A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Harry, who had already stripped off his shirt, ready to wash before going out that evening. ‘I’ll deal with our Stanley.’

  Harry dived under the table, crawling and scrabbling after his brother, who chuckled and laughed.

  At last Harry pulled him out. ‘Come on. I’m boiling you along with the sheets.’

  Fists punching in fun against his brother’s back and shouting words of protest, Stanley was carried out to the washhouse.

  ‘I’m dumping him straight in,’ Harry shouted over his shoulder.

  Lizzie put the kettle on. ‘You have a cup of tea, Ma, and I’ll put the shopping away.’

  Her mother did as she was told. Relief from taking the weight off her arms and feet flooded over her and gave her time to think.

  Lizzie’s comment about her children being grown up now had hit home, especially the fact that she would be left alone with Henry. When they were no longer at home he could only get worse.

  At present Henry Randall was triumphant. Before John had gone back from leave, he was told of the marriage and had made no objection. On the contrary, he’d been over the moon, slapping John on the back, offering him a cigarette and telling him he was proud of him joining the RAF and that he was joining the family.

  ‘Very glad we’ve such a brave chap in our street,’ he’d said, while throwing an accusing glare in Harry’s direction. ‘We need more like you if this bloke Hitler is to be taught a lesson.’

  Harry had smiled in that disarming way of his, as though he knew secrets no one else was privy to. Casually, as though it wasn’t him his father was referring to at all, he took up his pen to yet another crossword.

  John had glowed in his praise, and Daw had thrown her arms around her father’s neck and rained words of thanks against his ear, including the words her mother had asked her not to utter.

  ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so glad you didn’t mind us getting engaged before John joined up. Mum said it would be all right.’

  Mary Anne perceived a tightening around his throat; the veins prominent like fine bones. The engagement had been kept secret until John came home on leave to ensure his acquiescence, Mary Anne taking the view that he couldn’t refuse anyone in a uniform.

  His tone was like treacle. His eyes were like lead. ‘No, sweetheart. Of course not. You’ve got yerself a good man, a son-in-law any chap would be proud of.’

  Mary Anne’s stomach had tightened at the subtle change in his voice and eyes. Her children did not notice, but then that was the way their marriage had developed. To his children he was a firm but doting father who boasted to anyone who would listen that he never raised a hand to his children – and he didn’t. His wife was another matter entirely.

  Henry had been livid that she’d known about the engagement and hadn’t told him. The storm clouds were most certainly gathering, but she’d kept up the pleasant facade. Years of practice had made it easy.

  After everyone had drank the health of the happy couple with a small glass of Harveys Bristol Cream, Daw and John decided to go out and celebrate.

  ‘Are you coming, Lizzie?’

  Lizzie declined. She had kept her own secret that she was missing Peter. The only thing she was happy about – besides her sister’s engagement – was that she’d had her monthlies, and so had Daw.

  ‘I don’t want to be a gooseberry,’ she said, settling herself down at the table with a copy of Picture Post and a second cup of tea.

  They’d laughed and Daw had blushed. ‘You won’t be. We’re going to watch the film.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ll powder my nose and get my hat and coat. It’s turning chilly.’

  John had turned to their brother. ‘What about you, Harry?’

  Harry was standing in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece smoothing his Brylcreemed hair. He was wearing a well-cut navy blue suit; his shirt was crisply white and his tie a subdued mix of red and yellow stripes. His mother had commented how handsome he was, that she was proud of him. She also mentioned that the suit looked very expensive.

  ‘Must have cost you a fortune.’

  ‘Been doing a lot of overtime, Mother,’ he’d said, and kissed her.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Harry in response to John’s invitation to accompany them. ‘I’ve got a previous engagement.’

  ‘A date?’ The girls said it in unison, their faces bright with curiosity.

  Harry shook his head and went back to smoothing his hair. ‘No. Just a mate.’

  His father had scowled, his lips curling with distaste. ‘Making yerself look nice for a mate, now if that ain’t strange …’

  Harry turned, the set of his broad shoulders and scowling face leaving his mother no option but to stand between father and son.

  The girls and John were too wrapped up in their own plans to notice that anything was wrong.

  ‘We’ll be off then,’ said Lizzie, linking arms with her sister’s fiancé. ‘Now we’ll go in the back row if you like, John, but that does mean you’ll have to share your kisses with both of us. Is that all right?’

  John’s pink and white complexion turned scarlet. ‘Oh … um …’

  ‘Only joking,’ laughed Lizzie.

  Mary Anne smiled. It was the first time that week she had heard her laugh. Why had everyone been so glum of late? The war, she thought, answering her own question. Just the war.

  Once they’d gone, Henry had sat glaring at his son, his knuckles almost white because he was gripping the chair arms so fiercely.

  His face was one big, angry scowl.

  ‘Don’t you feel ashamed not doing as John’s done?’

  Harry raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. ‘Going to the pictures?’

  The blood vessels in Henry’s neck pulsed with anger. ‘You know damn well what I mean. You’d have more mates in the army, more worth bothering with, that is.’

  A half-smile lifted the side of Harry’s mouth as he buttoned his suit jacket and reached for his brown trilby. He skimmed its brim with his fingers so that one corner dipped over his right eye when he put it on.

  Mary Anne thought how much he resembled a photo of Humphrey Bogart she’d seen in Picture Post. Her heart swelled with pride. Some might say he was more like Noël Coward, but she couldn’t see it. Regardless of how they appeared to others, all her children were faultless in her eyes.

  ‘You don’t need to be in the army to have a lot of mates,’ Harry said, sliding his arms into his overcoat. One side of his mouth twisted in contempt. ‘Personally, I think a load of blokes being so close smacks a bit of left footers, if you know what I mean.’

  Mary Anne balked at the insults flying back and forth between father and son.

  Henry’s face turned puce and puckered as he sprang to his feet. ‘Us blokes in the army didn’t smell like bloody pansies! We were men. Real men.’

  Harry smirked. ‘And stunk like it no doubt.’

  Henry leaped at him.

  Mary Anne moved more quickly, standing between the husband she tolerated and the son she loved.

  ‘Now stop it! Just stop it!’

  Henry winced before her ferocious gaze. This fiery look was unfamiliar on the woman who kept the peace and had created as loving an environment as possible for the sake of her children; a rare glimpse of the woman beneath the dutiful exterior.

  There was pleading in her voice. ‘Leave him, Henry. Leave him to be what he wants to be.’

  Henry raised a purposeful finger, his face still glowering with rage. He wagged his finger just inches from Harry’s face.

  ‘If he thinks—’

  Mary Anne gripped his upper arm with both hands.

  ‘Henry. Please. Who knows what’s in the future. As he said himself, he might be one of the first to be called up, and if he is, so be it. All he’s saying is that he will not rush to enlist. Remember all those in the last lot? Rushing to do their bit and certain all the fighting would be over by Christmas. Well, let’s face it, they were wrong then and it looks
as if they’ll be wrong now. No one’s even began fighting on a big scale just yet and Christmas isn’t far away. Remember,’ she said again, the fierceness gone and a sad look on her face. ‘Remember how it was, how many of your own comrades never came back.’

  Fixing on the yellowing photograph of him and his friend Lewis, Henry blinked as the memories she’d provoked came flooding back, his whole body slack as though each and every one of those old pals were weights around his shoulders.

  Terminating their conversation, Harry turned his back on his father, now slumped in his favourite armchair.

  Harry kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Don’t wait up for me, Ma.’

  All might have been mended if he hadn’t turned up the knob on the wireless as he passed it. ‘Dance a bit. Enjoy yerselves.’

  Memories shoved aside, Henry sprang to his feet.

  ‘Don’t you bloody treat me like—Ouch!’

  In attempting to intercept him, Henry hit his knee on a chair.

  Mary Anne pretended not to notice. His mood would be foul enough without her making a comment about his clumsiness.

  Once the sound of the front door being slammed reverberated above the sound of the wireless, she began gathering the last of the dinner things, moving swiftly to pile saucepans upon frying pan and plate on top of plate.

  Out of the corner of her eye something moved; the prongs of a fork glinted beyond Henry’s tight grip.

  He was on her before she had time to pick up the plates and dash to the scullery, the fork digging into her cheek, just below her eye.

  ‘Turn my family against me, would ye!’

  She winced as the prongs dug into her face, enough to cause a red mark, but not enough to break the skin.

  ‘Please Henry. Everyone will see. And I haven’t turned anyone against you. Why do you say that?’

  She bit her lip as he repositioned the fork against her throat.

  ‘Like hell you didn’t! Never told me about me own daughter getting engaged. What right have you got to do that, eh? What right? They’re my children. I’ve a right to know. The other … the other don’t matter … the other …’

  His voice fell away and his brown pupils turned to black.

  ‘It was a long time ago, Henry. Why can’t you forget it? It’s all in the—’

  His face leered closer. ‘Because you never told me! That’s why! You never told me!’

  Tears squeezed out from her eyes. ‘But he died … he died.’

  Henry sucked in his lips and raised his hand.

  ‘The opening bars of the Blue Danube waltz played by the BBC Light Orchestra …’

  The wireless, its walnut case gleaming and smelling of beeswax, sounded so sane, so ordinary.

  He dug the fork into her side more deeply than her face or throat.

  She screamed.

  ‘I could easily kill you for what you did,’ muttered Henry, his hands around her throat, his face black as thunder. ‘Had another man’s baby and didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Edward didn’t come back. He died and the baby was adopted, Henry. My parents wouldn’t let me tell you. You know that very well—’

  Her words were choked off. She had been going to say that it happened before she’d met him. Her parents had thought it best for her to marry, even though Henry was working class. They’d insisted and at the time he’d been pleased to do so. She was pretty and had brought money to the marriage. If only Edward had come back. If only she had told him about the child. How many times had she regretted not doing that? Perhaps he would have been different – or perhaps he would have passed her by, too proud to take on soiled goods.

  ‘Stanley!’

  She hadn’t heard him come in, but there he was, standing round-eyed in the doorway, his pink lips wet and shiny, and a bloom in his cheeks.

  His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He looked as though he had just opened his eyes from a nightmare that was still there before his eyes.

  In that moment, she had never hated Henry so much as she did now.

  As Henry’s arms dropped to his side, the fork clattering to the floor, she ignored the soreness in her side, her own arms reaching out to enfold her son. Sinking her head against his, she enveloped him, smelled his hair and the slickness of his skin.

  ‘Stanley. My dear love.’

  She felt his eyes going beyond her, over her shoulder to where Henry stood, his arms lank at his sides.

  Stanley’s bottom lip trembled against her face. ‘Why were you hurting my ma?’

  ‘He wasn’t really,’ Mary Anne protested, managing a laugh though her side ached badly. ‘Your father was showing me how he’d fought a German in the war …’

  Henry’s face seemed to shiver as though he were searching for the right emotions to make the necessary changes to his face. She braced herself for the change of countenance, the corners of the down-turned lips tilting up into a smile, the softening of the square jaw, and the veins of his neck receding into the tough skin.

  He could do it so easily, she thought; charm the birds off the trees if he wanted to …

  She watched, feeling a little sick as Henry’s whole face beamed like the moon just coming out from behind a cloud. His voice was gruff.

  ‘We was just playing. Just having a bit of fun.’

  Mary Anne felt Stanley’s eyes upon her, the tips of his fingers delicately tracing the redness around her neck. In that moment, she knew that he knew, that he had seen and heard too many times.

  ‘No you weren’t,’ he said. ‘You’re always hurting my ma, and if you hurt her again, I’ll kill you.’

  Mary Anne shivered. The words were said with all the innocence of one without strength but with a great deal of endeavour. How could such a small boy speak so chillingly?

  Henry’s expression hardened and, for one dreadful moment, Mary Anne had wondered, Would there come a time when he would strike one of his children? He’d come close with Harry, but that one was too fly and strong enough to fight back, and Henry knew that. But Stanley …?

  She had resolved to stay close to him, to guard him with her life. Judging by the look in Henry’s eyes, she might very well need to.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The letterbox rattled and another letter from Patrick Kelly toppled onto the doormat.

  ‘One for me and one for you,’ said Daw, handing it to Lizzie.

  ‘I’ll read it later,’ said Lizzie, placing it in one of the tiny drawers of the hallstand.

  Daw, of course, ripped hers open immediately, her eyes filling with tears and her face reddening with emotion as she read John’s letter.

  ‘He’s being transferred, but he doesn’t say where.’ She glanced at Lizzie. ‘Hope it’s somewhere in Wiltshire.’

  They’d studied a map together, pinpointing airfields convenient for mainline train stations. At present both boys were in Suffolk – a fact they’d learned from John’s last visit home.

  Patrick, who was training to be an armourer on fighter aircraft, had come home only briefly, gone to the pictures with them, called in on his mother, and then promptly went back to base. He’d explained to Lizzie that there was someone else in his bed at home and only a pretty broken down chaise longue was available for him to sleep on.

  ‘If only they were both closer.’

  Lizzie echoed her sister’s sentiments, though her heart didn’t jump for Patrick as much as Daw’s did for John. He was just a friend and always had been, but his letters were amusing. It had never occurred to her that he could write so eloquently; both his prose and his poetry had surprised her.

  Unlike John’s letters, Patrick’s letters were passed around the family, an entertaining and enlightening read about what was happening. John’s, of course, were far more personal and for Daw’s eyes only.

  Lizzie told herself that her relationship with Patrick could never be personal, but still she waited for the postman with just as much anticipation as her sister. So far she had not received one letter from Peter and it hurt.
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  The fact that it was Peter’s mother who had told her he was leaving for Canada, on the very day he was leaving, still festered like an open wound. Why hadn’t he told her himself? There’d certainly been enough opportunity. Only two days before, she’d been snuggled up with him on the back seat of his car, her eyes closed as she sniffed in the combined smells of the leather seats, his clothes and the scent of his hair.

  ‘Even if you die tomorrow, I’ll remember this moment for ever,’ she’d said.

  He’d sat bolt upright. ‘Steady on. I wasn’t intending to be bowled out just yet.’

  Trying to persuade herself that perhaps he hadn’t known he was about to leave was only partially successful and left her feeling disappointed. Another and quite unexpected side effect was that she kept analysing their relationship, comparing what she’d thought it had been to what it truly was.

  Where did he actually take me?

  Nowhere. They either made love in the grass, on the back seat of his car, or in his bed if his mother wasn’t at home.

  Did he really love me?

  Had he really said it?

  She ticked off each answer from her mental list. Only after goading. Only in response to me saying I loved him.

  Analysing spread through her thoughts just as a rash might spread over her body. Once she’d started working out the whys and wherefores of one subject, she couldn’t stop.

  It’s about observation, she thought, and began observing other things, the results too worrying to face headlong. One of these was with regard to her family.

  Lizzie had never noticed any problems in her parents’ relationship. They were pretty typical of middle-aged couples in Kent Street. Her mother kept house, providing a warm environment for her family, ensuring there was plenty of food on the table, and clean underwear when needed. On the whole, regardless of her father’s habitual drinking, they had a better standard of life than a lot of people. Now why was that, she wondered, and promptly did a few sums. After adding up the combined income of the household, it struck her that they must be living beyond their means. Her bike was new (bought by her mother), Harry dressed like a film star, and Mother was always slipping Daw a ten-shilling note ‘as a little treat’. Where did all that come from?