The Blitz Business

by D. A. Spruzen

  Elsie’s parents lived not too far away. They were getting on and could do with some help. She could go to them and maybe get some kind of job in Lymington. They had such a pretty house with lovely views of the sea. She’d like a steady, quiet life in the company of decent people. She’d done well in school, well enough for university, but her parents had been uneasy with the idea. Not many around there go to university, especially girls. They’d pressed her to go to a secretarial school, get a nice job, and find a husband after a few uneventful years. She’d done all that, always accompanied by a niggling unrest she could never quite dispel, and Tom had seemed like a great escape from the monotony of small-town life.

  Tom had been handsome and charming in those days, and she’d fallen for him almost right away. He’d worked with his father then, a controlling and abusive man. Just like Tom was now, although there was no hint of it then. Nothing he did was ever good enough for his father, but Tom just swallowed his feelings and carried on. Elsie had admired Tom’s fortitude. In the last days of his life, Tom’s father made Tom promise never to give up the farm and throw away his life’s work, no matter what. “Don’t disappoint me, Tom,” he’d croaked, clutching his son’s arm with an emaciated claw. This last manipulative coup haunted Tom still. And Elsie.

  There were hard years after the old man died, and Tom began to change. He was miserable and felt trapped, and his temper became ever more explosive. She’d tried to be understanding.

  “Why don’t we sell the farm?” she’d asked Tom one evening. “We could buy a little business, a pub perhaps.”

  “You stupid cow,” he’d shouted. “Don’t you know my father damned near killed himself to keep this going? I can’t just walk away from it. I can’t disappoint him like that.”

  “Tom, he’s dead. He can’t be disappointed anymore, and you know no one could ever please him in life; he was that kind of man. It’s not your fault. We have our lives to live. I want you to be happier, for us to be happy like we used to be.”

  “Oh, so now you’re not happy? The fairy tale’s over? Gilt’s off the gingerbread?” He slapped her face and stalked upstairs.

  That was the start of it, as if she’d betrayed him somehow. She’d tried to explain how she loved him still, just wanted him to be happy, but he wouldn’t listen. She’d not been keen on sex after that slap, the first of several. Anger and resentment squelched those feelings a little more with each clash, and eventually killed them entirely. That had made things much worse, of course, and his resulting mistreatment alienated her further. All her loving feelings for him had seeped away. It left an emptiness that was almost painful. War was good for farms, and she’d hoped he might be more at peace now they were on a firm financial footing, but rage still ate him raw.

  It’s not as if she wanted much out of life. Her parents wouldn’t approve of her leaving Pamela, though they’d have strong views on that. And Pamela certainly wouldn’t leave her father. She was stuck, at least until the girl left school.

  * * *

  Elsie opened the oven a crack to check the Yorkshire pudding. Rising nicely, nearly done. On Sundays they had a better cut of meat than usual, although Sunday wasn’t any different from the rest of the week on a farm. They weren’t churchy, even though Tom carried on his father’s practice of saying grace before meals.

  Pamela was home to help in the kitchen, not that she ever did much. She came downstairs to lay the table for lunch, their main meal of the day. She was giggling and opened the back door, poking her head out. Elsie could hear Jamie wailing over Tom’s curses.

  “What’s going on, Pamela?” she asked, running to the door.

  “It’s the idiot, Dad’s hosing him down, and he doesn’t seem to like cold water. I watched it all out of my bedroom window. He fell into the pig muck. That sow can be pretty aggressive, and I suppose Jamie’s afraid of her. They always sense it, don’t they?”

  “That’s awful, it’s freezing outside.” Elsie wiped her hands on her apron. “He’ll catch his death of cold.”

  “Well, he can’t expect us to put up with that stink indoors, can he? He’ll have to learn, just like everyone else. And who’d want him to use our bath in that state?”

  “You know, Pamela, you’ve become very callous. Can’t you find any sympathy in your heart for that boy?”

  “Should’ve been drowned at birth, that’s my opinion.”

  “Oh, Pamela, listen to yourself.”

  Elsie had few illusions about her daughter, but Pamela’s heartless words still shocked and saddened her. Pamela didn’t need her; she followed her father’s example and learned nothing of consequence from her mother. Elsie had tried to instill some sense of humanity in her children, but she’d failed with this one. Gerald, thank heavens, was a credit to her. Pray, God, he’d stay safe in this dreadful war.

  Tom dragged Jamie in by the scruff of his neck. He was sobbing and shivering, ashen from fear and cold-pain.

  “Tom, he’s got to get out of those wet things,” Elsie whispered. “He’s going to get ill.”

  “Get him some of Gerald’s old things. Nothing too good, mind. I know what a soft touch you are. Let him towel off and get changed. Bit of work after lunch should get him to rights again.”

  “Don’t you think a warm bath—”

  “I’m not paying to heat up water for a stupid boy who’s afraid of a pig! Get on with it. I’m hungry and I want my lunch on the table in ten minutes.”

  Elsie climbed the stairs, heavy with distress. She found some old clothes, which were at least warmer than Jamie’s poor things.

  Pamela had finished laying the table and was poking at the potatoes, still smirking over Jamie’s plight. Elsie ignored her, got out the roast, and brought the cabbage to a boil. The gravy was simmering, left over from the day before. She drained the potatoes and began to mash them with fierce, stabbing movements.

  “My, aren’t we in a pet,” Pamela said.

  Elsie spun around and the girl recoiled from her furious face.

  “You insolent little brat, how dare you speak to me like that!” Pamela began to laugh. As Elsie started forward as if to slap her, Pamela danced away. Elsie closed her eyes for a moment to get herself under control. Reacting like that helped nothing. She should ignore her daughter’s unpleasantness from now on to keep some semblance of peace.

  Lunch was spent in near silence after grace. Elsie thought she’d go mad from Tom’s nerve-jabbing plate scraping and wet chewing, interspersed with Jamie’s bouts of shivering that he tried hard to suppress. Pamela alternated pouting with contemptuous glares at her mother and Jamie; she rewarded Tom with an occasional sweet smile.

  Tom scraped his chair back. “Time to get back to work. Come on, Jamie, look lively.”

  Elsie had to speak up. “Tom, I really don’t think he’s up to it.”

  Tom leaned his fists on the table and brought his face level with hers. “Oh, you don’t think so? Why don’t we all just take a nice little holiday?”

  He stamped out with Jamie trailing behind him, his narrow shoulders slumped like an old man’s.

  He was going to get ill, might run away, and the trouble would start all over again.

  “Come on, Pamela, let’s clear up.” A little holiday would be nice. Alone.

  “I’m tired. I want to take a nap.”

  “After the work’s finished, Pamela. I’m not the maid around here.”

  “Might as well be.” Pamela stood in front of a little mirror next to the door, running her fingers through her waves and pinching them forward or back as she monitored the effect. Her mouth pursed into what she probably thought was a film star pout, but she only succeeded in looking like an unpleasant and petulant chit.

  “What’s got into you, Pamela? You used to be a sweet child. You’re only sixteen, how did you change so much?”

  Pamela swung around. Hands on hips she leaned toward her mother like a harridan berating her neighbor over the fence. “Oh, you’re so boring. I hate my life. Dad
dy at least treats me with some respect. If you want respect, you have to earn it, you know.”

  Earn it? By mistreating helpless children? “What have I done to lose your respect, while your father enjoys your full approval?” Elsie’s breath came fast and shallow. Her head pounded in step with her heart.

  “You don’t love him anymore, I can see that. He works so hard, and when he gets fed up with the stupid things you do, you just go all wobbly, like that idiot out there.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that, Pamela, how dare you! Get out of my sight!” Elsie turned away and leaned on the sink, clutching the rim as if it might fly away.

  The front door slammed. Still shaking, she began the washing up. Tom had stolen their daughter, somehow. She couldn’t take much more of this. Looking out of the window, she caught sight of Pamela, looking rather foolish as she minced with grim purpose across the yard. Gone to complain to her father, she supposed. More rows.

  Supper was another episode of silent tension. Jamie looked exhausted and soon asked if he could go to bed. He thanked her for the meal, and she dredged up a smile and wished him goodnight. Tom said nothing, didn’t look at him. Pamela went up soon after, saying she had homework to do, although she was a poor student and almost never studied. She’d leave school at the end of the summer term, as there was no point in going any further.

  “What do you think Pamela will do when she leaves school?” Elsie asked Tom.

  “I don’t know. What does she want to do?” Tom replied.

  “She hasn’t said. Hasn’t she said anything to you?” He’d know if anyone would. Didn’t he realize Pamela hardly spoke to her mother anymore? Did he notice anything?

  “No, she hasn’t mentioned anything. There’s plenty of work around here, anyway.”

  “It would do her good to get a job and get out in the world.” And away from home.

  “No need for that. Leave her alone, do you hear? You’re always on at that girl,” and Tom finally looked at her, scowling with fierce challenge.

  It was true what Tom said. There would be plenty to do on the farm because Elsie would be gone by that time.

  * * *

  Jamie and Elsie retreated into themselves a little more each day, going about their daily tasks without speaking unless they had to. Jamie’s eyes didn’t meet Elsie’s anymore, and he looked as pale and listless as she felt. Poor boy. She smiled and stroked his hair when no one was looking. She left little treats in his top drawer when she could. There wasn’t much more she could do for him. At least he knew she liked him. That had to count for something. Pamela had hardly spoken to Elsie during the two weeks since their fight, and of course she never spoke to Jamie.

  She’d love to leave this house. Even if she and Tom were still happy together, she’d want to leave. It had never been her home; she’d not been allowed to move a picture or bring in any small item to her liking. His parents’ hefty furniture swamped the rooms and she sometimes felt the pieces watching her in solemn disapproval. First Tom’s father, and then Tom, wouldn’t hear of changing anything. Even the chintz curtains managed to exude morbid gloom from their faded panels.

  The next Monday, Elsie stood washing up the breakfast things when she spotted a bicycle coming up the road to the farm. The land girl. She wiped her hands and walked across the yard to the gate. The girl got off her bike, panting a little.

  “Hello, you must be Mrs. Lake. I’m Valerie Rand. How do you do?” A friendly, open face.

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Lake. Come in for a cup of tea, you must be cold after that long ride. My husband’s in the cow fields, I think.” She seemed cheerful; might be nice to have around.

  “Thank you, it is a little chilly. Do you have any other help?”

  “Well, we’ve got two young men who come in the mornings and a young retarded boy, Jamie. He hasn’t learned the ropes yet, it takes them a while, you know.”

  “Yes, but once they’ve learned, they’ve learned, or so I’m told.”

  Elsie didn’t answer, but busied herself with the kettle. “Beaker all right for you?”

  “Oh yes, rather. I like my tea; dainty little cups empty much too quickly.”

  They chatted about matters that make up the warp and weft of village life. A sensible girl and pleasant looking. She was on the stocky side, but fresh-faced with curly, gingery-fair hair. She looked strong, which would be useful, but gave the impression she wouldn’t put up with any nonsense, which Tom might find inconvenient. More turmoil, at least for Elsie.

  “Well, thanks for the tea, I’d better go and find your husband now and get to work.” She grinned at Elsie and strode off, not seeming to notice the cutting January wind.

  That land girl program was something Pamela would benefit from. Most of the farmers had lost laborers to the war effort, so the girls helped fill in for them. Tom would never let her do it, though. And Pamela would fight it tooth and nail.

  * * *

  It was Elsie’s washing day, so she lit the water heater and went upstairs to collect the dirty clothes. She checked in Jamie’s room to see where he’d put his clothes, but didn’t see any. She opened his chest-of-drawers and found pants and socks neatly folded in the bottom drawer. He only had one change of clothes, and nothing warm at all, apart from the clothes he’d put on after the pig muck incident. It took so long for things to dry, they’d not been washed since. She’d add some warm things little by little, things Gerald wouldn’t miss, although Tom would probably notice. She found the chocolate in the back of the top drawer that he’d brought with him; he’d taken tiny nibbles of it, trying to make it last.

  When she got downstairs with the basket, she was surprised to find Valerie sitting at the kitchen table. Elsie looked flushed and indignant. Oh, Tom, not already, couldn’t you have waited?

  “Mrs. Lake, tell me about Jamie.”

  “Well, I told you, didn’t I? He’s retarded, and Mr. Lake is trying to teach him the work.”

  “Trying to teach him? Trying to beat it into him, more likely,” Valerie said. “I was watching him work, he hadn’t noticed me yet. They were rounding up the cows, but Jamie seemed scared and ran away from them when they got near him. Your husband went berserk, boxed his ears and threw him down in a pile of cow manure. Now he’s crying his eyes out and your husband is shaking him like a madman. I can’t work for a man like that! I’m leaving, so be sure to tell him what I said. I’m afraid I’ll have to tell my supervisor why I’m not coming back.”

  Elsie said nothing as Valerie turned her back, went out to her bicycle, and peddled off down the road.

  Tom came around the corner into the yard dragging Jamie by his ear.

  “No, please, no cold water, no water,” Jamie screamed until Tom slapped him and told him to shut up.

  Elsie went upstairs and put dry clothes and a towel on Jamie’s bed, another blanket, too. She came back down to the kitchen to the same scene as before, only with Jamie looking downright ill this time.

  “Jamie, go upstairs, I’ve put dry clothes and a towel on your bed.”

  “Who was that on the bicycle? That wasn’t the land girl, was it? She was supposed to be here after breakfast.”

  “She was here, Tom. She went out to find you. She saw what happened in the field with Jamie and said she didn’t want to work for a man like you.”

  Elsie held her breath as Tom balled his fist, but he said nothing and went out again, shutting the door with a click that managed to be both quiet and resonant. He’d take it out on both of them later. She boiled some milk and put a little precious sugar in it and went up to Jamie. He was slumped on his bed, rocking back and forth and still sobbing. Elsie sat next to him and drew him to her.

  “Jamie, I want you to drink this warm milk and get into bed. Try to sleep a bit, you’ll feel better. I’ll call you when lunch is ready. You’re a good boy, Jamie.”

  “Mr. Lake doesn’t think I’m a good boy.”

  “Yes, but I know better. Into bed now.”

  Jamie’
s sobs quieted as he sipped the warm milk while she held the cup. He smiled weakly and closed his eyes. Elsie stroked his hair, lifeless now, like his beautiful eyes.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered. She tucked him in, giving him a little wave as she left. One hand rose and fell in reply.

  Jamie didn’t answer when she called him for lunch. She went up and found him asleep. She felt his burning forehead and went down to the bathroom for aspirin. She coaxed him awake long enough to get two tablets down him, then tucked him in again. Tom was taking off his boots when she got back to the kitchen.

  “Where’s that damned boy?”

  “He’s asleep, Tom. He has a high temperature. He’d better stay inside today.”

  “How do you know Little Lord Fauntleroy isn’t playing games?”

  “I felt his forehead while he was still asleep, it was burning hot. I gave him a couple of aspirin. I’ll have to call in Dr. Gibson if he gets worse.”

  “Don’t you dare get that doctor in. These people can’t mind their own business. We don’t want any more talk. Doctors cost money, too, or had you forgotten that?”

  When Tom became aggressive he held himself as if he carried a football under each arm, rather like a gorilla she had seen in the zoo once menacing one of his females. Now he looked at her with a hatred shocking in its intensity. She put his plate in front of him and they ate in silence. No grace this time. He shoveled his food down as if stoking a boiler and left right after.

  She’d get out, and she would make sure Jamie did, too.

  Elsie moved through the day with compulsive precision. She finished the washing, hung it on the clothes horses in the old pantry, checked on Jamie, administered more aspirin and warm milk, cooked and cleaned, fed the chickens and ducks—the endless enslavement of a farmwife. Tom came in, ate in silence, and went out in silence. He went to bed early and fell asleep at once. She lay awake for hours, finally falling into a dead sleep, only awakening with a jolt when Tom clattered down the stairs in his boots.