A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘What with this war going on, she’s coming to live with us. Frightened to death she is. Couldn’t tell her I put her spoons in hock because a greyhound that should have won stayed at the back of the pack.’

  It wasn’t much money, but better than nothing. Michael looked at it in the palm of his hand and mused about why he wasn’t making more.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ said the man. ‘Go out and have a few drinks before you gets called up.’

  ‘I am not quite physically fit.’

  The man looked him up and down. ‘You seems healthy enough. Takes one hell of an injury not to present as A1.’

  ‘Looks are deceiving.’

  Looks are deceiving. He’d learned that phrase back in Germany and well knew its worth. Looks, indeed, were deceiving. So also were actions.

  A woman came in later. She was looking for a wristwatch as a going away present for her husband.

  ‘One he can count the minutes on until he gets back,’ she said, her eyes misted, her head drooping like a damp flower. ‘I tried the other pawnbroker in Kent Street, but she didn’t have anything.’

  Michael frowned. When the shop was shut he’d taken the opportunity to get to know the area better, walking around and around, noting shops, houses, bus stops and likely competition. He did not recollect seeing a pawnshop.

  ‘I did not see any shops in Kent Street.’

  ‘Oh. There’s not. It’s just a woman. She runs a bit of a business from the back of her house. Nothing much, mind you, just little things for the neighbours.’

  She bought a watch. Fifteen shillings – his biggest transaction so far, but it wouldn’t be enough for what he had in mind. He needed more customers, he thought, gritting his teeth as the truth suddenly dawned. There was competition: unfair, illegal competition. He slammed the door shut behind the woman who’d bought the watch.

  Another Wednesday: after shutting up shop at one o’clock, he put on his good suit and made for Kent Street, a cul-de-sac not too far away. The terraced houses looked flat and bland, the surface of the pavements shining bright and brittle in the autumn sunlight.

  A communal shelter was being erected at the end of the street. There was a shop on one corner, an ARP station being erected on the other. The sight of shelters and suchlike filled him with despair. Already, before hardly a shot had been fired between Britain and Germany, the war was taking over people’s lives.

  Nobody paid any attention to the tall man whose careworn expression belied his years. They too would look older if they’d gone through what he had, but they wouldn’t know and he wouldn’t tell them. Secrets, trials and tribulations were not meant for sharing.

  It was two o’clock. Women standing at doorways watched what was going on, exchanging comments with their neighbours. Some jiggled babies on their hips. Being careful not to betray his accent, pronouncing every word with care, he asked one of them where he could find the pawnbroker.

  A woman stopped wiping the snot from her baby’s nose and eyed him suspiciously, as though considering whether she could trust him with such important information. She made up her mind that she could. ‘Number ten, but you’ll have to go round the back. She doesn’t do business at the front. There’s an alley …’ She pointed. ‘That way.’

  Stepping over piles of sandbags and skirting pools of newly poured cement, he made his way through an archway running beneath and between the end houses. The alley was narrow and made narrower by yellow flowering weeds and nettles and hummed with the sound of machinery from a soap factory whose wall ran along the back of the lane.

  On the other side, chicken coops, garden sheds and ramshackle greenhouses crowded the long narrow gardens, the homemade greenhouses only big enough to hold a tribe of tomatoes and a few boxes of seedlings.

  The houses were not numbered at the rear, so he relied on memory to count each house from the archway and thus reach the right one. His hand closed over a green iron gate. A narrow path wound between a fence and a line of washing. There was no shed or greenhouse, just an upright oblong of bricks that he guessed was a lavatory.

  He made his way up the path, dodging the billowing sheets as he went. The building described to him was no more than a shed tacked on to the back of a Victorian terraced house. The door was closed. He tried the handle. It was locked so he went to the back door of the main house and knocked at the door with his bare fist.

  As he waited he eyed the level garden, the rows of peas, cabbages and beans – some little more than seedlings, some coming near the end of their time. That was when he saw her.

  She was leaning on a spade above a row of potatoes watching him, her hair tossed by the breeze, like a fiery halo around her face. He realised that the billowing sheets had prevented him from seeing her.

  Her puzzled expression lessened as she straightened and brushed unseen dirt from her palms. He judged her to be older than him, but not plump like most women of a certain age. She was rangy and gave the impression that she could move quickly if she needed to. In some other time or place she might have been an athlete. She had that look about her.

  Tucking a strand of honey-coloured hair behind her ear and using her spade like a walking stick, she approached him.

  ‘Are you a friend of my husband?’

  ‘No. If you are the pawnbroker, I think I am looking for you.’

  A flash of suspicion passed over her face at the sound of his voice. He warned himself not to let his anger affect his pronunciation.

  She frowned. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No. But you knew my uncle.’

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘I have come to take over my uncle’s pawnshop.’

  ‘Oh!’ She sounded like a girl surprised by her sweetheart. She was girlish. Despite himself and the reason for his visit, he found himself admiring her. She had strength and purpose, characteristics he’d always appreciated.

  The suspicious look was replaced by a warm smile, which lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. He squirmed beneath its intensity. He’d prefer her to eye him suspiciously; mutual distrust made betrayal or aggression so much easier.

  ‘I’m sorry. How do you do?’

  She held out her hand. He took it and clicked his heels.

  She looked at him askance.

  He immediately realised his mistake. His mind worked quickly in order to allay her suspicions. He repeated his action, but this time also kissed her fingers.

  ‘My father had relatives in the army,’ he lied. ‘This is what they used to do in more elegant times. I fear clicking heels are now associated with Germany alone, though the kissing of hands is not.’

  The lie was plausible enough, at least it seemed so by the look on her face, though the puzzlement returned.

  ‘Was there something in particular …?’

  Michael was consternated. The sudden familiarity had caused him to remember that he had to tread carefully. The heat of his anger was less now. He could deal with her coldly, though as politely as necessary. He was a stranger in this country and an outcast in his own.

  ‘Your husband – he provides for you?’

  That frown again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why do you take my business from me? Do you realise the damage you are doing? You must not do this any more. If you do then I will report you to the authorities.’

  Now it was she who was angry. Pleasant creases appeared around her eyes, intensifying their blueness. ‘You will do what?’

  Mary Anne had been surprised when the stranger appeared, though he looked pleasant and she even thought back to Lizzie’s talk of knights in shining armour. Her curiosity had turned to anger the moment he threatened her little sideline. He could not possibly comprehend how important the business was to her, so was totally unprepared for her swift response. The spade made a whooshing sound as she swung it over one shoulder.

  ‘Get out! Get out now!’

  Earth crumbled and fell as she made a cursory sweep of the spade. />
  Michael backed off down the path, the sheets mockingly wrapping around him as sheets do, as they had done once before when he had seen his destiny – or thought he had.

  ‘Not so noisy. Your father is writing a sermon,’ his mother had warned. He’d been thirteen years old and sitting next to the garden fence, blowing his trumpet. His mother had been hanging out the washing on a clear, bright day. The sheets billowed – like clouds cut from paper – brilliant white against the crisp colours of late spring. He’d not exactly noted the crispness of the day back then. It only came back to him now. What had mattered was that his friends were about to march by. They all belonged to the Scouts. Michael’s mouth had watered at the sight of their parcel-coloured uniforms, the braid, the badges sewn like military medals over proud pubescent chests. Oh, how he’d longed to march with them. Oh, how he’d begged to join, to be a member, to be as they were, all boys doing the same things.

  Pastor Heinz Deller had made it clear that he did not approve of uniforms. His voice had boomed down from his great height onto Michael’s head, just as it did from the pulpit and onto the heads of the congregation.

  ‘Thou shalt not kill.’

  ‘But it’s only the Scouts.’

  ‘They wear a uniform. Uniforms make a mob of mere men.’

  He’d asked to join many times. He’d been refused many times. It had rankled, stewed like an old broth over a dying fire. The troop containing so many of his friends had marched on. He’d followed the sight of their heads bobbing, their arms swinging until they’d disappeared and he was alone; without friends, with only his mother and the man she had married.

  His mother had attempted to placate him. ‘Your father is a pastor. He has a lot to live up to.’

  Michael had been defiant. ‘He is not my father.’

  She had gripped his shoulders and shook him until he felt his eyes would fall out. ‘You must never say that. It is better for you – for both of us – that you recognise him as being your natural father. Do you understand?’

  He didn’t understand because it had never been explained to him. He didn’t find out the truth – or what he thought was the truth – until later, much later.

  In the meantime, on that bright spring day, he had blown his trumpet as his friends marched by. One of them, Carl, was the group’s bugler and blew his in response.

  Pastor Deller came out of the house in a temper. ‘Can I get no peace around here?’

  The trumpet was confiscated and Michael’s feeling of isolation intensified. The pastor did not like him mixing with militaristic types and that included the seemingly inoffensive Scout movement. His mother had supported her husband even when Michael implored to be allowed to do the things his peers did. As his isolation intensified, so did his resentment. Sometimes it boiled over.

  ‘One day I will do exactly as I please,’ he’d shouted. ‘Then you’ll be sorry.’

  How he wished he could turn the clock back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary Anne looked down at the street from her bedroom window to a world of grey wetness. Slate tiles dripped rain into gurgling gutters and on the other side of the road the milkman’s horse shook excess moisture from his mane.

  Henry stirred in the nest-like warmth of the bed. He wasn’t due to get up for another hour and held the bedclothes tightly to his head; a barrier between what he had to do and his preference for doing nothing.

  ‘It’s raining,’ she said.

  ‘Get back to bed, woman,’ he grumbled, diving deeper beneath the blankets.

  She stared at the spot where she’d lain beside him. The greyness seeping in at the window made the sheets look grubby. She consoled herself they’d look better as the day brightened, but she might wash them anyway. Last night ached in her belly.

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  The milk cart moved off, the wet road softening the thud of the horse’s hooves. The milkman saw her and waved.

  Mary Anne waved back and watched until the cart disappeared behind the corner shop at the end of the street just as the lights in the broad window flooded the road with light.

  The shop bell jangled preceding the emergence of John and his uncle armed with newspaper billboards, tin buckets, baths and brooms.

  Thoughtfully, she patted her stomach, wishing the brown liquid would do its work before the day was out. Her belly was barely lifting her apron, but her breasts were swelling against her blouse buttons.

  She tried to imagine what Henry would say if she lost the baby and didn’t tell him. He’ll kill me, she thought. He’d want to know my reasons and jump to an untrue conclusion. The unwanted pregnancy was not the only thing on her mind.

  She thought about the foreigner, nephew of Uncle Bob, and swallowed hard. What if he were to report her to the authorities? Could they do anything? Worse still, what if he came to the house when Henry was home? What would Henry do?

  Tight-lipped, her gaze fell on the iron-grey streaks in the dark hair sprouting above the bedclothes. To her mind it blemished the whiteness of the pillow. She was proud of her linen, confident that her washing was the whitest in the street. Vigorous scrubbing, hot water, a nub of blue and a handful of soda made her hands red, but at least the end results were something to be proud of, just like the business she ran from her laundry room, about which her husband knew nothing.

  ‘I think I’ll make a start on the washing.’

  He didn’t respond, but then she hadn’t expected him to.

  The washhouse was chilly at first but warmed up once the copper was boiling. Mary Anne skimmed the scum from the surface of the hot water and pushed the laundry down into the bubbles with her boiler stick. The steam clung to the walls. The smoke from the fire escaped through the small stack at the end of the lean-to. To those of her neighbours in need of a loan, it was a signal that she was open for business. The best time was always before Henry was up or once he and the rest of the family had left the house.

  Satisfied that the hard yellow block of Sunlight soap had softened enough, she attacked a sheet laid over the draining board, and followed it up with the scrubbing brush. Her stomach ached, the muscles knotting and cramping and giving her hope. Suds seeped between her fingers; hopefully something similar would happen between her legs, blood, not water.

  Absorbed in the task, she didn’t at first realise that she was no longer alone.

  ‘Mrs Randall?’

  Mary Anne jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. Surely it was too early for customers. They knew better than to call before Henry had left for work.

  ‘John!’ The sudden quickening of her heartbeat thudded beneath her hand. ‘You gave me a fright!’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  He looked nervous, shifting from one foot to another like a schoolboy who’s been caught scrumping apples.

  ‘Daw said you were joining up today. I s’pose you’ve come to say goodbye.’

  ‘Well, that and … Sorry, I’m forgettin’ me manners.’

  Mary Anne hid a smile as he took his cap from his head and folded his arms, tucking his cap into his armpit. Daw was going to wind this soft-centred young man around her little finger.

  ‘The thing is … you know that me and your Daw … I mean Doreen …’

  Mary Anne held up a hand. ‘We all call her Daw, John. No sense in you calling her anything else.’

  He nodded, the dark hair he’d inherited from his Italian mother spilling over his forehead. His eyes too were dark and he had a steady, mature look about him as though he’d turned wise at a very young age.

  ‘Thing is, I want to do things right. I’m proud to be off to serve me country, and me only worry is that Daw might get snapped up by somebody else while I’m gone, so I’ve decided to ask her to marry me.’

  Mary Anne controlled her amusement. John could be so intense, though passionate was probably the right word. As an orphan, he’d arrived in Kent Street just as news broke out that Lindbergh had circumnavigated the globe. John had collected every
newspaper cutting about flying ever since. He’d also walked out to Filton, a green suburb to the north of Bristol where a flying school and a small factory had sprung into existence. He hadn’t been able to afford to fly, but he’d watched from beyond the perimeter fence, fascinated as prototypes built by both the factory and local enthusiasts had bounced along the ground, flying in short, sharp bursts before bumping along the ground again. He’d told everyone who would listen about it.

  ‘So why are you asking me?’

  He looked down at the ground and cleared his throat. ‘I want to buy her a ring.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Mary Anne knew immediately where this was leading. ‘And you don’t have the money.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not for a really decent one. She’s worth a decent one.’

  His sincerity touched her heart. ‘Of course. You’re a decent man, John Smith.’

  ‘I’ve got this,’ he said, rummaging in his pocket. He brought out a silver crucifix set on a wooden mount. To one side of the cross was a picture of the Virgin Mary. On the other was Joseph. ‘It was my mother’s. I think it’s valuable. How much can you lend me against it?’

  It was beautiful and obviously Italian. Mary Anne stroked the intricately worked silver feet with her thumb and swallowed the lump that came to her throat. He must love her daughter a lot to be hocking this.

  ‘How much do you need?’

  She sensed his hesitation, his fear of feeling foolish or worse, greedy.

  ‘Would four guineas be too much?’

  Mary Anne bit her lip. She’d had a few bits of silver come through her hands, but mostly gold, wedding rings put in hock until next payday. But silver such as this? She’d never seen its like before and sensed it was very valuable indeed.

  She smiled. ‘Four guineas is no problem, John. Do you mind turning your back?’

  He looked askance.

  ‘I keep my money in my underwear,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh!’

  Cheeks reddening, he turned his back.