by Lizzie Lane
After reading the letter from Mary Anne, Margot had tried to persuade her to think again.
‘Think how this half-sister must have felt when she found out she was adopted.’
‘That’s not supposed to happen.’
Margot had given her a ‘things do happen’ look.
‘Your mother regretted doing it. So could you.’
Stubbornly she ignored Margot’s advice. ‘Everything’s arranged.’
She purposely turned down Margot’s offer of a lift to the nursing home. Her mind was made up, but Margot would have kept asking her to reconsider. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold out. As it was, the question kept repeating inside her mind: could she really go through with this?
Yes, said a firm, nagging voice. You must or your life will be ruined.
The fat little bus snorted its way along the country road, the sound of its grating gears reverberating between high walls and hawthorn hedges. She stared out at the scenery but saw nothing.
They passed a factory making windows, obtrusive in the middle of fields, then storms of frosted leaves, remains of a beautiful autumn, raced before a cold north wind.
Lizzie’s belly had grown and she had got used to it. Strange how you get used to things, she thought, like all these people wearing uniforms who seemed to be everywhere. Strange how she’d also become so used to being away from home.
When the scenery became boring and the nervous churning of her stomach too much to bear, Lizzie eyed the only other passenger on the bus. She was sitting at the front of the bus, smoke from a cigarette circling her head. The chignon at the nape of her neck shone a healthy pale gold. Pearl earrings glinted from her lobes each time she turned her head to look at the view or light another cigarette. She’d smoked a whole packet on the journey, Lizzie noticed.
Hidden by overhanging branches, the bus stop was not apparent until the bus slithered on wet leaves and eventually came to a halt. The other passenger got up from her seat first and came level with her. ‘Need a hand?’
Lizzie’s eyes travelled upward over a coat loosely belted over a stomach that was as big as her own. There was a confidence in her looks and manner that she instantly envied.
‘It’s not easy when there’s a beach ball where your waistline used to be, but I’ll manage.’
‘Two beach balls together,’ beamed the blonde.
She quickly judged the girl to be around her own age. She had wide-set blue eyes, high cheekbones and a straight nose above full, sensuous lips. The blonde with the pearl earrings had a handsome face, the sort seen on Greek statues at the British Museum. She also wore very nice clothes, not so much expensive as wisely chosen to appear that way. The blonde took the lead, moving sideways down the aisle. Lizzie struggled to her feet.
The conductor eyed them in a surly manner and didn’t offer to help them off. Once their heels were digging into the soft grass verge, he sniffed and pointed to a sign and a gateway a few yards along the road. Like the bus stop it was half hidden by branches.
‘That’s the place for fallen women,’ he said, his tone as contemptuous as the look he gave them. ‘It’s like a bloody great rowing boat in thur; oars on both sides!’
‘Men!’ shouted Lizzie and turned away, too angry, too humiliated to say anything else. All she wanted was to get this over with and then her life would be her own again.
The blonde set down her case, stuck her fists on her hips and jerked her head high. ‘Whores! Is that what you mean, you dirty old sod? Now that’s where you’re wrong. Didn’t you know? This place is being turned into a convent!’ She jerked her thumb at Lizzie. ‘She’s got the job of Mother Superior, and I’m the bloody Virgin Mary ’cos I like being worshipped. Now sod off! Go on. Shove off and punch a few tickets, you bald-headed old coot!’
The bus conductor snorted. ‘Tart!’
The blonde picked up a fallen stick and took a run at him. Despite her girth, she ran fast enough and looked strong enough to land a blow. She shouted all the way. ‘And who makes us tarts, eh? Men! That’s who! They’re always Prince Bloody Charming until there’s a bun in the oven!’
Firing puffs of black smoke from its noisy exhaust, the bus pulled away, its gears grating against the worn cogs as the dying pistons rapidly coated the engine with choking layers of carbon. Blown into the air by its passing, December leaves swirled like dancing dervishes, finally settling in crisp brown heaps at the roadside.
The blonde glowered after it, her cheeks pink from the morning chill. ‘Men!’
Lizzie wasn’t fooled by the jutting firmness of the girl’s chin. Her own feelings of rejection and disappointment were reflected in the blonde’s eyes, and yet she had to admire her guts.
Finally they stood alone. ‘I’m Sally,’ said the blonde, swiftly turning round and taking Lizzie unawares with a firm handshake.
‘I’m Lizzie.’
Sally turned her classic features to the sign and the entrance to Pilemarsh Abbey. HOME FOR UNMARRIED MOTHERS was picked out beneath it in a more muted type than the original name. Her breasts, heavily expectant with baby milk, heaved her coat lapels apart when she sighed. ‘Well. Let’s get it over with.’ Pouncing on her suitcase and gripping it with a firm hand, she began to walk.
Lizzie followed on, though more slowly than Sally, taking in the curling paint at the corners of the sign, the way the spindly twigs of the poplar trees rattled like tiny bits of metal, and the height of the walls – mostly the height of the walls. They were huge and meant to keep people in.
Sally got to the gate first, stopped and waited for Lizzie to catch up.
‘Sorry,’ said Lizzie, puffing and rubbing at the hollow of her back.
‘What for?’
‘I’m a bit slow and my back aches.’
The classic features softened. ‘Nervous?’
Lizzie nodded. ‘My stomach’s doing somersaults.’
Sally laughed. ‘Of course it is. There’s a baby in there aching to get out.’
‘I’ve never had a baby before.’
Sally’s laughter died away. ‘Neither have I. So it’s a first time for both of us.’ Turning, she scrutinized the gate as though she were looking for something in particular, perhaps for a way in that would be of advantage, unobserved by the authorities vested in the place. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Can’t find it anywhere.’
Lizzie eyed her with puzzlement. ‘Can’t find what?’
‘The sign – the one that says “Abandon hope all ye that enter here”.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘I think we’ve already crossed that hurdle. What I had hoped for made a run back to his wife months ago.’
‘Join the club,’ said Sally resignedly.
‘The pudding club?’ said Lizzie raising her eyebrows.
They both laughed.
‘Looks grim though, doesn’t it?’ said Sally, her bottom lip turning outwards in a half pout.
Lizzie eyed the entrance and gave a disdainful snort. ‘Come on. Let’s see what sort of place this is.’
‘So what do your family think of your predicament?’ Sally asked as they strolled up the gravel road towards the looming pile.
‘I haven’t told them. Have you?’
Sally shook her head. ‘There’s no one to tell. I’m an orphan. All my life I’ve been passed around the family like a parcel. No one wanted to keep me, so why should I tell them anything? What’s your reason?’
Lizzie shrugged and narrowed her eyes as she thought about it. ‘I’m not quite sure. I think I didn’t want to see the pity in my mother’s eyes. I’m not quite sure what she would say, probably something like, “Lizzie, you should have known better.” But that’s just it I suppose. I should have known better.’
‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. He said he was going to divorce his wife for you.’
‘And he told me he had no children. Turns out he has four.’
Sally smirked. ‘Perhaps he forgot where he put them. Memory’s the first to go when a bloke wants his own
way. Now take my Cecil. Handsome as they come, pots of money and offered me the earth. But I held him off. No matter what he bought me, I said, “No; first put a ring on that finger right there.”’ Sally heaved her case high enough to point at the third finger on her left hand.
‘And he said he would, so you finally gave in,’ said Lizzie with a heartfelt sigh.
‘No. I didn’t,’ said Sally, fixing her gaze straight ahead. ‘I overdid the champagne one night and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was black and blue in the morning, one eye closed and my bottom lip cut, my cheek swollen. I was also pregnant, though I didn’t know it at the time. So! Here I am.’
‘He didn’t want to marry you.’
‘Worse than that. He took back the keys of the flat. Lovely it was too. In South Kensington, in London. I had a bit of money and pawned some of the stuff he’d given me. Even then I had to eke it out, so I ended up living in a room above a pie and eel shop in Putney. Bit of a come down.’ A sudden grin came to her lips. ‘Except for the pies and eels, that is.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Henry Randall knocked back the dregs from the bottom of a pint mug. As he tipped back the glass, his eyes happened to land on Mary Anne unlocking the door of the Red Cross shop across the road. His unsteady gaze swept behind him to the clock behind the bar. Its face was fuzzy. Even when he squinted he couldn’t tell what time it was. Bloody landlord! Why didn’t he get it fixed?
He slammed his beer mug down on the bar. ‘Time you got that bloody clock fixed, Jack Kitson.’
Jack Kitson’s meaty fist swept a crumpled cloth over the brown pool that never really went away. He was wearing a look he reserved for good customers who were tolerated rather than liked. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my clock, Henry Randall. It’s your eyes that’s the problem.’
Henry’s cheeks rippled with indignation. ‘My eyes is as good as when I was pulling the trigger of a Royal Enfield.’
‘But would the sergeant-major have let you handle a rifle after two hours in the snug of the local boozer? Think about that,’ said Jack, raising a cautionary finger,
Henry shook his head. ‘Poor old Sergeant-Major Ormrod. I wonder where he is now.’
‘Not in ’ere,’ said Jack. ‘And neither should you be. It’s two o’clock and I’ve got war work to do.’
Jack Kitson kept tight hours at lunchtime. The area above the bar was festooned with Union Jack flags and smaller ones from regiments and ships. Jack was a patriot of John Bull proportions, and few argued when he said he wanted to close – except for a fool, or the downright contrary.
‘Two o’clock,’ muttered Henry, peering into his beer mug as though expecting it suddenly to refill of its own accord.
‘Are you ’aving another then, Randall?’
The question came from Alf Routledge. They’d been in the same outfit together in the Great War and like any old comrades they always had time for each other.
Henry slammed his glass against the man’s chest. ‘Only if yer buying.’
Routledge’s bloated features crumpled with dismay. He didn’t like forking out for anything. He’d only asked Henry in the hope of blagging a drink for himself.
Jack Kitson smirked to himself behind the bar. He knew Alf well. ‘Didn’t work that time then, Alf?’
Routledge scowled as he slammed the dimpled mug on to the bar. ‘Bloody fool! His brain’s turned to mush since his missus left ’im for a younger bloke.’
The landlord smiled broadly as he tweaked his curly moustache. ‘Could be that ’is brain’s turned to mush because of all the hops he’s poured down his throat. They’re mush too.’
Routledge wasn’t listening. He too had seen Mary Anne enter the Red Cross shop. Now here, he thought, is a chance to get even. Michael Maurice had refused to pay him what he was owed for looking after the pawn shop when old Maurice had died. Kill two birds with one stone, he thought, sauntering back over to Henry, beer slopping from the pint pot he carried.
Through narrowed eyes, Henry stared unflinchingly at the shop across the road. Watching him, Alf saw his chance. He’d heard it was used as a place where mail could be forwarded to those who’d become homeless or just out of touch with loved ones or families. People who’d moved from elsewhere to work in munitions factories or down at the docks contacted the Red Cross when all else had failed. So did members of the armed forces.
Routledge nudged his arm. ‘What d’you think they’ve been up to?’ He nodded at three soldiers who’d just come out. One of them was waving a letter and looked mighty pleased with himself. Alf Routledge weighed up the situation. The soldiers were only collecting their mail, but good old Henry wouldn’t see things that way – not with all the beer he’d drunk. All the same, a little push in the right direction wouldn’t go amiss.
‘What do you think then?’ said Alf, indicating the boys in khaki on the other side of the road.
‘What do you mean?’ Henry’s voice was slurred, his eyes bloodshot.
‘Them,’ said Alf. ‘What do you think they’ve been up to in there?’
‘It’s a shop.’
Alf chuckled and nudged him in the ribs. ‘Yeah! And you know what sort of shop, if you get my meaning. They may not call it a knocking shop, but I’ve heard some pretty spicy rumours, you know.’ He paused as he waited for Henry to fully absorb what he’d said.
Henry’s cheeks hollowed as he eyed the laughing young man. His jealousy was like a great big bonfire glowing inside, never going out. Sometimes it blazed, and this was one of those times. Mary Anne was his. She’d had no business leaving him, no business setting up house with that young German bloke.
Routledge saw the signs of jealousy, the burning in the eyes, the nervous tic quaking beneath Henry’s skin. He twisted the knife deeper into the wound. ‘I’ve seen a lot of blokes going in and out over there,’ he lied. The truth was that few servicemen actually called there; Army Welfare kept them in touch with their families. But this was a means to an end.
A nerve twitched beneath Henry’s right eye. The sound of grinding teeth accompanied his cold, hard stare. All around the shop was a blur of muted colour. Only the door to the shop concerned him – and more specifically whoever went in and out of it. He took another pint from Routledge but was oblivious to the man’s wicked leer.
Routledge whispered into his ear. ‘You ought to go and sort ’er out, chum. She’s making you a bloody laughing stock, ’er and that Kraut bastard she’s shacked up with.’
Henry’s eyes flickered. His fist gripped the beer mug so tightly that Routledge expected it to shatter. He took a step back.
Perhaps nothing more would have happened; perhaps Henry would have staggered home or slumped into an unconscious heap. But suddenly the shop door opened. Dressed in a dark red dress with a red and white checked belt, Mary Anne stepped out with a young fellow in a boiler suit. She appeared to be talking and smiling at him, and he was smiling back, both of them looking in at the window and then at each other.
Henry wasn’t sure whether it was Michael Maurice or not; all he cared about was that his wife – and she still was his wife – was acting in a familiar manner with a very young man.
Seeing what Henry was seeing, Routledge stoked the flames. ‘Blimey! That one do like a bit of variety!’
Henry slammed the beer mug against Routledge’s chest as he’d done before, only this time Alf sidestepped and it smashed on the floor.
Jack Kitson watched in horror from behind the bar.
‘Alf Routledge, you’re banned,’ he shouted as Henry charged out of the door.
Routledge smirked. ‘Stick yer bloody pub. It’s worth a ban just to watch old Henry go into action on that snooty cow!’
Tanked up with beer, Henry staggered across the road. ‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘You get away from my wife.’
He saw Mary Anne’s cheerful expression change to one of total shock. Perhaps if he’d been sober he might have noticed that her glance at him was only brief. Her surprise was for s
omeone beyond him, someone he did not know.
There was a man on the street cleaning windows, something he had resorted to after losing a leg at Dunkirk. He had dipped to fetch his cloth from his bucket when Mary Anne raised her head and saw Elizabeth Ford. Her first-born daughter was like a bird of paradise amongst a host of sparrows. The cut of her clothes, the quality of her hat and the beautifully made-up face set her apart from the midday crowds.
This was all too much. Henry and Elizabeth at the same time!
Taken off guard, her eyes flew from one to the other, unsure who to acknowledge and what to do. She hadn’t expected to see Elizabeth again. Hadn’t she said there was no room in her life for a mother who had abandoned her? Her heart would have leapt with joy, but just beyond Elizabeth and heading in the same direction, she saw Daw coming along the road with Mathilda in the pushchair.
Henry got to her first. ‘Slut!’
A heavy hand slammed against her cheek, sending her sideways. Henry was a blur of staggering anger, lashing out at the innocent window cleaner and sending his bucket rattling along the ground.
‘Keep away from my wife, you bastard!’
‘Henry!’
Mary Anne grabbed the raised arm. ‘He’s only cleaning the windows …’
The fist meant for the window cleaner came back and smashed into her ribs.
‘Dad!’
Daw shoved the pushchair between her parents. Her face was white with shock. Her father’s eyes flickered. He saw her, recognized her, but his beer-fuelled anger was unabated. Routledge had done his job well. A red mist swirled before his eyes, obliterating any attempt to keep up the illusion he’d created for his children – that he was a good father and a good husband who never raised a hand to any of them.
To Daw’s astonishment, he raised a fist in her direction, swearing at her and jabbing his knee into the side of the pushchair, sending it tilting on two wheels. Mathilda started to wail.
Mary Anne shouted, ‘Henry! For pity’s sake, this is your child and your grandchild!’
An elegantly gloved hand emerged from a mink sleeve, caught Daw’s shoulder and pulled her away. The pushchair came too.