by Anna Jacobs
In May, Emma had her baby, a little boy who looked remarkably like his real father. She gave birth quite easily in the front bedroom of their house and Percy, brought in by the unsuspecting midwife to see his “son,” was reduced to tears by the miracle of new life.
“You are a lovely man,” Emma said.
“What, me?”
“Yes, you.”
He shrugged. “What do you want to call him?”
“What do we want to call him?” she corrected. “If he’s to be yours as well as mine, we both need to share the naming.”
He blinked at her in surprise. She had said this before, but he’d decided to wait and see how she felt when the baby was actually born. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. So—what is it to be? Stanley or Harold or John?” These were all family names, as well as names they both liked.
“Stanley, then. John Stanley Kershaw. Only we’ll call him Stan, eh?” At the door, the midwife cleared her throat and frowned at him. “And now I think you’d better get some rest, love.”
When he’d gone, Emma couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. It should have been James standing there, all proud and fatherly. But James was dead.
“There, there, love,” said the midwife, patting her arm. “Let it all come out. Having a baby takes some of ’em that way.”
So Emma wept for a while, then fell asleep. When she woke, she told herself firmly that she had to get on with living. She was lucky to have Percy, who had been kind to her in a hundred small ways. In return she owed it to him not to dwell on the past. And to her son.
* * *
One sunny Sunday in June, Lizzie went over to Outshaw to see Polly. She enjoyed the feeling of happiness in the small house there, and particularly enjoyed cuddling her little nephew. It was like old times to be together, just her and her sister, and she really enjoyed her day out.
Polly had come over to see her soon after Sam’s death, but what with Percy being there and Polly’s husband Eddie as well—which was the first time Lizzie had ever met him—well, they couldn’t really talk.
This time, Polly sent Eddie off to church and the two sisters sat and talked for ages.
“I’m having a baby,” Lizzie said abruptly when there was a pause in the conversation.
“You didn’t say! And here was I, thinking you’d plumped up a bit at last.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever plump up. I’m too much like Mam.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Polly asked, “Are you glad about the baby?”
“Very. And Sam left me some money, as well as the house, so I shan’t be short.” He hadn’t altered the will he’d made when they married, leaving her everything, though he’d not told her about it. Mr. Finch had had to explain things. Lizzie realised Polly was beaming at her and beamed back, feeling very light-hearted today for some reason.
“That’s all right, then. When is it due?”
“In October, Dr. Marriott says.”
“Plenty of time for us to make plans, then. Of course, I’m coming over to look after you when you’ve had it.”
“Come before then and give me a few lessons in looking after babies.”
Polly beamed again. “There’s nothing to it. They’re lovely, babies are. I wish I could fall for another.”
* * *
Another Sunday Lizzie went over to see Eva. That visit was very pleasant, with a generous country tea provided in spite of the food shortages, but there was not the same warmth as there had been with Polly. Alice tactfully left them alone for a while but they weren’t really close. In fact, Eva didn’t feel much like family now. She spoke so poshly and seemed totally engrossed in her work as a teacher.
Emma Harper felt like family, though, and as for her tiny nephew, Stan, well, he was a “little smasher.” Percy loved to cuddle him and coo at him and was always bringing him round to see his auntie.
So all in all, things were going well. And why Lizzie should feel so dissatisfied, she couldn’t think. She had her freedom and a baby to think of and a job she liked and plenty of money. But—an image of Peter Dearden rose before her. He hadn’t written since Sam brought her back to Overdale. He’d written to his mother, who gave Lizzie news of him from time to time, but he hadn’t written to her.
You’d think he’d have written.
Lizzie could only assume that he was upset about the baby. That he didn’t want to see her again when he got back. Well, she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself over him, definitely not. She was managing perfectly all right on her own and would continue to do so.
* * *
Then, in July, a counter-offensive on the Marne showed that the Allies were not yet defeated and the newspapers began to sound a bit more optimistic.
“It makes a difference, having those Yanks fighting with us,” people said. “We’ve turned the tables on the Hun now.”
And they had. Suddenly the Germans were retreating, giving way, surrendering. As if they’d run out of steam all of a sudden. It all happened so quickly, people couldn’t quite believe it was true.
In late July they heard that Peter had been wounded and was being sent home to recuperate. Mrs. D went round beaming at everyone. “It’ll all be over by the time he’s better,” she kept saying. “He’s got through. I’ve still got one son left.” Once or twice she added, when only Lizzie could hear her, “And maybe he’ll find himself a nice lass and have some children. I’d like to be a grandma, I would that.”
Lizzie, who hadn’t told her about the days she’d spent with Peter in Manchester, or the letters they’d exchanged, bit her tongue. Why raise old ghosts? She knew she wouldn’t be able to help seeing him from time to time, but she would manage—somehow—to stay calm, or so she told herself. She’d treat him as a friend—which was all he’d been really—and just be thankful for what she’d got. Peace of mind, a house of her own, money in the bank and a baby on the way.
* * *
It was August before Peter arrived in England, by which time Lizzie felt as big as a house, though Mrs. D laughed at her for saying that. “You’ve not put on any weight, except for your belly, and you’ll be as slim as ever once you’ve had it—unlike me.” She patted her own generous curves and smiled reminiscently. “I never did get thin again after our Peter, though I was quite slender when I was a lass.”
A group of volunteers brought Peter home from Manchester one hot day in August in a motor omnibus full of convalescent men. Lizzie was shocked when she saw him. He looked gaunt and ill, and very severe, not at all like the kindly man she remembered.
He limped into the shop on crutches and stood for a moment in the doorway, sniffing. “It still smells of coffee and spices,” he said in a hushed voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was all real. “I dreamed of it so many times.”
Sally came across to hug him to her ample bosom and urge him to come upstairs and sit down. “I’ve baked your favourite cake and…” Her voice trailed away, for he was staring across the room at Lizzie, his eyes on her swollen belly as if he’d never seen a pregnant woman before, as if her condition were somehow shameful.
Lizzie waited for him to say something, but he just gave her a quick nod and walked on past.
She watched him go into the back, her hand to her mouth, and if it hadn’t been for a customer demanding to be served, she’d have burst into tears because that had been revulsion on his face, definitely revulsion. By the time she’d served the old lady, however, she had herself in hand. It was her baby, and there was nothing shameful in having it. Definitely not.
So when Sally came downstairs, full of how tired her Peter had looked, how he’d eaten a piece of cake and fallen straight asleep, Lizzie was able to listen and nod and murmur appropriate responses.
It wasn’t until she was alone at home that night that she could stop pretending and let a few tears fall. “What’s the use?” she told the clock as she wound it up. “It’s no good wishing for the moon.”
As she snuggled under the bedclothes,
she said firmly, “I’ve just got to be sensible about this.”
But she didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to talk to him, see that fond, amused expression on his face as he teased her—and ask why he had changed? Had he met someone over in France? Or on leave in London?
Only she couldn’t ask him—wouldn’t ask him. She had too much pride to do that.
* * *
Lizzie’s baby was born on 20 September, after a prolonged labour. “Eeh, it’s a big ’un,” the midwife said complacently as she tidied the little boy up. “You did well to get him out, lass, you being so small. Though you’ve got decent hips for your size. That’ll be what did it.”
Polly, who had been there with Lizzie all the time, smiled at her sister. “He’s beautiful.”
As they laid her son in her arms, Lizzie could hardly breathe for joy, for he was beautiful. He didn’t look anything like Sam. He was just—himself.
“What are you going to call him?” the midwife asked. “Sam for your husband?”
Lizzie shuddered. “No. I’ve always had a fancy for Matthew.”
“That’s a lovely name,” Polly said softly, patting her arm.
They tried to make her rest in bed, but Lizzie felt fine and very restless. Within a couple of days she was pottering around the house, ignoring the warnings the midwife gave her to lie up. On the fourth day, she sent Polly back home to her family and managed on her own from then on, with a little help from Emma and Blanche.
But within ten days she was going mad spending so much time alone, so she put the baby in the fine new pram she had bought him with Sam’s money and pushed him into town. It was good to get out in the fresh air, and it was a fine day. Everyone seemed very cheerful because the Allied offensive was going well. They were talking again about the war finishing by Christmas, as they had done when it first started. Only this time, maybe they were right.
She didn’t see the figure on the park bench until she was nearly past it, then she hesitated and stared into Peter Dearden’s unwinking gaze. She saw anger in it, and disapproval, and her own anger rose to meet his. She stopped wheeling the pram, put its brake on and went to stand in front of him, arms akimbo.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He scowled at her. “I can look at you any way I want.” He jerked his head towards the pram. “Does he resemble his dear father?”
Lizzie shrugged. “No, actually. He looks like himself.” Still angry, she sat down on the bench beside him. “I’m not going until you’ve told me why you keep looking at me as if—as if I’m a worm.”
“Then I’ll have to leave you to it, won’t I?” Peter stood up hastily and lost his balance, so that she grabbed at his arm and pulled him back to sit beside her.
“Damnation!” He glared at her. “Let go of me, Lizzie Thoxby.”
“No.” To make sure he didn’t go, she nipped the crutches out of his hand and tossed them across the grass.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“To keep you here. I’ll go an’ pick them up once you’ve told me why you look at me as if you hate me.” She wanted to sob, for he was still staring at her like that, but she wasn’t going to let it pass. She’d had enough of being cowed by men.
“Why do you think?” he asked.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you.”
He stared down at his hands, then across the grass. “I thought you’d left him for good.”
“Sam?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I had, too.”
“But when he came for you, you went tamely back to him.” He gestured towards the pram. “Right back into his bed.”
“He dragged me back—and dragged me into his bed, too. Only he didn’t wait to get me to bed, he forced me on the kitchen floor in Murforth the first time.”
Peter breathed deeply, his breaths harsh and painful-sounding. “But you stayed with him. You stayed!”
But Lizzie had heard the pain in his voice and it gave her new hope. “You didn’t get my letter, then?”
“I haven’t had a single letter from you since Christmas last.”
“I wrote—after Sam had been killed. I explained what had happened.” And had wept over the paper as she wrote, for it was still painful to her then.
“I never got any letters. Not one. I thought—I thought you didn’t care any more.”
Silence fell. She looked at him, caught him looking at her, and said, “I didn’t write again when you didn’t answer because I thought you didn’t want me to.”
There was silence between them, broken only by the cries of some little children playing at bat and ball.
“It was all so painful,” Lizzie said quietly. She still couldn’t think about those last days with Sam without stirring up nightmares again.
She could feel Peter’s eyes on her and shook her head, trying to brush the memories away. “The night he was killed,” she said in a tight, hard voice, “he found your letters and tried to strangle me. He broke my arm as well.”
Peter could feel his own anger dissipating. “But Mum wrote to say you’d gone back to him.”
Lizzie looked at him in puzzlement.
“And since your letters had stopped, I thought—that you’d gone back willingly.”
“Never that. You could have trusted me a little, Peter.”
Silence again, then as she looked sideways, she saw he was weeping, silent tears streaking down his thin, drawn face. “Oh, love, don’t!” She put one hand on his arm.
He gulped. “I had built up some hope again—hope of a life after the war. I’d lost hope, you see, before I met you that time in Manchester, and you gave it me back somehow. Then—when I thought you’d—it took all the hope away again, you see.”
And she saw then how hurt he’d been by the war. How fragile he was.
“No.” She laid one hand tentatively on his and when he didn’t push her away, clasped his fingers in hers. “I didn’t go back to him willingly. He had to tie me to the bed at night to keep me there. I hated him.”
Peter was looking at the pram. “But you still have his baby. Sam’s still with you.”
She let go of his hand, got up and marched over to the pram, picking up Matthew and dumping him on Peter’s lap. “You take a good look at that child, Peter Dearden. He’s himself, not Sam. He’s my son, too, you know. And he’s a lovely little lad.”
As if to prove it, Matthew opened his eyes, blinked at the bright sunlight and nestled against Peter, murmuring disapproval of the awkward way he was being held.
“There’s the hope you’re looking for, hope for the future,” Lizzie said, her voice ringing with confidence. “Hope lies in the children who’ll have better lives than we did. Well, this child is my hope, any road. And he can be yours, too, if you’ll let him.”
She allowed the silence to continue for a few moments, pleased when Peter at last began to jiggle the baby and murmur nonsense to him. She saw then that for a time, until Peter had recovered, she’d have to be the strong one, the one to take the initiative. She’d heard other women talking at the munitions factory when their wounded husbands had been sent home; heard them saying how the war had marked their men, taken the heart out of them. Now she looked into Peter’s brown eyes and saw horror lurking there, too.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” she asked gently.
He nodded.
“Will you have to go back?”
“Maybe. It depends on this leg. It’s taking rather a long time to heal.”
“Don’t drop him!” Lizzie grabbed at Matthew and deliberately pressed closer to Peter. With one hand she held her son steady, with the other she reached for Peter’s head and pulled it towards her. “You daft ha’porth!” she scolded softly. “You should have written and asked me what was wrong.”
And they turned all of a sudden into a tangle of baby and kisses and rough khaki jacket.
Lizzie’s hat blew off and she chuckled. “Hold him!” she yelled, letting
go of Matthew and chasing after it, coming back breathless and laughing, waving the hat triumphantly.
And Peter couldn’t help laughing, too. For suddenly he’d seen hope reborn, not in the child but in her. Oh, she was a lively lass, his Lizzie was. And she was his Lizzie, had never stopped being that. Joy surged up in him and he had to fight back more tears.
“Let’s go home and get a cup of tea. I’m dying of thirst,” she declared. She had the baby securely tucked in the pram within seconds, Peter’s crutches by his side, and was fairly dancing with impatience to be off.
He thought she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his life. “I love you, Lizzie. With all my heart.”
“I should hope so.” She grinned. “And I love you, too.”
He had to kiss her again.
“We’d better get married quickly,” she decided as they pulled apart.
He blinked and stopped short. “Isn’t that my job—asking you to marry me?”
“No. Not this time.” She looked blindly towards the water glinting in the little lake. “This time I’m doing the choosing, and I’m going to be an equal partner when we’re wed as well.”
“I can see I’m going to be a very henpecked husband,” he said with mock sorrow.
She stopped walking for a moment to beam at him. “You are that.”
Then she was off, rushing the pram down the hill, cooing to the baby and only stopping to wait for Peter at the bottom. “Come on! Can’t you do better than that?” she demanded.
And he laughed back at her. “No, I bloody well can’t.” But he didn’t care, because the hope was still there, glowing inside him.
* * *
They seemed to spend a lot of time laughing together from then on, as they broke the news to an astonished Sally, arranged a quick wedding and celebrated in style with all Lizzie’s family. And it seemed part of their whole joyful new life that the war ended before Peter could be called back to the trenches.
“Eh, our Lizzie’s looking like her old self again,” Percy said to Mrs. D after the wedding. “It’s years since I’ve seen her looking so happy.”
“Or my Peter.” She mopped her eyes, as she had been doing all day. “I’m feeling a bit happy myself.” And started sobbing aloud, yet laughing at the same time. “Eeh, I’m a right fool, aren’t I?” she said, when Emma had calmed her down. “I don’t know what’s got into me today. But my Bob would have been that happy to see the two of them. That happy.”