A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  Her eyes were downcast and she kept fiddling with her hair, her ear lobes and the buttons of her high-necked blouse.

  ‘When are you seeing John?’ Mary Anne asked in as calm a manner as possible.

  ‘About half past eight. He has to do his stint in the shop first.’

  John worked in one of the bonded warehouses where the tobacco was stored and weighed by customs before being delivered to the tobacco factory. His working day didn’t stop on arriving home. He was still expected to help out in the corner shop run by his aunt and uncle, who had brought him up since the death of his parents.

  ‘Here,’ said Mary Anne, passing her a ten shilling note. ‘Go out and enjoy yourselves.’

  When Daw’s face broke into a smile, her mother thought she looked beautiful. ‘Oh, thanks, Ma.’ She had dark eyes and luxurious hair formed into an exuberant cottage-loaf style, which framed her face and rested on the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were pink and her complexion a creamy white. Men tripped over pavements when she walked by, though her daughter rarely noticed. All her life she’d seemed blissfully unaware of the effect she had on people. John was the only man who mattered.

  ‘Are you sure he’ll enlist?’ asked Mary Anne, but thought she already knew the answer.

  ‘Of course he will. You know what John’s like. He would have joined the air force long ago if it hadn’t been for his Aunt Maude and Uncle Jim. He gave in then, but now … well … he might not have a choice.’

  Daw fiddled with her fingers as she spoke. She and John had been childhood sweethearts. It was only natural that they would get married one day.

  Mary Anne threw her arms around her daughter. ‘Damn! Damn war and damn men for making war!’

  She stepped back, holding her daughter at arm’s length and giving her a reassuring smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, Daw. This will all blow over and you’ll be married with three little ’uns before you know it.’

  She felt Daw’s shoulders shake and a muffled sob break against her ear.

  ‘I don’t like this talk of war. I don’t like it at all. It frightens me.’

  Mary Anne patted her back as though she were eight not eighteen. ‘None of us do, but cheer up. Have a talk with John later. Get yerselves a fish and chip supper. Everything will be all right, you see if it won’t.’

  She looked up to see Henry staring at her from the doorway, eyeing the ten-shilling note fluttering in Daw’s fingers.

  ‘You giving good money away?’ He said it breezily for Daw’s benefit, as though he were only joking. Mary Anne knew otherwise, but went along with what Daw would view as a joke.

  ‘For her and John to have a fish and chip supper seeing as he’s joining up. They have to say their goodbyes.’

  ‘Enjoy yerself, our Daw,’ he said, adopting the benevolent expression of the doting father, not once betraying the other man reserved for his wife alone.

  Once Daw was gone his attitude changed. He pointed an accusing finger and raised his voice. ‘That money’s for housekeeping and from my wages. I’ll have words with you about that.’

  She knew what he meant. Inside, she trembled. Outside, she remained calm. He never showed his brutish side in front of the children. He saved that for her.

  Turning his back, he left her there and for once the anticipation of what he would do later faded away and somewhat surprised her. After considering this new response, she counselled that England was sticking up for itself, and perhaps it was time she did so too.

  Back in the kitchen, the atmosphere was damp and steamy, warm though a little more subdued than normal.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, with a wave of her wooden spoon. ‘I’ll have no glum faces around this table. Hitler ain’t invited to dinner. He can get his own!’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare,’ muttered Harry, disappearing behind another newspaper and another crossword.

  His father still glared at him, disdain flaring his nostrils and like flints in his eyes.

  Lizzie was attempting to open a drawer of the painted green dresser which stood, packed with crockery, against one wall. It was scuffed and scraped and painted pale green. Its handles were brass and its drawers and doors sagged slightly. It was stuck.

  Lizzie was exasperated. ‘It won’t open.’

  Mary Anne elbowed her aside. ‘Let me.’ She tugged. Begrudgingly, it opened. Lizzie put the cutlery away.

  ‘Better tell our Stanley that there’s suet pudding and custard left.’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No. I’d better. I asked him earlier and he said no, but his stomach might be feeling emptier now.’

  ‘Has he been out again?’

  Mary Anne sighed. ‘Yes, the little devil. He’s tired himself out.’ She frowned. ‘I wish he wouldn’t. He’s too sick. He doesn’t seem to realise …’

  ‘Mum, he seems so much better,’ said Lizzie. ‘He’s not really so sick.’

  Mary Anne was indignant. ‘Yes he is! I’m his mother. I know him better than you do.’

  Her snappy response made Lizzie jump.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ asked Harry.

  ‘She’s only got one child left and she’s making the most of it.’

  Mary Anne went along the passageway and into the front room where a bed had been put up when Stanley had first became ill. So far, Mary Anne had resisted all attempts to put the bed back upstairs behind the curtain dividing the boys’ sleeping area from the girls’.

  ‘Hello, Stanley,’ she said brightly as she peered round the door.

  Stanley did not reply. He lay very still, his big blue eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles. His fair hair stuck out from his head in delicate sweaty pikes, framing his face like a fragile halo against the white pillow.

  He was far better than he had been, but not so strong as they’d like. Her heart lurched in her chest. It always did on every occasion she entered the room, half expecting the inevitable, which was why she rarely sent her other children to see if he was all right – in case he was not, in case he was no longer breathing, though the doctor had stated that the worse was over. A tremendous relief flowed over her body as his eyes flickered open.

  ‘I was tired,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asked, her smile truly reflecting a sudden surge of joy. She licked her lips hoping that her action might whet his appetite. ‘I’ve made spotted dick and custard.’

  For a moment he said nothing, his eyes regarding her impassively, almost as though he had not heard or was not sure whether she was real or if he was dreaming.

  Sitting on the bed, stroking his hair away from his face, she fought to control her expression. His skin was clammy.

  Mary Anne’s smile became fixed. ‘You’ve been out running about with those boys. Our Lizzie told me. You’ll tire yourself out.’

  He stared at her almost accusingly. Was he angry with her for not allowing him out? He’d come home sweating and worn out on the day Lizzie had seen him at the butcher’s.

  She began plumping up his pillows and tucking in his bedclothes.

  ‘You know I only want the best for you, Stanley. I want you to get better and stay better. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Her cheeks grew hot in response to his steady gaze and the strange look in his eyes. Deep down she knew why; no other member of the family had ever witnessed the violent Henry. No other member of the family had ever given their father anything but respect. She pushed the truth away, just as she’d always done, and adopted her ‘all is well’ smile.

  ‘So what about some pudding?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps later. I’ll come in again.’

  He said nothing, but she felt almost naked in the intensity of his gaze. He knew the truth that she did not want to admit to. She couldn’t talk about it, not with him, not with anyone.

  ‘Your cough’s better,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not hungry?’


  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Never mind. You rest for now and I’ll tell you a story.’

  She told him one of the stories she had made up just for him: tales to cheer him up and take him far away to a land where there was no illness, no pain, a land she said was like paradise.

  ‘Who lives in Paradise?’ he asked when she’d finished the story.

  ‘Fairies, elves, kind people, magic people, Jesus and God and all the angels.’

  ‘Dad won’t be there, will he, because he’ll be going to hell,’ he said, his voice heavy with feeling.

  Mary Anne swallowed the well of emotion that rose up inside her.

  Again she avoided the real issue, putting his comment down to tiredness.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ she asked again once she’d regained her self-control. ‘Spotted dick is your favourite.’

  He shook his head, his fearsomely bright blue eyes following her to the door.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Stanley,’ she promised, giving him a little wave as she left the room.

  ‘Does our Stanley want anything?’ Lizzie asked on her mother’s return.

  ‘No, but I said I’d ask again later before I go to bed.’

  Mary Anne paused for a moment before plunging the bread knife into the steaming pudding now unwrapped before them in all its glory.

  At first she didn’t notice that the atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Pen in hand, Harry stayed behind his newspaper.

  Lizzie’s eyes were flitting to everyone in turn. Mary Anne noticed her trying to catch her eye, jerking her chin towards where their father sat, his jaw clenched firm enough to break. He was glaring at Harry, who stayed behind the newspaper.

  Mary Anne sucked in her breath. She knew her husband well as all women do after a long marriage. He sat rigidly as he ate, his mouth chomping and chewing at the food; oh, how that sound filled her with revulsion. She hated that sound. Hated the man who made it and wished he wasn’t sitting at her table. Once his belly was full, the dam would break. The sound of eating would give way to anger.

  The pig’s head rumbled around in the boiling water. Steam turned to water and hissed as it dropped on the gas ring.

  Cutlery clattered onto an empty plate. The voice of Henry Randall also rumbled, like a dark cloud about to burst with thunder.

  ‘I’ll have no son of mine called a coward – me, who fought the Boche in Picardy. How will I ever hold up my head.’ He wagged a yellow finger, stained by years and years of smoking. ‘Never mind all this gallivanting half the night. You’ll join up, mark my words if you don’t!’

  WAR, screamed the headlines on the front page of the newspaper. The word itself quivered and the paper rustled before Harry came out from behind it, making a clicking noise by running the top of his pen along his teeth.

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘I insist.’

  Harry held his father’s gaze as he shook his head. They were so alike, thought his mother, but she loved one so much more than the other. She loved all her children.

  ‘No. I will not.’

  Slowly, stiffly, Henry Randall got to his feet, his knuckles resting on the table.

  ‘I’m warning you, my boy. You’ll present yourself for duty, or you’re out of this house!’

  ‘Then I’ll be out of here,’ said the younger man without raising his voice, without any sign of aggression at all.

  Henry Randall clenched his fist, kicked his chair behind him and moved towards his son. Harry did the same, but with mockery rather than anger in his eyes.

  Mary Anne reacted instantly and ferociously, standing in between them, the top of her head barely reaching their shoulders.

  ‘There’ll be no more talk of war,’ she proclaimed, the bread knife pointing at husband and son in turn.

  Both men stayed glaring at each other, one angrily, the other smirking his contempt.

  Mary Anne raised her eyes to heaven and said in a voice soaked with emotion, ‘Can we at least have some peace until tomorrow?’

  The two men bristled then sat down.

  Mary Anne sighed with relief.

  Eyeing both of them with a mix of misgiving and anger, she put a second helping of spotted dick and custard before each of them. Food led to contentment, and hopefully, peace.

  Lizzie, her expression fearful, made an announcement that she trusted to change the subject. ‘Patrick Kelly is joining up tomorrow.’

  Retrieving his chair, her father sat down and dug his spoon into his pudding. ‘Is he now. Well there’s a brave lad. Imagine! He could end up in Belgium, or even France. I’d be proud to call him son if he were mine.’

  ‘Well, he’d better not be your son,’ warned Mary Anne, her fixed stare conveying her hidden meaning.

  Lizzie’s intake of breath captured Harry’s attention. Both looked surprised, as though they didn’t expect their mother to know anything of Molly Kelly’s reputation.

  Henry Randall took a moment to understand her meaning. Once he did, he bowed his head. ‘Don’t be so daft, woman.’

  Head bowed and using his spoon like a spade, Henry shovelled spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.

  Lizzie and Harry exchanged knowing looks. Patrick’s mother was a slut. Everyone knew it, and some men just couldn’t resist.

  Mary Anne looked in the mirror above the sink, smoothing her hair away from her face and feeling faintly surprised, even quite satisfied, that she looked as good as she did. What did the likes of Molly Kelly have compared to her? Certainly not looks, but then, what did she care? The world had turned darker. Worrying about her children outweighed any worry about her husband’s fidelity.

  Harry left his pudding and headed for the back door.

  ‘I’m off out back for a smoke, and then I’m going out.’

  Mary Anne followed her son out into the backyard where vegetables pushed bravely up through the dark soil. A host of gladioli, bright orange and red, stood in regal battalions against the end wall, clinging on despite the descent into late autumn. An alley ran between the end wall and the soap factory. At this time of night, the gate was bolted. Mary Anne never allowed her family to use it. They were ordered to go round the front. Only her customers used the back, willing to pick their way through the puddles and chance meeting a rat running from the holes in the bottom of the factory wall.

  The tip of Harry’s cigarette glowed red in the darkness. He was staring up at the sky.

  Mary Anne rubbed her hands together before wrapping her arms around herself. The night was turning chilly.

  ‘You mustn’t take too much notice of your father. He’s upset that he can’t go himself.’

  ‘It don’t make no difference, Ma. I ain’t going,’ he said, flicking his cigarette into the cabbage patch.

  ‘But you’re not afraid.’ She said it as a statement, not a question, patting his arm affectionately as she admired the firm contours of his face.

  He thought about it before replying, his gaze still fixed on the stars.

  ‘Look at them stars,’ he said and pointed to the brightest in the sky. ‘How many lives have them stars seen slaughtered in pursuit of a cause? How many blokes have been told that they’re fighting for freedom, their country or whatever, and that God was on their side? Well, God can’t be on everyone’s side, can He, and some of those wars that were fought now seem bloody stupid; pointless in fact. So, Ma, I’ll bide me time. I won’t rush into the recruitment office on the spur of the moment. Besides, like I say, there’s more than one way to fight a war. I’ll think about it, and if in the meantime I get called up, then that’s a different matter, but until then …’

  ‘Here,’ she said, her hand closing over his in order to hide the pound note she was slipping into his palm. ‘Spend it on yerself. Have a pint or two with the boys.’

  He looked at the money in his palm. ‘That’s more than a few pints, Ma.’

  ‘Then take a nice girl dancing.’

  He grinned. ‘I don’t know any nice gir
ls.’

  Mary Anne laughed with him. ‘You cheeky bugger.’ Her mood turned more serious. ‘I don’t care how you spend it. Just enjoy yourself.’

  ‘One day I’ll pay you back for all you’ve given me, Ma. I’ve got prospects. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. I know that one day you’ll make me very proud, but you don’t need to pay me back every ten shillings I’ve ever given you.’

  ‘But I will. In fact, I’ll pay you back a hundredfold. I promise. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, Ma. You see if I don’t.’

  Mary Anne laughed. ‘Ooow, I could get expensive if I really tried. You’d have to be really rich.’

  The side of Harry’s mouth lifted in that wicked way of his. ‘I will be rich some day, Ma. You wait and see if I ain’t.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  They stood holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Love flowed between them and needed no words, but a look came to Harry’s eyes, as though he’d come to an agreement with himself, perhaps as a man heading for the confessional.

  ‘There’s something else I’ve got to tell you.’ His thumbs massaged her knuckles and the look in his eyes made her feel nervous. ‘It’s something that I can’t tell anyone else, something that’s become something of a burden. I need to share it with someone. I need someone to understand.’

  She frowned. ‘If you want me to understand, you have to tell me what it is.’

  A host of worries ran through her mind. What disease was he suffering from? Was he going to die? Or could it be something not life threatening at all, in fact quite commonplace if the truth was known.

  ‘Have you got a girl pregnant? I wouldn’t force you into marrying her, not if you don’t love her. I wouldn’t do that, Harry. It can cause more problems than it solves.’

  Shaking his head, his mouth lifted in that half-smile she loved so much. ‘No. That isn’t it. You’re the only girl in my life, Ma. You always will be.’