the downstairs rooms, and he’s upstairs. She made a point of telling me that there was no funny business going on, mind you.’

  Lizzie grimaced. ‘Did she now! I wouldn’t put it past her. I know she’s your friend, but you know what a trollop she can be. Goodness. I wonder how long they’ll be living there.’

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘Who knows? Everyone has to make do with what they can get and crowd in where they can. Stanley’s there too.’

  She looked back along the street to the corner shop. Its windows were half covered with adverts for Fry’s Cocoa, Cherry Blossom boot polish, and Colman’s mustard. A mist was rising from The Cut and drifting inland along with its nefarious smell of stale mud and old drains.

  ‘So you have to find somewhere else to live,’ said Lizzie, following the direction of her gaze. ‘What about Harry’s flat?’

  ‘Edgar’s there.’

  ‘Oh!’

  The two women fell to silence. Both knew how it was with Harry, but it wasn’t a subject they felt comfortable discussing – even with each other. Two men living with each other as brothers was one thing, but Harry and Edgar were closer than that, closer than friends.

  Mary Anne turned to her daughter as a sudden thought occurred to her. ‘Where are you staying, Lizzie?’

  When Lizzie smiled, deep dimples appeared in her cheeks. ‘Above the Lord Nelson in East Street.’

  ‘That’s opposite the Red Cross shop.’

  ‘Is it? I suppose it is. I suppose you could come there with me. We’d have to share a bed of course, but it’s better than nothing.’

&nbs
p; ‘I’m going to have to do something – at least for the short term. Daw wants John and her to have their place to themselves. I can’t say I blame her. We all need a place of our own. And then there’s our Stanley to consider.’

  Lizzie eyed her mother. The expression in her eyes was hidden, and yet she guessed what her mother was thinking.

  ‘I won’t offer you a penny for your thoughts; there’s too many of them. Number one, you’re wondering when or whether Michael will come back. Number two, you’re considering moving back in with Dad for our Stanley’s sake. You mustn’t think like that, Mum.’ Lizzie squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Michael will come back. And you don’t love Dad. You love Michael.’

  Mary Anne raised her eyes and looked at her daughter. ‘Is that enough? I’ve grown older since he’s been away. He may have met someone, someone younger who doesn’t have a grown-up family.’

  Lizzie was adamant. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head so vehemently that her hat nearly flew off. ‘Don’t even say that. He’ll be back, Mother. He’ll be back.’

  Deep in conversation, they’d hardly noticed that they were stopped by the pile of rubble that used to be Biddy’s house. Both fell to silence, eyeing the upstairs fireplace on the party wall of what had once been the bedroom.

  It was Lizzie who broke the silence. ‘I suppose Daw’s put the kettle on.’

  ‘I expect so. She’ll be glad to see you.’

  It could never be taken as read that Daw would be pleased to see anyone, but Mary Anne told herself that it would be so. Two sisters together.

  Lizzie’s chatter returned to normal. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing little Mathilda again. It seems an age since I saw her last.’

  They turned and strolled back towards the little shop where the goods were spread out to make it look as though they had more in stock than was actually the case. They still had lots to talk about, but for the moment each was lost in thought. At last Lizzie said, ‘Let me speak to Dad, Mum. I promise I won’t lose my temper. I’ll put things simply but honestly. Leave it to me. Don’t go round there yourself. Promise?’

  Mary Anne looked at her beautiful daughter. Unbidden, a terrible fear took hold of her – not fear of Lizzie getting killed or maimed in this dreadful war, but fear that she too might end up marrying the wrong man. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks. ‘I’ll promise you something as long as you promise me something in return.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘If I have to promise, I will. Yes.’

  ‘Promise me that you’ll only marry a man who’s good to you.’

  Lizzie gazed at her mother, wondering what secrets she held that she had never told. Her father, Henry Randall, had treated her mother badly. And yet her mother was an intelligent woman, so why hadn’t she married a man who was good to her? She decided not to ask any questions. Her mother’s past life was her own, and she should talk about it only if she really wanted to.

  You’re taking the coward’s way out, she told herself. But she wouldn’t admit to that and other secrets, not to her mother. Instead her laughter was light and lit up her face. ‘Never fear, Mother. I’ll end up with someone safe and sound. I suppose Patrick’s at the top of that particular list.’

  Mary Anne sighed with relief. ‘Good.’ Patrick had endured an awful upbringing by a mother who’d had more men friends than hot dinners. Patrick hadn’t had too many hot dinners at all. He’d grown up scrawny and scruffy, but Lizzie had become his friend. At the outbreak of war they became more than that. Patrick was good to Lizzie and in Mary Anne’s opinion they were made for each other. This news couldn’t have come at a better time.

  All the same, why was Lizzie looking towards the mist rising from The Cut? Was there something in her eyes she didn’t want her own mother to see? Mary Anne dismissed her concern. Her daughter had always been sensible. She wasn’t the type to bring trouble home.

  They both rubbed their hands together as they passed from the chill of the street and into the warmth of the shop. Cries of welcome reverberated around the back room as tea was poured and sandwiches and home-made cake were passed round.

  Neither woman had noticed the lone figure watching them from behind the broken timbers of a bombed-out house. But he saw them and hated them for being a family, for being happy, and for having each other.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Patrick, you look a picture.’

  ‘In that case, Mrs Randall, I’m a failure. I was hoping I looked like a first-class aircraftsman!’

  Patrick had come looking for Lizzie at the Lord Nelson pub after travelling up from a fighter station on the south coast. Like her he’d acquired a temporary room; unlike her, his lodgings were above a chip shop.

  ‘Not that they’ve got much fish at the moment and not too many chips,’ he said ruefully. ‘Lovely smell though.’

  In her son’s absence, Patrick’s mother had let his room out to lodgers and was making a pretty packet, an amount of money she had no wish to lose simply because he was back. Not that he was too inclined to return to his childhood home anyway.

  He found it funny that Lizzie and her mother were staying above a pub. ‘Handy for getting home if you’ve had a few in the bar,’ he said chirpily, his eyes following Lizzie’s every movement.

  Lizzie poked her tongue out at him as she handed him a cup of tea. ‘Two days. That’s all I’ve got, Patrick Kelly, so there’s no time for me to get drunk. Well, not if you want to make the most of my company.’

  His eyes sparkled as he grinned. ‘I don’t need to make any decision between you and a pint of beer. I know what I want.’

  Lizzie blushed. ‘Less of your cheek, Patrick Kelly.’

  Her mother had returned to her sewing, pretending that the skirt she was altering had her undivided attention.

  ‘Will you come with us to the pictures, Mrs Randall?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re quite welcome. It’s a cowboy film.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not my favourite kind of film I’m afraid, and anyway, I’m expecting our Stanley to call in.’

  Patrick was far too polite to show his relief. All the same, she sensed it, and who could blame him? These two young people were serving their country. Both faced the possibility of being injured or killed – Patrick in the air, and Lizzie on the home front. Let them have their time together unchaperoned – no matter what they got up to.

  ‘How’s Stanley getting on?’ Patrick enquired.

  ‘Not too bad,’ Mary Anne replied, ‘though we’ll all be happier when we’ve found somewhere to live.’

  ‘Not easy,’ Patrick said ruefully. ‘Bristol had it bad enough in November, but you should see London.’ He shook his head. ‘The East End’s a mess. I’ve occasion to go up there now and again, you know, stationed where I am.’

  Lizzie had gone quiet, her eyes lowered as though the surface of her tea was incredibly interesting.

  ‘How long before you leave?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Thought we would have shipped out by now, but it won’t be long. Mark my words, it won’t be long.’

  The three of them fell to an uneasy silence, but it didn’t last long.

  ‘Well! Better get going,’ said Patrick, slapping his thighs as he got to his feet. ‘If we don’t get a move on, them cowboys will have shot all the Indians before we’ve even got there.’

  Alone at last, Mary Anne let the sewing slip into her lap. Resting her head back, she closed her eyes and remembered how it had been in the Great War, the one they were beginning to call the First World War, because this, sadly, had turned into the second.

  In her quieter moments like these, her thoughts went back to Edward, her first boyfriend. They too had felt that terrible urgency, the need to experience all life had to offer just in case it was about to end. For Edward it had ended at Cambrai. For her it had meant finding herself pregnant, ‘disgraced’. Sent away before her time came, she had cried herself to sleep on her pillow night after night, wishing s
he and Edward had married first, but wishing most of all that he’d come back.

  The child had been adopted. Her parents had dealt with all the details, but still there were rumours. Only a hastily arranged marriage would restore her respectability. She didn’t find out until much later that Henry Randall had been paid to marry her. And at first they’d been happy. He’d worshipped her and nothing she could do was wrong. Trusting him to be magnanimous, she’d told him all about her secret sin, but his reaction was the opposite of what she’d expected. Overnight the caring husband turned into a jealous, cruel monster. The pedestal he’d put her on was pulled out from under her. Even so, she’d endured her punishment – for that’s how she’d regarded it. She’d lived for her children – that was, until Michael came along.

  She shook herself out of these maudlin memories, and took herself to bed for some much-needed rest. In the morning, she took the skirt she had mended over to the Red Cross shop. Gertrude immediately found a hanger for it and slid it on to a nail along with a few other skirts.

  ‘You’ve done a nice job of that, dear. I’m sure some needy soul will snap it up,’ said a joyful Gertrude, her voice reverberating around the crowded counters. ‘Now, I’ve got a nice coat here that could do with altering …’

  Huffing and puffing, she heaved a leopard-skin coat on to the counter. ‘It’s too long and a bit old fashioned. I thought that perhaps you could cut off the bottom and make it into a three-quarter length, and then make a pillbox hat with what you’ve cut off. I’m sure you can do it. Here!’

  Before she had a chance to protest, the coat was almost plonked into her arms. ‘I can’t,’ said Mary Anne.

  ‘Can’t?’ Gertrude snapped, her face smothered in frown lines.

  Mary Anne sighed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t anywhere to live at present and I do have to spend some time finding somewhere. Perhaps then …’

  Gertrude Palmer looked astounded, as though Mary Anne had slapped her on both sides of her face.

  ‘Do you have a husband?’

  Mary Anne found herself blushing. ‘He’s away serving with his regiment …’ Her voice melted away. Michael had impressed on her that she mustn’t go into too much detail about the fact that he worked as a translator, translating messages from German into English. He’d been born in England but raised in Germany. His mother and stepfather were presently in a camp on the Isle of Man. But that was another of their secrets and best not mentioned.