by Lizzie Lane
‘I don’t quite understand what you mean,’ said Mary Anne, jiggling the pram as Mathilda started to stir. ‘Have you come here to apologize, or say he didn’t do the things he did?’
‘No. I just wanted to explain …’
Mary Anne jumped to her feet. She recalled the relief she’d felt when George Ford had been apprehended. She’d been surprised that she’d felt no anger, no need for revenge. But now this woman had come here and everything she’d held down was bubbling to the surface.
‘If you’re asking me to forgive him, don’t bother. He burned down my business. He caused problems with my husband. He even stole my granddaughter! What do you mean about negative and positive?’
Mrs Ford hung her head. Her earrings blinked with diamonds. ‘I think you need to know a little about me, Mrs Randall. I had a very happy childhood. I had everything money could buy except for one important thing: I was an only child. I was surrounded by wealth and privilege, but no family. I had always fretted about it. George had promised me that one day he would find my real family – or at least, my real mother. You see, Mrs Randall, like a lot of babies born after the Great War, I was adopted. I told George that it didn’t matter and he understood that. My adoptive parents had loved me in their own way. But George was never the same after Dunkirk. Everything seemed to go topsy-turvy. He was put in a military mental institution but he got out. I’d previously told him the basics of my true parentage. He made enquiries. Those enquiries led him to you.’
Through all this Mary Anne had remained silent. She’d known it the moment she’d set eyes on the woman; she knew who she looked like.
This was not how she’d expected things to turn out. Years ago she’d dreamed of meeting up again with the child she’d given away, but knew it would be impossible in reality. Henry would never have allowed it. Was this perhaps a dream?
‘Well!’ she said, looking away, pretending that jiggling the pram and the sleeping Mathilda demanded her full attention. ‘Well …’
‘I suppose it’s a bit of a shock.’
Mary Anne squeezed her eyes shut and fought to control her feelings. The pain of giving her child away had clawed at her heart for years after the event. Even before and after her marriage to Henry, her parents had forbidden her to mention it. ‘Best forgotten, soonest mended,’ they’d said. What a stupid statement. Her heart had never been mended simply because she had never forgotten.
Her eyes met those of Elizabeth Ford and she knew immediately that this was her daughter – Edward’s daughter. She had the same eyes Mary Anne had fallen in love with all those years ago.
‘George was an intelligence officer,’ Elizabeth continued.
‘That explains a lot.’
‘He knows how to get information.’
‘You look like your father.’
Elizabeth beamed. ‘Do I?’ She got up and picked up the small mirror that women used when they tried on second-hand hats. ‘It’s nice to know that I’m looking at some resemblance of him each time I look into the mirror.’
Mary Anne made a concerted effort to understand and get control of her feelings. In her dreams she’d thrown her arms around her long-lost daughter, perhaps even rescued her from a cruel orphanage. But this woman had not suffered deprivation of any kind. Well groomed, confident and at ease with her lot, there was nothing she lacked as far as Mary Anne could see.
‘I’m sorry for what happened, Mrs Randall, but George is not himself. He’s back in hospital now and receiving more treatment. Such a shame. He had such good prospects and we had made wonderful plans for our future. Such is the nature of war. It has been the biggest blot on my life.’ She held out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye. It’s been quite a pleasant experience to meet you face to face after all these years. But let’s face it, we both have our own lives, our own family connections and our own circle of friends. We move in different worlds. I won’t trouble you again.’
Silently Mary Anne took the hand that was offered. She remembered the tiny fingers she’d held before Elizabeth was given away. This hand was so different to the one she remembered and the woman was so different to the one she’d imagined, the one who would fall into her arms and cry with her over all the lost years.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, forcing some firmness into her voice.
‘Goodbye, and yet again, my sincere apologies.’
The shutter rattled and the blackout curtain fell over the door as it would at the end of a play. Mary Anne blinked away tears and covered her eyes. If only she’d had the courage to hug that woman, but how could she? She was totally self contained, totally in control and she most definitely belonged to another world, one in which the likes of Mary Anne had no part to play. If her heart had been only partially broken when she’d given her baby away, it was now totally shattered.
East Street was busy with women queuing up for whatever goods were available in the shops. The rule was that if you saw a queue you joined it. Elizabeth Ford did not join queues; she had a housekeeper who did that. She also had a maid and a gardener. The latter grew fresh vegetables in a handsome walled garden behind Lechley Manor, her husband’s home.
Looking straight ahead of her, she made her way to the taxi she’d paid to wait and drive her back to the railway station. Recognizing gentry when he saw it, the driver got out quickly when he saw her coming and saluted as he opened the taxi door.
‘Back to Temple Meads, madam?’
‘Yes.’
She sat back against the smooth leather upholstery and stared out at the blackness. There was nothing to see, but in her mind she was imagining how her visit had affected the woman who had given birth to her. She had told her most of the truth, but she had not told her how bitter she had been towards the woman who had given her away. All her life, from the moment a spiteful cousin had told her the truth, she had felt a bitter resentment. Only George had known her true feelings. He’d never acted upon them, telling her that it was best to forget and get on with her life. ‘She must have had her reasons,’ he’d said. ‘And now we have each other, and there’s no way I’m ever going to desert you.’
George had meant what he’d said, and yet he had deserted her, though in a way she could never have anticipated.
At Dunkirk he’d been trapped in a bomb crater beneath a layer of bloodied corpses. He’d had to hide there for three days, the enemy only yards away. The French Resistance had found him, got him in some sort of shape and back to a hospital in England. That was when they’d found out that he’d been affected mentally.
And now, through his illness, she’d found her mother and she was still shaking from the experience. She’d never expected her natural responses to be so strong. Perhaps she would have come away unaffected by the meeting if her mother – her true mother – hadn’t mentioned that she looked like her father, Edward, who’d been killed in the trenches. That’s when it came to her how much they’d both suffered, and how much suffering she was likely to go through in future. It would take years for George to recover.
The cold self-assurance she’d presented to Mary Anne Randall began to crack. She took out a powder compact from her handbag, dabbing at the smears of mascara staining her perfect cheeks. There was no saving the exquisitely applied paint and powder. The facade finally cracked. With slow, stiff movements, she wiped the make-up from her eyes and the lipstick from her mouth.
The taxi driver glanced at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you all right, madam?’
Elizabeth sniffed. She thought about the two pieces of crocodile-skin luggage she’d brought with her. They were driving up the incline towards the entrance to the railway station when she made her decision.
‘Driver!’ She tapped on the glass partition. He stopped the car before sliding it open.
‘Yes, madam?’
‘Take me back to the Royal.’
‘Yes, madam.’
She had made up her mind. She would stay a few days. First she would collect her muddled emotions. It was like
having a deep well inside, and her emotions kept surfacing – sometimes muddied, sometimes clear. She needed time to think things through, time to decide whether she really could walk away and forget her real mother existed or whether they could make amends.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hospital sounds echoed off the arched ceilings and bare walls. The ward reminded Lizzie of Cheddar Caves, except that caves didn’t have electric lights suspended on the end of impossibly long wires.
During the night she’d woken to the sound of rain pitter-pattering against the window. If she hadn’t opened her eyes she could almost have believed she was back on the boat, lying against Guy’s warm chest and wishing the rain would fall harder.
On opening her eyes, the cosy memory was replaced by the stark reality of being left in the lurch. The nursing sisters were pleasant enough, but the ward sister – a woman with cast-iron curls and a square chin – eyed her with disdain. ‘You young women,’ she said. Inconsequential words, but what wasn’t said had more meaning. The scorn was there for her to see, like grey ash misting the warmth in her eyes.
Breakfast was bread and margarine with a teaspoonful of marmalade, plus a cup of weak tea. Pretty poor fare, not that Lizzie was very hungry. The empty feeling encompassed her heart as well as her stomach.
As she lay there she planned for the months ahead. Somehow she would keep the secret from her family. She trusted Patrick not to say anything. When the time came she would sign the necessary documents and once that was done and dusted, Guy and the memento he’d left her with would vanish from her mind. She would wipe the stain from her memory too and make a vow that she would never fall for that kind of man ever again. What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she seen he was a slightly older mirror image of Peter Selwyn Kendall – braver, of course, but from a similar background all the same?
Yes, she thought, closing her eyes and snuggling back beneath the bedclothes. Wing Commander Guy Hunter would be consigned to history. Afterwards she would join the Wrens, just as she’d always promised she would. The problem was how she would manage up until the birth. She couldn’t stay here and she couldn’t go home. Accommodation was expensive, but she had to survive somehow until going to the nursing home. It was Margot who solved her problem.
Visiting time was from seven until eight o’clock in the evening. So far only Patrick had visited. Now a nurse took the screens from around her bed.
‘There’s no need,’ Lizzie protested. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘Sister’s orders,’ said the nurse. ‘She likes everything to be uniform. Either screens around everyone, or screens around no one. Other people are expecting visitors, so I’m afraid you have to fall in with the plan.’
Lizzie sighed and purposely turned her head away, preferring to stare at the vast expanse of evening sky rather than the trickle of visitors padding nervously across the ward.
The shuffling and muffled voices were rudely interrupted by the sound of high heels smartly striking the floor. Who dared breeze into the ward with such determined steps? Lizzie’s spirits soared.
Margot made a uniform look elegant despite the coarse fabric, the abundance of buttons and lack of style. Out of uniform she resembled the models in a glossy magazine. She was wearing a fitted navy-blue jacket over a slimline skirt. The jacket had a white collar. Her handbag and shoes were navy blue and white and she wore pearls around her neck and in her ears. Heads turned from all around the ward. French perfume titillated the air like the wings of a scented butterfly.
Lizzie’s spirits scurried all the way up the light wires to the arched ceiling.
‘Margot! I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘No problem, my darling,’ she said, planting dry lips on each of Lizzie’s cheeks before pulling up a chair and crossing one silky leg over the other. ‘Patrick told me everything and I took the initiative from there.’
Lizzie sank back against the pillows. ‘Margot, what a bloody fool I’ve been.’
‘Yes,’ said Margot. She took out her cigarette holder and silver case. In response to a look of condemnation from the ward sister, she put it away again. ‘Is she the sergeant-major here?’ Margot asked.
‘You could say that.’ Lizzie beamed. Things were getting better already!
‘Right,’ said Margot, brushing invisible flecks of dust from her jacket. ‘I took the initiative and got in touch with Bessie. It seemed the sensible thing to do, seeing as she made arrangements for a similar scenario. By the way,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you know she’s now a mother? Isn’t that amazing, especially seeing as that man of hers wanted nothing to do with the first child! Well, that’s Bessie for you!’
Lizzie couldn’t remember quite who Bessie had ended up with, and what was more, she didn’t want to remember. She was ashamed to admit it, but being compared with Bessie made her feel cheap and common.
‘You’re not the same, of course,’ said Margot, as though reading her thoughts. She patted her hand with one white-gloved hand. ‘You mustn’t think that way. The past is behind you now. Look towards the future. Promise me you’ll do that?’
Lizzie promised. ‘Yes, yes. I will. But it isn’t easy.’
‘No. Getting in the family way was the easy bit,’ said Margot. ‘Anyway, let’s get down to the reason I’m here. Bessie booked herself into a nursing home. She told me that it’s run by the Salvation Army, but is very clean and there’s no charge. It’s a registered charity, apparently. They look after you and arrange the adoption once it’s all over. Here’s the address,’ said Margot, handing her a slip of paper bearing her personal monogram.
‘Lovely paper,’ said Lizzie, her thumb tracing the raised lettering as a lump came to her throat. Strangely, she carefully avoided studying the address. Not now. Not yet.
Margot eyed her knowingly. Her voice, usually so cut-glass, so self-assured, now softened, just like a mother soothing her baby. ‘I’m not fooled, Lizzie. You don’t care tuppence about the paper. Look, I can only guess how you’re really feeling, and it’s OK to let it out. And if you want to shout and swear that all men are animals – especially RAF bigwigs – then, sweetie, feel free to do so.’
Lizzie stiffened and bit her lip. The tears would be hot on her cheeks if she let them fall. But she wouldn’t. She had to maintain her self-control. ‘It takes two to tango.’
Margot sighed. ‘You’re very brave.’
‘No. I’m very scared. I’ve been a fool. I should have learned from my mother’s mistake. Something similar happened to her.’
Margot raised one finely plucked eyebrow. In a certain light she resembled Marlene Dietrich – confident, blonde, pale-faced and dark-eyed. She didn’t ask what Lizzie meant by her comment. Lizzie wouldn’t have answered if she had.
‘I take it from my mission to Bessie that you don’t want your parents to know about your fall from grace. And you don’t want to marry Patrick?’
‘It wouldn’t be fair. He’s such a sweet man and although at one time we did talk about getting engaged, I couldn’t do it now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Isn’t that obvious? The baby isn’t his.’
Margot shrugged. ‘So? It happens in the best of families.’
‘I wouldn’t want to tie him down.’
Margot shrugged again. ‘It’s your decision, but it’s a damn good offer.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
In her heart of hearts she was still half hoping that Guy would come walking into the ward carrying a huge bouquet. In her more logical moments she knew it was only wishful thinking, a dream from which she must wake up. Where was he now? she wondered. Still in Singapore with his wife and children, she supposed.
‘So!’ said Margot, crossing one silky stocking over the other. ‘I take it you’ve been lying here planning what to do next. Am I right?’
‘Yes. The nursing home can be arranged?’
Margot nodded. ‘I checked.’
‘I’m going to join the nav
y afterwards.’
Margot grinned wryly. ‘Do that by all means, my dear, but do watch out for the admirals. They too have wives and children and are away from them far longer than wing commanders.’
Lizzie could have been insulted by Margot’s comments, but instead she smiled at the cutting joke. Margot’s satirical comment was merely intended to amuse.
‘I think I’ll avoid top-brass officers from now on.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Margot studied their surroundings with disdainful eyes, her thick eyelashes sweeping her cheeks. ‘Well, you can’t stay here for ever, my sweet, and you can’t arrive at the nursing home until the optimum moment. Have you considered where to stay until then?’
This was the question that had been unsettling Lizzie for some time. ‘I don’t know.’
Bits of pale lemon wool had transferred from her bed jacket to the turned down sheet that covered her. Lizzie picked at them thoughtfully. Hotels and guest houses were too expensive. She could ask Harry if he knew of anywhere, but that would mean letting him into the secret. She’d already asked Patrick; he didn’t have a clue but badly wanted to do something to help.
‘I could ask a few of my mates,’ he’d said.
She’d declined his offer, fearing he would interpret her acquiescence as a sign that she might marry him. She cared for him deeply, but surely love was what she’d experienced with Guy – or had that been merely passion?
‘I’ve got a place,’ said Margot. ‘I call it my bijou getaway, my little place in the country where I can be myself rather than Margot Ponsonby-Lyle. It’s near Stowmarket, which isn’t a million miles away from here, so I can visit you quite regularly – an added bonus if ever there was one.’
To Lizzie it felt as though a ton weight had fallen from her shoulders. Her face relaxed, the muscles down her back stopped feeling as taut as a bow string. She almost leapt across the bed.