by Lizzie Lane
Henry’s eyes narrowed. Mary Anne winced as his fingers dug into her neck. His other hand clawed over her face, digging into her cheeks and around her eyes. She heard Daw screaming at her father to stop; heard Mathilda wailing for her mother.
Another voice joined the melee. ‘Stop that! Stop that, I say!’
Gertrude had come out of the shop and began beating Henry across the back with her umbrella.
‘Leave me alone, would you,’ Henry growled, hunching his shoulders against the blows raining on his back.
‘I’m not surprised,’ shouted Gertrude, suddenly changing tactics and prodding him in the ribs. ‘No woman should have to put up with this. Emmeline Pankhurst certainly wouldn’t!’ Her swift jab knocked the breath out of him. His grip loosened.
Another body pushed in front of him. Something cold stabbed him between the eyes. ‘Stop it or I shall be forced to shoot!’
The voice was female, but cold and clear cut. Henry froze. His eyeballs fixed on the muzzle of a small silver gun jammed between his eyes. Some small part of his brain that had remained sober took control. The woman was a toff, too well dressed to be from around these parts. She smelled of flowers and face powder. The words she uttered were like sharp glass cutting into his brain.
‘Leave my mother alone or I shall shoot. Do you hear me?’
He tried to focus his gaze. This woman wasn’t Daw and she wasn’t Lizzie. He had only two daughters, didn’t he? Yet she’d called Mary Anne her mother. He let Mary Anne go, his mind confused by what had been implied.
‘Go home, Henry Randall. Go home now and sleep it off. If you don’t it’ll be the worse for you,’ said the imperious voice.
‘Or we’ll beat you black and blue. Then shoot you!’ The woman with the dangerous umbrella pointed it at him with as much intent as the woman with the gun. His arms fell to his sides. Wiping the drool from his mouth he turned away. He didn’t understand. The world was a labyrinth and it was becoming more and more confusing. Suddenly he yearned for his bed. Perhaps he’d persuade Biddy to join him there. She was fat and filthy, but her body was warm. All thoughts of Routledge and his wife were wiped from his mind. Staggering from one side of the pavement to the other, he tottered off, his brain as mixed up as the world around him.
‘Were you really going to shoot me dad?’ No one had noticed Stanley arriving, but he had seen all that had happened. He sounded thrilled at the prospect. ‘Is that really a gun?’ he asked Elizabeth with round-eyed fascination.
‘In a way.’ She pulled the trigger. A small blue flame flared into existence. ‘It fires flames at cigarettes.’
Gertrude Palmer chuckled as she sheathed her umbrella beneath her arm. ‘A lighter! How very ingenious.’
Daw was crying great, slobbering sobs as she helped her mother to her feet. ‘Ma! Oh, Ma!’ Mathilda too was sobbing, though less vehemently than her mother.
Daw’s face was a picture of contrition. ‘I didn’t know he was like that, Ma. Honestly I didn’t.’ She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve never seen me dad like that. He’s a swine, just like our Lizzie said he was. A right swine.’
Elizabeth was dabbing at Mary Anne’s bruises with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘I can think of worse things to call him. He should be horse-whipped.’
It came to Daw as though in a dream that this woman with the pretty handkerchief had said something truly surprising. She’d told Daw’s father to leave her mother alone. Her mother?
‘I think we’d better get some ice put on those marks,’ said Gertrude, peering menacingly at the red welts on Mary Anne’s cheeks.
Mary Anne allowed herself to be guided back inside the shop. Her ribs hurt, her face hurt and she was sorry the window cleaner had had to experience this.
‘I haven’t paid him,’ she said through swollen lips.
‘Never mind him,’ said Gertrude. ‘I’ll see that he’s paid once I’ve helped him get his false leg into some sort of order.’
The window cleaner wasn’t the only person she was worried about. She kept looking over her shoulder, attempting to gauge Daw’s reaction to her half-sister, and vice versa.
Looking apprehensive, even scared, Daw followed her mother into the shop, Mathilda in her arms.
Elizabeth was helping Gertrude and talking to the window cleaner, opening her purse and giving him money.
A practical sort, thought Mary Anne, and would have smiled if her lips hadn’t been so swollen.
The crowds that had gathered around outside now began to disperse. One figure remained for a moment until, satisfied that everything was over, he shuffled off, a look of triumphant satisfaction on his face.
Mary Anne recognized Alf Routledge and remembered what he had done to Michael – or rather what he had got others to do.
‘I know him,’ she said, pointing to the shuffling figure gradually disappearing among the afternoon crowds. ‘His name’s Alf Routledge. He’s a trouble maker. He incites other people to do his dirty work. He got the local kids to daub a swastika on Michael’s door.’
‘Never mind that, Mum. It’s in the past. You come and sit down.’ Daw’s voice trembled. Mary Anne could hardly believe how frightened she’d been.
‘That man’s a regular at the Lord Nelson,’ she said to Daw. ‘He’s always been trouble. Michael ordered him off the premises when he first came to this country.’
Daw winced at the mention of Michael. ‘Never mind, Mum. It’s all over now.’
Mary Anne wondered if she’d ever accept him, but she didn’t ask now. She did as she was told, sitting down on a bentwood chair usually kept for visitors. Where had her strength gone? And why did she feel so small?
She sighed and let the others take care of her. For the first time since turning forty, Mary Anne felt that her family was more mature than she was. I’m slipping towards old age, she told herself. It saddened her; not so much the thought of advancing years, but the ones wasted and long behind her now.
Her thoughts turned to Henry. She could guess what had happened. A few beers and Henry was easily swayed by male companions. Routledge would have goaded him on. Wait till Michael comes home, she promised him silently. Just you wait.
The shop was an oasis of silence after the scene in the street, the only sound being the clattering of Gertrude putting the kettle on.
She heard Elizabeth asking for a bowl and cotton wool with which to bathe her mother’s injuries.
‘Such a clod,’ she heard her say. ‘My mother deserves better.’
Daw sat, tears streaming silently down her face, her eyes bigger than usual, as though they’d just been opened to the way things really were.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Mary Anne said to her, though the red marks hurt more than she’d ever let on.
‘I …’ Each time Daw attempted to say something, her voice failed. There were no words she could find to express how she felt. She’d been wrong. She’d believed her father could do no wrong because it had suited her to do so. She liked everything to be perfect, formed exclusively to suit her.
‘We never really know anyone until we’re married to them,’ Mary Anne said suddenly. ‘And we can’t change what they are. It’s impossible. Not everyone’s as nice as John Smith, you know.’
It wasn’t often easy to know what Daw was thinking, but Mary Anne thought she did now. Daw was thinking about the way she’d treated John when he wasn’t on time for meals, or had been waylaid by family or friends. Daw had wanted him moulded to suit her vision of the ideal husband, doing everything together and never straying into doing something that suited him and him alone. But life wasn’t like that, thought Mary Anne.
‘Is John still sleeping on the settee when he comes home on leave?’
Daw didn’t answer, but then she didn’t need to. Mary Anne could tell by the look in her eyes that he was.
‘You have to let John do things by himself at times,’ she blurted. ‘He’ll be off again shortly and who knows when you’ll see him again.’
‘This is going to sting,’ Elizabeth said to Mary Anne, who smelled the unmistakable stink of witch hazel. She winced at the first dab. It wasn’t so bad after that.
The kettle in the kitchen whistled for the second time. Gertrude popped her head around the door. ‘Who’s for tea?’
Everyone said yes.
Mary Anne looked into Elizabeth’s eyes. Her daughter’s touch was gentle, her fingers cool. Her daughter had fine hands. Daughter. It was hard to accept. Elizabeth looked as though she’d just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She was so elegant, so beautiful.
Elizabeth tended the last red mark and let the cotton wool fall into the bowl where it bobbed gently on the surface.
‘Mother, what a brave woman you are,’ she proclaimed, as though she’d just carried out a surgical operation.
Mary Anne caught the look on Daw’s face. Perhaps she’d thought she’d misheard when Elizabeth had called her ‘mother’ earlier.
‘I gave birth to Elizabeth before I married your father,’ she said in answer to Daw’s look of amazement. ‘Her father was killed in France.’
Mary Anne Randall looked up into Elizabeth’s face. One question above all others burned in her mind.
‘I thought you wanted to forget me the other day. Why did you come back?’
The soft hands that now dabbed gently at her face with a dry towel barely paused when she answered. A slight smile hovered on her ruby-red lips.
‘Aren’t you glad I did?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
Daw sat silently, her eyes darting between the mature woman she’d known all her life, and this new sister, this woman who looked so much like herself.
‘We could have been twins,’ she said suddenly.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We look very much alike.’
Stanley hovered, fidgeting from one foot to the other. ‘Can I play with your gun?’
She turned her calm eyes on to the little brother she’d never known. The cool, confident look persisted and for a moment it looked as though she would refuse.
‘It’s only a cigarette lighter,’ she said. ‘It’s in my bag.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ said Mary Anne. ‘He’ll dash off to play cowboys and Indians and that’s the last you’ll see of it.’
Elizabeth stopped what she was doing. ‘Goodness! I hadn’t thought of that. Stanley!’ But Stanley was gone. ‘Oh well,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s obviously a lot I need to learn about my family.’
Daw’s eyes stayed glued on her. ‘I don’t understand. This has all happened so quickly. We’re your family? There’s so much I don’t know, yet everyone else seems to know about you. What happened to you? Why did we never know anything about you?’
Before Mary Anne could answer, Gertrude came in with the tea tray. ‘We’ve got oatcakes today,’ she announced. ‘I made them with porridge oats and a few secret ingredients. Don’t ask me what ingredients, they’re a trade secret. And besides, I don’t want you being sick even before you’ve tried them.’
For a change, Daw was totally uninterested in food. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her velvety brown eyes flickering between Mary Anne, her mother, and Elizabeth, the sister she’d never known she’d had.
Mary Anne sighed. She’d told Lizzie and Harry all about her first love and the child she’d given away. Now she had to tell Daw, a prospect that worried her sorely. Daw was very traditional, very conservative and downright sanctimonious at times. But it has to be done, Mary Anne told herself. You’ve told her the bit that was likely to shock her the most, and now she might as well hear the rest of it. It’s only right.
‘Edward was my sweetheart. We were engaged to be married …’ She went on to tell her about Edward being killed in the trenches, about discovering that she was expecting his child, about giving that child away, and about her parents paying Henry to marry her.
‘We were happy at first, so happy that I thought I could trust him with the truth. I was wrong.’ Hurt by the memory, she hung her head. ‘I was terribly wrong. From that dreadful moment, everything changed. The man I thought I could trust turned to drink. I didn’t know he’d made an effort not to drink when he married me. I didn’t know then that he worshipped me. I was like a goddess to him, and then he found out that I was as human as he was.’ She sighed, spreading her palms helplessly. ‘My attempt to be honest didn’t work because I’d been dishonest in the first place.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘At night I sometimes dream of Edward coming home and how different life would be if he hadn’t been killed and we’d got married.’ Her eyes drifted to Elizabeth. ‘Different for all of us.’
Daw was like a broken doll, her features shattered and pale. She strained to keep her gaze fixed on her mother. She was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a motor vehicle, afraid to turn away in case it was all an illusion.
Fixing her gaze on Mary Anne, Elizabeth leaned forward, her smooth fingers interlocked over her knees. ‘I’m going back home tomorrow. George is in a hospital near Norwich. He needs me. I hope you’ll understand. He’s been so damaged by this war.’
Mary Anne’s smile was wistful. ‘I’m so sorry for you. Poor George.’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. Don’t be sorry for me. A lot of husbands won’t be coming back to their wives. I have to content myself with that fact. I’ve still got George, and in time he may well recover. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive what he did. He wasn’t himself.’
Mary Anne felt her heart would break when she saw the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes. She leaned across and covered her daughter’s hands with her own. ‘I understand, Elizabeth. I know what you must be going through.’
Elizabeth smiled through her tears, retrieved one of her hands and placed it on Daw’s. ‘I’m thrilled to have a family. I hope no one is offended by my intrusion into your lives. I only hope you can grow to love me as I already love all of you.’
Hot tears rolled down Mary Anne’s cheeks. ‘My dear girl. I’m so glad you came back. I’ve loved you all my life. I loved you before you were born and now I will never cease to love you.’
The two women embraced.
Gertrude, who had got the gist of what was going on during Elizabeth’s first visit, now dabbed at the corners of her eyes, just as Edith had once done. ‘Life is never what you think it’s going to be,’ she murmured as she blew into a mansize handkerchief.
Mary Anne filled up with emotion, her chest tightening with excitement, relief and happiness. She’d regained Elizabeth, but had she lost Daw? She looked at her daughter, sitting next to the pushchair, a blank expression on her face.
‘Daw?’
Daw blinked and looked at her.
‘Daw. There was a war on when all this happened, just as there is now. We seized the opportunity for happiness. Unfortunately, my sweetheart was killed. It happened so quickly. I’m sorry about not telling you …’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see John before he goes back. I’ve got to …’
Make amends. Her mother sensed Daw’s unspoken meaning.
Daw was suddenly all action, buttoning up her coat, adjusting her hat, fastening the apron on the pushchair so that Mathilda was protected against the chill December day.
‘I’m going home,’ she stated, firmly gripping the handle of the pushchair and aiming it at the door. ‘There’s things I’ve got to sort out.’
‘Of course you do. John’s going back tomorrow, isn’t he?’
Daw paused. Mary Anne saw the mix of regret and panic in her daughter’s eyes. She guessed John would be sleeping in his own bed tonight. After what she’d learned today, Daw would never take John for granted again – at least, not while this war lasted.
‘Will she accept me?’ Elizabeth asked once the door had closed.
Mary Anne didn’t take long to give her an answer. ‘I think so.’
‘I’m so glad,’
said Elizabeth. ‘I can’t quite believe I’ve got a sister who looks so like me. I’d like to visit Lizzie and Harry too. Will you give me their addresses?’
‘Yes, but let me write to them first,’ Mary Anne cautioned.
Elizabeth gripped her hand. They hugged spontaneously; one moment they were looking at each other, the next they were hugging as though they’d never let go. Both knew that there would be many more such moments in the future.
Chapter Forty
Sally was polishing her nails and Lizzie was flicking through a woman’s magazine that Sally had loaned her. Women in the most wonderful fashions imaginable looked out at her, their lips smiling broadly over perfect teeth.
Overawed by her roommate, she tried hard not to gush questions or comments about where the magazine had come from, how she managed to style her hair so professionally and whether they really made such wonderful underwear in Paris.
‘Where else? You certainly wouldn’t buy it in British Home Stores,’ Sally said without pausing in the painting of her fingernails.
‘And these models, they’re so beautiful. I wish I could look like them.’
‘You will, once you get rid of your little load.’
The words were harsh and brought the bile to Lizzie’s mouth. Sally talked about parting with one’s own child as though the living creature were a special offer bought in a sale and discarded because it didn’t fit.
She took out the letter she’d received from her mother only days before arriving at the house. Again she read the news. Getting used to having a new sister wouldn’t be easy, especially seeing as they’d never met.
First things first, she thought as she closed the magazine, placed it to one side and got herself ready for an examination by the doctor.
‘I’ll see you when I get back,’ she said to Sally.
‘I’ll be here,’ said Sally, still concentrating on her fingernails. ‘Tell them to hurry things along if they can. I’m certainly going to tell them. I need to get on with my life.’
Lizzie thought about what Sally had said as she went downstairs. The heavy oak staircase led down to the brown pool of lino that was the reception hall. An arrow on a black and white sign pointed to the surgery, matron’s office and doctor’s office. To the right, fixed to a double doorway beside an oil painting of a woman wearing an old fashioned riding habit, was another sign saying Delivery Rooms.