A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Everything seems in order,’ said Crombie, handing him back the passport plus a brown envelope containing a bundle of crisp five-pound notes. ‘As I told you, there is only a small amount of cash.’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  The solicitor nodded. ‘Times have changed. There’s a lot of competition in the pawnbroking business nowadays. I’ve heard of people doing business from their front parlours.’

  ‘Not proper shops?’ Michael sounded surprised.

  ‘No. Not really legal either.’

  ‘I will make the shop better profitable.’

  ‘More profitable,’ Crombie corrected.

  Michael flushed at his slip in grammar. ‘That is right.’

  ‘I have the keys here.’ He reached into a desk drawer and brought out a bundle of keys. ‘Thomas Routledge, the caretaker I placed in your uncle’s shop following his demise, is still in situ. Morose would be the best word to describe him. Would you like me to come with you in case he takes to being surly?’

  ‘I can manage,’ said Michael, rising to his feet at the same time as taking the bunch of keys from Mr Crombie’s hand.

  The two men shook hands. ‘It won’t be easy for you, especially seeing as you’ve never ran a business before.’

  ‘I will learn.’

  ‘I’m reminded of an old saying that there’s no sentiment in business. I’m afraid your uncle did not adhere to those words. He had a soft heart.’

  Michael blinked but said no more. He didn’t want to say that his heart was dead or that ruthlessness could easily override sentiment if survival was involved. He didn’t want to mention anything about his flight from Germany – nothing, nothing at all. At least, not yet: the memories were too painful.

  The solicitor stayed behind his desk watching as Michael ducked beneath an overhead beam before gaining the door. It occurred to him that Michael had not smiled even once: a grim man for one so young.

  Three brass balls hung above the shop door. Wooden shutters hid the windows and the door was firmly shut, the paintwork faded and peeling like burned skin.

  Shielding his eyes from the bright September sunlight, Michael took a step back into the road and regarded his inheritance: at least one room on the ground floor, plus the shop, perhaps two above that and perhaps one or two attic rooms at the very top.

  There was no sign of the caretaker, so he took it upon himself to enter. The key grated in the lock. An overhead bell jangled as he pushed the door open into a small porch enclosed by wire screens. Another bell hung beside a hatch arrangement. The notice above the hatch said that in the interests of privacy, only two people at any one time would be dealt with. The rest must wait outside.

  He wasn’t sure whether this was more to do with security than privacy.

  No one came in answer to the bell. He looked around for a door into the rest of the premises but could see nothing. The wire screens finished about two feet from the ceiling, blocking his view. Taking hold as far up the screen as he could, he laced his fingers into the holes, placed one foot on the polished counter, and heaved himself up and over.

  He found himself surrounded by glass-fronted cupboards filled with all manner of china, cameras, scientific and navigation instruments, musical instruments and, in barred and locked cupboards, an assortment of guns, sabres and assegais. Labels sprouted from brown paper parcels heaped along the shelving at the back. There were also drawers marked ‘gold’, ‘silver’, ‘wedding’ and ‘engagement’. A pile of ledgers sat in a corner on the counter.

  He’d expected to see the caretaker, but no one appeared.

  The living room at the back of the shop was exactly how he’d imagined it would be. Sepia photographs of family ancestors in stiff poses hung from the walls. The paintwork was dark, the wallpaper from the previous century unbearably ornate and furry beneath his fingertips. A chenille pelmet hung from the high mantelpiece and a tea caddy made to celebrate the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria sat next to a black onyx clock.

  There was a kitchen beyond the living room where a teapot and two cups and saucers sat on the table. He reached out and touched the teapot. It was still warm and there were dregs of tea at the bottoms of the cups, a trace of lipstick around the rim of one. Someone was in the house. He listened intently, heard a small noise and looked up at the ceiling.

  If Thomas Routledge was up there, why hadn’t he heard him? What was he doing that distracted his attention?

  The stairs were so narrow that his shoulders grazed the walls. The landing at the top was surprisingly wide and there was an arched window at one end. He paused as the heavy lace curtain billowed inwards in the breeze. The window, attractive as it was, looked out on a backyard and a tree vivid with red leaves.

  A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot and brought an exclamation from behind a bedroom door followed by frenzied muttering.

  Without preamble, Michael opened the door. The room smelled of sweaty bodies and recent sex. The man was naked. The girl was young, possibly no more than fourteen, though she had a worldly face.

  The man pulled the bedclothes over his lean shanks. ‘We’re closed!’ he barked, but looked nervous.

  The girl giggled, her small breasts jiggling in sympathy.

  ‘No. It is open,’ said Michael. ‘You were supposed to be running the business not lying in bed.’

  Realising who he was talking to, the man adopted a nervous grin. ‘I can explain—’

  Michael stayed his tongue but made his feelings very obvious. The curtains tore as he pulled them back, the window jamming then squealing as he pushed it open. Fresh air funnelled in.

  ‘’Ere, just a minute …’

  Michael pointed at him. ‘Get out of my shop, and take the girl with you.’

  The girl opened and closed her legs, giving him an unobstructed view of what was on offer. ‘I only charge ten shillings, mister,’ she said, her rouged lips smiling invitingly as though she were the most glamorous woman he’d ever set eyes on.

  She aroused no desire, but only memories of beds once slept in and events he’d prefer to forget.

  ‘Out,’ he said, his words as controlled as in the solicitor’s office. ‘Out,’ he said again, his fingers tightly gripping the door handle.

  Routledge shuffled his trousers before putting one hairy leg inside the brown, cheap material, closely followed by the other. ‘I’m still owed five pounds,’ he grumbled.

  Michael regarded Routledge with contempt. He’d met plenty of his sort, the coarse exterior hiding a matching though cowardly inner soul. His inclination was to take hold of the man by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants and throw him out through the window, glass, shutters and all, but he couldn’t. He mustn’t. He had to tread carefully in a country where foreigners were viewed with more suspicion than they’d ever been.

  Although it grieved him, he peeled off a fiver from the pile in the envelope.

  ‘And then there’s expenses …’

  Michael hardened his look.

  Routledge was wily enough to know when he was pushing his luck. He rubbed at the three-day growth of stubble sprouting from his cheeks and chin. ‘I can see you think I’ve had more than a fair share.’ He glanced at the girl. ‘Maybe you’re right, sir, maybe you’re right.’

  The girl squealed as he took her elbow and pushed her out of the door in front of him, even though she was only half dressed.

  ‘You owes me,’ she whined.

  ‘Let’s go down the pub. I’ll pay you there.’

  Michael followed them out to the door, where he wrenched the spare set of keys from Routledge’s hand, then locked and bolted the door behind them.

  Once it was closed, he sighed with relief, glad to be inside the shuttered building even though the smell of neglect was strong and the sound of water dripping from a faulty tap echoed like halting footsteps.

  Out in the meagre kitchen, he found a larder containing tins of food, some cheese, ham and bread. He also found a bottle of Camp Coffee, m
ade himself a thick, black cupful, and winced as the bite of chicory crawled along his tongue.

  The living room was comfortable though dark. After eating and half finishing the coffee, he settled down to doze, the tiring journey, the fear of what the future held finally catching up with him – except he didn’t sleep. Something caught his eye.

  In the corner of the room, he saw – wooden, old-fashioned, but compelling – a gramophone. Next to it was a pile of records. Like a man starved, he slid one after another off the pile, his eyes widening and his heart lifting. Jazz, popular songs of the day and classical; the latter were in the majority.

  Lovingly, he caressed the works of Hoagy Carmichael, Ella Fitzgerald and Caruso. Amongst them all he found a performance of Cavalleria Rusticana.

  The music wafted over him, salve to a tormented soul. The memories returned. Fearing to face them and blaming the music for their resurgence, he went to bed, but even there he could not escape. The past was too recent, too raw.

  Behind his closed eyelids he was back there, in 1929, pledging allegiance to the Nazi Party. To do otherwise would have isolated him completely from his friends, the young men he’d known for most of his life.

  The dream was pleasant enough, but unfortunately led into the later nightmares. He wasn’t ready to face them, and wasn’t sure he ever would be.

  In the morning, Michael checked his inheritance. The pledges – so he had found them named in his uncle’s ledger – were stacked on shelves, in cupboards and drawers, each labelled as to their content: watches; gold, watches; silver, bracelets, necklaces, rings; miscellaneous silver; miscellaneous gold – the latter, he discovered, included a number of gold teeth. He wondered what misfortune had occurred to necessitate the obvious discomfort of having a filling ripped from one’s mouth.

  Furniture was stacked and labelled in a back room, clothes parcelled and placed on myriad shelves.

  Some of the items pledged saddened him; a child’s clothes – pledged to pay for a funeral, it said in scrawled writing. So Crombie was right. His uncle had been too sentimental for his own good. The clothes were shabby, never likely to be sold on or reclaimed. He threw them into the pile he was making of items to be disposed of. It was growing swiftly.

  Other items almost made him laugh out loud or certainly raise his spirits.

  Combinations. New.

  A glass eye?

  A pair of black lace garters. Never worn.

  He didn’t hazard a guess as to the reasons why any of them had been pledged. After checking the dates – years ago – he threw the items onto the pile, had second thoughts about the black lace garters and retrieved them.

  The next thing he did was to destroy the family photographs. He didn’t want them staring down at him. He didn’t want to remember who and what they were because in doing so he would be reminded of what he had done.

  Chapter Three

  One week later, Mrs Riley came in response to Mary Anne’s letter, sneaking along the back lane like a thief in the night, just as instructed.

  Mary Anne looked up as the back gate creaked open, the sound making her stomach churn. As she eyed the quick, thin figure scurrying up the garden path, her instinct was to curl her hand over her stomach. God knows, every mother’s first instinct was to protect the new life within.

  But you can’t keep it. Harry will hate you being pregnant just as he did the other times. And you have to live with him – if you can call it that.

  The formalities were quickly dispensed with. Mary Anne wanted no friendship with this woman. The bottle was as small and brown as the person who brought it. She clenched her jaw as she handed over the two pounds she was being charged. Two pounds! She didn’t doubt that the canny old woman had made enquiries first to see how much she could afford. She had a shrewd face and small, quick eyes, the sort that eyed up everything in order to weigh up its worth.

  Mary Anne did a few sums in her head. With a bit of luck, she should make that amount up within the next week or so with a few hocked items from women wanting to give their men a good send-off, or provide extra winter clothes before the war economy really started to bite. And even if she didn’t … well … the final outcome had to be worth it … if it worked, that is.

  Mrs Riley spat on the pound notes before folding them in quarters and sliding them into the large bag she carried. Mary Anne tried to avoid studying the bag, but its purpose drew her more so than its details. Made of thick tapestry fabric with wooden handles heavily soiled with sweat and other stains she didn’t want to think about, the base bulged with what could have been balls of wool. The tip of a bone knitting needle pierced the tight bud of a stylised square rose. Along with the brown bottle, the needle was one of the tools of Mrs Riley’s trade.

  ‘Will it work?’ Mary Anne asked, carefully averting her eyes from the tip of the knitting needle. She wasn’t a fool and knew well what else it was used for. Pray God she wouldn’t need it to end her predicament.

  Mrs Riley, infamous for helping women out when they were in that ‘certain’ predicament, jerked her chin high and nodded like a braying donkey. ‘Oh aye. A dollop in the morning, a dollop at noon and a dollop at night should shift it, me darling. There’s a good bit of Penny Royal in that, liquorice, senna and some old gypsy herbs that you wouldn’t know about.’

  Mary Anne felt her stomach tightening as she nodded an acknowledgement. Her mouth was too dry for words. Penny Royal was one of the best things going for passing the unwanted from the body. It hadn’t worked so far, but perhaps the secret gypsy herbs might make a difference. Despite the feelings of guilt and shame, it was something she had to do. You’re too old to be expecting, she’d told herself after two months’ bleeding had been missed. A third month and the old familiar feelings of bloat, painful breasts and instinct confirmed that she was.

  The liquid in the bottle glugged and gurgled as she rolled it around in her palm. Her thoughts were so involved with her ‘little problem’ that she hardly noticed the Riley woman was slow in leaving.

  ‘There’s one other thing before I go,’ Mrs Riley said, sniffing back a nostril of snuff while delving into the depths of her copious bag. ‘What will you give me on this?’

  A snow-white tablecloth shone like the moon in the dim coldness of the washhouse.

  Mary Anne’s eyes widened as she fingered the gleaming fabric as a thought came to her. The whiteness was dazzling; too white for the likes of Mrs Riley to have laundered and ironed.

  ‘It’s damask. Where did you get it?’

  Mrs Riley’s smile revealed yellow, irregular teeth in a face as round as a suet dumpling. ‘You could say it was a gift – for services rendered.’ Her grin widened. ‘Even the toffs need my services; they did in the past, and they will now we’re at war with Germany again. There’ll be a lot of women enjoying themselves too much, their men away fighting and the few left behind able and willing to do them a service. Women gets lonely being left trying to make do with what the rations allowed, and I ain’t just referring to the food. Sometimes they’re left with a little problem, so they call for old Mrs Riley. So there you are! Best damask there is. Will you give me five bob for it?’

  Mary Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it. She imagined it covering her table with a Sunday tea laid out on best china. Five shillings! It was worth far more.

  Only rarely did she hope that someone never came back for the item they’d hocked. She’d lent money against everything from a tanner for a tin of pre-war sardines to two pounds for a wedding ring. But this was an exception. Mary Anne loved the look and feel of good quality linens – and five shillings was such a tiny pledge. It had to be worth more than that.

  ‘It’s very fine …’

  She couldn’t help hesitating. Her visitor didn’t look rich enough to possess such a fine cloth and she didn’t entirely believe it to be a gift. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so.

  Seeing her hesitation and guessing at the reason, Nellie Riley made a smacking sound with her lips a
nd went on to explain. ‘It belonged to a lady’s maid up in Clifton. She ’ad a problem, you see. The master of the ’ouse was a bit too free and easy with her. Poor cow was beside ’erself and the dirty old sod denied all knowledge. Threatened to throw ’er out on the streets if she kept on accusing ’im. Wouldn’t pay a penny towards what ’ad to be done, so me dear, I took payment in kind plus five shillings he finally gave her when she threatened to tell ’is wife. But just look at it! What in the name of the Blessed Virgin am I going to do with a white tablecloth that size in my place in Old Market? It’s big enough to cover me place twice over. And it’s a shame to waste it, though it’s not that I’m that ’ard up, but seein’ as I don’t have no use for it…’

  Mary Anne fingered the soft whiteness while fighting the urge to bury her face in the crisply beautiful fabric, just like her own washing after a day of blowing in a stiff breeze. The prospect of turning a shilling couldn’t be overlooked, though there was nothing to gain by appearing too keen.

  She decided that Mrs Riley was as hard up as anyone and would do anything for an extra shilling; hence the damask cloth … and the dark liquid in the small brown bottle.

  Mary Anne pushed her personal worries to the back of her mind, hid how she really felt about the tablecloth and adopted the shrewdness for which she was famous thereabouts. ‘I can’t give you much.’

  ‘I’ll trust you to give me what it’s worth, and if you don’t then I can take it down Uncle Bob’s.’

  ‘Uncle Bob’s dead,’ said Mary Anne, referring to the foreign owner of the proper pawnbroker’s at the bottom of Bottle Lane off East Street where the three ball sign swung above a lopsided door. She didn’t know what his real name was. Everyone called him ‘Uncle Bob’. ‘His shop’s closed until one of his family takes over. I hear it’s a family member from abroad.’