by Jules Wake
‘I need your help, Betty. With the laundry.’ Without ceremony, her ma dragged her by the arm out of the room. ‘What’s got into you?’ she hissed. ‘And what use have you got for your dad’s hammer? Bert’s right. You have got a bit big for your britches, young lady. He’s not going to want you if you keep on behaving like this. And then what will you do? There’s lots of men who won’t be coming back to this village. Want to end up a spinster?’
Betty, too angry to listen, exhaled heavily. ‘That’s Dad’s toolbox. He has no right.’
Her ma grabbed her by the arms and shook her. ‘You listen to me. What will happen to us if we’re thrown out of this cottage? Me and your sister? We have nowhere to go.’ Her eyes widened, filled with a mix of worry and terror. Remorse pricked at Betty. This wasn’t just about her.
‘Betty, you have to stop this nonsense, right now. Go apologise to the man. That toolbox is as good as his. When you’re married, what you going to do, hide it under the ruddy bed?’
Betty stared at her mutinously but her dad would have wanted her to do right by the family. While every part of her rebelled at the idea of apologising to Bert, there was a desperation to her ma’s gimlet stare that she couldn’t ignore. Being a single woman with two daughters, she knew how hard it was to make ends meet and she wanted to avoid that struggle for Betty.
Betty nodded. ‘Sorry, Ma.’
Her apology stuck in her craw but she made it even as Bert smirked at her.
‘That’s more like it, Betty. Now come give us a kiss.’ He yanked her onto his lap and ground his mouth into hers, giving her a sharp nip on the lower lip and pinching her on her thigh with vicious, mean fingers. ‘They working you hard up there?’ His eyes bored into her and she knew she’d got off lightly for the time being but there was promise of retribution in the furrow of his brow. ‘Been busy of late up at the house. Lots of deliveries going up the lane. Must have a lot of stock at the moment.’
She nodded and sat placidly in his lap, praying that he wouldn’t ask any more questions, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to being told she couldn’t tell him. Luckily Ma changed the subject by asking after Mrs Davenport and the new land girls that had arrived.
Bert grinned and shot Betty a sly look. ‘Nice girls, all of them. A bit of a laugh and ripe for a bit of fun in the country.’ Under the table he slid his hand up her skirt and she jumped up, horrified. He laughed. ‘Bit skittish, aren’t you?’
‘Let me help with those potatoes, Ma,’ said Betty hurriedly. ‘Do you want all of them peeling?’
‘Ta, love. That would be— Oh Jane, look at that mess. I told you not to bring that chicken in here!’
While they’d been talking Jane had crept in clutching Baby Face who had managed to leave a nasty stain down her dress and the floor.
‘It’s all right, I’ll tidy it up,’ said Betty, grateful for something to do to keep out of Bert’s reach. He’d not been so bold before and it had unnerved her. Normally she was able to keep his hands at bay but it was obvious that he thought that with Ma eating out of his hand, he could do what he liked. Well, he could think again.
Pulling Jane over to the sink, she grabbed a cloth and began sponging her sister’s dress, lifting the skirt to clean the soiled fabric. The chicken was now pecking around the floor and her ma scooped it up and went outside scolding as she went, ‘For the love of god, how many times do I have to tell that girl.’
Jane sniffed. ‘But Baby Face wanted to come in. He wanted to say hello.’
‘I’m sure he’d rather stay with his friends, Jane. They’ll get lonely without him.’
‘I’m lonely without you, Betty. When are you coming home?’
‘I’m home now, aren’t I, silly.’
‘It’s not the same.’ She lowered her voice and whispered. ‘I don’t like him.’
With her head bent over her sister’s skirt, Betty glanced at Bert from under her lashes. Thankfully he hadn’t heard but she felt a ghost step on her shadow as she saw the lascivious look he cast Jane, his eyes running over her body. There was no mistaking that leer. Her heart clenched in sudden fear for her sister. Who would protect her when Betty wasn’t around? Ma needed a roof over her head. How much would she let go to keep it?
In a loud voice she said, ‘There you go, Jane. All done.’
Ma came back in the kitchen as Jane dashed past her back to her beloved chickens.
‘That girl is going to be the death of me. She’d sleep out there with those ruddy birds, if she could. She’s daft on them.’
‘Hen witted,’ said Bert with a loud guffaw, laughing at his own joke.
Betty held her tongue and bristled. No point in telling him what she thought.
A little while later, with great ceremony, Ma brought out the cake, which brought a smile to Jane’s serious little face. The four of them sat around the old table which bore the scars and stains of many family meals. Betty could still remember her dad sitting at the head where Bert now lounged as if he owned the place. She wondered what her dad would have thought of him. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed slouching like that at the table.
‘Mmm,’ said Jane with a blissful expression on her face and a mouthful of cake. It was a rare treat even though the chickens laid plenty of eggs. Ma tended to sell or barter as many as she could to help make ends meet. Which reminded Betty that she’d slip her most of her pay packet when Bert wasn’t looking. Now she wasn’t in London she wasn’t spending so much and could give Ma a little bit more, and she was trying to put a little bit by herself.
‘Why don’t you and Bert go into the front room, while I clear up here,’ said Ma.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll give you a hand.’
Ma gave her a sharp look and Betty sighed. ‘Why don’t I take the peelings out for the chickens?’ and before Ma could say anything she grabbed the bowl and went outside, anything to escape the stuffy atmosphere inside.
She stood watching the chickens scratching about, lifting her face to the sunshine, wishing that she was back at the house, out on the balcony on her own, with no one knowing where she was. She’d lie, she decided, say she had to get back for a late shift.
As she turned to go back inside, Bert came up behind, putting both arms around her waist and nuzzling at her neck. ‘Still the best-looking woman I know,’ he said, pulling her back against his body. She couldn’t help stiffening.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing, it’s just Jane could be…’
‘Jane? Probably about time she learned what’s what. Time she grew up. Don’t you worry, I’ll keep an eye on her.’ His hands slid up beneath her breasts. She held her breath, knowing that if she tried to move he could turn nasty. ‘So why don’t you tell me more about what’s going on up at the house?’
‘Nothing. It’s a distribution centre. We … distribute things.’
‘Exactly. And I know what.’ His eyes gleamed.
‘You do?’ she faltered.
‘No big secret, although I know why they want to keep it all secret.’
Betty swallowed. How did he know?
‘They don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing there’s a fortune in fags and booze up there.’
‘What?’ The word was startled from her.
‘Ha! You thought I didn’t know,’ he crowed, with sudden delight. ‘You should appreciate that Bert Davenport knows everything going on in his patch. One of the lorries always coming and going broke down on Flaunden Hill. Donald stopped and says it were full of cigarettes, Players, Capstans and half a dozen cases of gin and, he thought, whisky.’
Betty heaved an internal sigh of relief, grateful that Bert had no idea what was going on.
‘I don’t know about that. I just do the typing.’
‘Come on, Betty. I weren’t born yesterday. And you ain’t stupid. You must know where it’s all stored. Where they keep everything. There was a lot of building work up there, Nissen huts and the like, probably storage places if it’s a di
stribution centre.’
Betty shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
He tightened his hold. ‘I reckon you could find out. You being on the inside and all that.’
‘I can’t, Bert. I don’t go out of the offices.’
‘Come on, bright girl like you.’ He lifted one of his arms and hooked his elbow around her neck. ‘Ask a few questions, find out the lay of the land. Don’t seem to be any proper soldiers up there.’
Betty swallowed, feeling his arm pressing against her windpipe. There was no way she was giving away the secrets of Latimer House. ‘I think that most of the stuff is equipment for soldiers, uniforms, supplies and such like.’
‘Well, you can find out, can’t you? After all, you wouldn’t want anything to happen to you ma or sister, would you? Or your ma to have to find new accommodation?’ He tightened his hold and a flicker of genuine fear burned like neat lemon juice in her stomach.
‘Bert,’ she huffed, gasping in a breath. ‘I don’t have the access. I’m a typist in the office.’ It galled her to have to say that when she was so chuffed about being promoted to sergeant. He hadn’t even noticed the new stripes on her arm.
He breathed heavily in her ear. ‘You find out where they keep the cigarettes or when the next lorry is going out.’
‘I can’t.’
‘If you know what’s good for you, you will.’ He tightened his grip again and for a moment she thought she was going to pass out.
‘Bert,’ she managed to gasp.
‘I can’t protect your ma and your sister all the time, you know. What with you being away and no one to look after them.’ She wanted to spit. He’d never looked out for them in his life. He was more often down the pub. ‘You go back there and you find out everything you can, right?’
She nodded because what else could she do, and he loosened the hold on her neck. Sucking in a much-needed breath, she tried to plant her feet firmly on the ground, fighting a disorientating, light-headed sensation. She was determined not to show any weakness in front of him.
Just as she straightened, he lunged and punched her hard in the chest. Taken by surprise, she fell backwards to the floor, the pain and shock reverberating through her. As she tried to scramble to her feet he put one booted foot on her hand and she fell back with a pathetic whimper of which she was heartily ashamed. Before she could say anything he dealt her two swift kicks in the ribs that left her gasping for air.
‘Get up, you little cow. Now you listen. There’ll be more of that if you don’t do as you’re told. I want to know where everything is kept. I want a map and what sort of guard, if any, is kept. You understand?’ He trod harder on her hand, putting all his weight on his foot as he raised the other one to nudge at her ribs again.
She nodded, feeling traitorous tears of pain trickling down her face.
‘Right. I’ve got to go. Some of us have got real jobs to do. None of this mucking about.’
He released her hand and leaned down to pull her unceremoniously to her feet. Her bruised ribs protested and she cried out as a sharp jab of pain sliced into her, making her double over, clutching her sides.
‘Stand up and face me.’ He grabbed her hair and forced her head up. Furious and ashamed, she gave him a look of utter contempt, her lip curling and her eyes narrowing with hatred. She would never cower to him.
He scowled. ‘You’ll learn,’ he snarled with a crude laugh and gave her a sharp slap across her left cheek which left her ears ringing and her eyes smarting.
‘Next time you’re home you’ll have the information I want.’
Resisting the urge to rub her face, she lifted her chin.
‘Do you understand?’ His voice throbbed with violence.
This time she nodded, making sure her face was wiped of all expression.
With a wicked turn of mood, he suddenly grinned. ‘Don’t take on so, Betty.’ His hand stroked down the front of her skirt and he grabbed her between her legs. ‘You’re still getting the better end of this bargain. There are other women out there who would give it up. I like that you’re saving yourself for me. But when we’re married, I expect you to be a little more, shall we say, respectful.’
Over her dead body, she decided. She wouldn’t marry him. Not now. Not ever. But she needed to make things safe for her ma and Jane and she didn’t know how she was going to do that.
Feeling resigned, angry, humiliated and horribly impotent, she trudged up the driveway to Latimer House, wishing she could swap the heavy toolbox to her other hand. It had been an act of pure stubbornness bringing it with her but there was no way that she was leaving it at the cottage for Bert to help himself. Even though she was now paying for the stupidity of letting emotion win over common sense, it felt like a small victory.
‘Excuse me, ma’am. Could I help you with that?’ Before she could answer the toolbox was smoothly taken from her hand.
‘Major Wendermeyer. Er, thank you.’ She wanted to close her eyes and let the ground swallow her up. She hadn’t seen much of him since that afternoon when they’d been thrown together and had refused to think of those moments under the desk when her whole body had been so aware of him.
What must she look like? Covered in mud and chicken shit with her hair loose and a pocketful of bobby pins. There’d been no way of rectifying the damage done to her curls from her ungainly sprawl on the floor, and after Bert had left with that boorish swagger, she hadn’t wanted to stay in case he decided to come back for the toolbox.
‘My pleasure, ma’am. It looked mighty heavy and it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to leave a pretty girl like you to carry it all the way up the driveway.’
They might have shared that afternoon of camaraderie when they were equals working to rescue the reports – all of which then had to be put back – but now she really didn’t want to talk to him. All she wanted was to get up to her room and burrow under the bedclothes and cry while there was no one there to see her. Not only was her body battered and bruised but worse still, she felt raw and exposed. No one had ever hit her before and she hated being so vulnerable. Hated that a man could make her feel like this.
‘That’s very kind of you, thank you,’ she said stiffly, suddenly horribly aware of what he, like Bert, could do if she displeased him.
‘Can I ask why you’re carrying a toolbox? I’d expect flowers, candy from an admirer or something, but a toolbox?’ He raised one of those well-sculpted blond eyebrows that fascinated her so much and there was a decided teasing twinkle in his periwinkle blue eyes. Well he could tease away, she was not interested, although her faithless heart decided to find its own wayward rhythm, which was annoying to say the least. After Bert’s sardonic gaze and rough treatment, this charming attention should have been balm to her soul but instead she felt bitter cynicism and was determined not to be charmed.
‘It was my father’s,’ she replied coolly. And when had she ever called her dad her father? Was she trying to impress him? She hated herself for a moment but she didn’t want him to know about the cottage she’d just left or the life she was expected to live when the war was over. Suddenly the bleakness that she’d always managed to keep at bay descended like a suffocating blanket. ‘My dad, he was injured badly in the last war. He died. This was his toolbox. His pride and joy.’
‘And what are you doing with it? Out here?’ He sounded genuinely perplexed as if the toolbox had fallen out of the sky or something.
She sighed. ‘I live in the village. Someone was taking things from it. I didn’t want them to have my dad’s things.’
‘You mean stealing, right?’
She turned to face him, grateful that he understood immediately. He stopped dead, put the toolbox down with a thud and with one hand cupped her face.
‘Who did this to you?’
She turned scarlet and stammered. ‘No one.’
‘No one,’ he drawled, his smooth American accent suddenly dangerous. ‘That’s very strange because I can see a handprint.’ Now he studied her more
carefully, taking in her muddy clothes. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ He frowned and stared down at the hand she hadn’t realised she’d cradled defensively against her waist. ‘Can I see that?’
She swallowed back tears of shame. What must he think of her? That she asked for it? That she deserved it?
‘It’s nothing.’
He raised an eyebrow and in a second she saw his face change, the charming façade disappearing to absolute fury. ‘Did a man do this to you?’
She nodded miserably.
‘Oh, sweetheart, are you OK?’ He reached for her hand and she instinctively recoiled.
‘Hey, it’s all right, I won’t hurt you.’ With reluctance, she let him look at her hand, studiously looking up at the sky, aware of the proximity of that handsome face. He must surely be revising his opinions of her. She’d been secretly so proud when he’d recognised her talent for analysis. Since she’d started her new job, she’d found a new sense of purpose and she loved the work. Loved finding the jigsaw pieces to make the whole. Now he’d know that she was the nothing that Bert knew she was.
‘That needs medical attention. A cold compress.’
She nodded as if she knew what he was talking about and withdrew her hand.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Do you want me to report this?’
‘No,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s a family matter.’ If she put it like that he might drop the subject.
He studied her face with candid blue eyes and that sense of shame washed all over her again. She wanted to shrink into herself.
‘Ma’am, where I come from, any decent man treats a lady like a lady. He would not raise a hand to her.’
She sighed, feeling defeated. What could she do against Bert? ‘Maybe I’m not a lady.’
Carl Wendermeyer looked fierce. ‘You are a lady and don’t you ever forget it. Can you tell me who did this to you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Please. It’s fine. It was a misunderstanding.’
He frowned and looked at the toolbox. ‘And the tools?’