A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘She said you can visit her, if you wish, that is. She’s feeling guilty about leaving you with all the responsibility, but she’s not coming back. Can’t say I blame her.’

  ‘Where is she? Tell me! Tell me now!’

  He smiled. She sensed he was going to taunt her, just as he had when they were younger.

  He took his gaze aside and shook his head. ‘Couldn’t believe it myself at first, until I saw them together, until I saw how he made her glow. She looked ten years younger and I’m glad she does. It’s a bit late in the day, but she deserves to be happy; she deserves to live for herself not just her kids.’

  At first she only heard the words, she wasn’t really taking them in, but finally she flung her arms around Harry’s neck.

  ‘Harry, you’re the best bloke in the world, even though you are my brother.’

  He laughed then. ‘Give over, Lizzie. I’d be the first to admit that I’m flawed.’

  Clinging tightly to his neck, she looked into his eyes. ‘Where is she?’ she asked softly. ‘Where is she?’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘Listen. Listen and I’ll tell you.’

  By the time they got back downstairs, Daw had piled the dishes in the sink and was eyeing the tea towel with jaundiced hate and still sniffing because Harry was leaving.

  Lizzie followed him down, her feet seeming to float just above the stairs because she wasn’t concentrating on where she was going and what she was doing. She felt like a child who’s just seen fairies at the bottom of the garden and has been told that she’ll turn into a frog if she tells anyone. Her mother was living with a man. She couldn’t quite believe it and, as yet, she didn’t quite know how to react. But she knew Daw would probably squirm with disgust. She knew how her father would react too; hence there could be no telling. Stanley, of course, didn’t count. Anyone with any sense knew they couldn’t tell a mere boy anything.

  Henry was sitting in his chair, smoking his pipe, his eyes fixed on the glowing coals of the fire.

  Harry, flamboyant and confident in his smart suit and navy overcoat, stood in the centre of the room holding his suitcase in one hand and his hat in the other.

  ‘I’m off now, Dad.’ Setting his hat on his head, he extended his hand. ‘Will you wish me good luck?’

  Henry’s eyes fell to his son’s hand. ‘No.’

  Harry’s face hardened. ‘Then I wish you none either.’

  Lizzie watched him drive away, waving until he reached the end of the street, though he couldn’t possibly wave back and perhaps couldn’t even see her by then.

  When she got back inside she looked for Daw.

  ‘She ran upstairs still grizzling about something,’ said Stanley who, despite having just eaten a plateful of liver and onions, plus rice pudding, was now buttering a large doorstep of bread.

  Daw was prostrate on her side of the bed, head buried in the pillow, and her arms thrown over her head. Her shoulders were shuddering, a jerky sob escaping the ones she was attempting to stifle with her pillow.

  Lizzie smoothed the glossy dark hair that was swept back into a bun, nestling like a pigeon at the nape of Daw’s neck.

  ‘It’s all right, Daw. You can bet our Harry will be back to visit. And you won’t be alone. I’m here.’

  She was almost tempted to tell Daw that she knew where her mother was, but she didn’t dare. She had promised her brother Harry, and Lizzie always kept promises.

  Nothing she said seemed to make any difference at first to Daw’s outpouring of despair, but then she detected a change in the pattern and force of the sobs.

  ‘I know he will. It’s not just that.’

  Lizzie continued to stroke. ‘Tell me then.’

  Daw rubbed at her eyes then peered at her through her fingers, spacing them like the bars of a cage.

  ‘I’m having … a baby,’ she said.

  Since the moment Harry had given Lizzie her mother’s address, she’d been rehearsing what she would say to her mother when she saw her. She’d decided to tell her everything that had been going on in her life and that of the family. This was something new, something she certainly hadn’t counted on.

  ‘I take it it’s John’s.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Like a Christmas present,’ she muttered, more to herself rather than for Daw’s ears. ‘Have you written to John?’

  ‘Yes. He hasn’t replied yet.’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Well, he will. I bet you a pound note he will. I expect he’ll be really pleased.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Someone had daubed a swastika on the shutters of the pawnshop. Michael, she presumed it was he, was scrubbing it off. Was this the man her mother was living with? He didn’t look much older than she was. Strangely enough she felt no resentment. Michael, she decided, had kind eyes. Her mother could do with a large dose of kindness.

  On coming level with him, she slowed down, brought her hands to the front, clasping her handbag – as if it needed two hands. Far from it: her purse, a comb and a tube of lipstick were all it contained.

  Michael looked down at her, saw her hesitate before turning into the shop. ‘I will be right with you.’

  She sensed him following her into the dark interior where she became aware of being surrounded by polished wood and sparkling glass. Such attention to presentation, coupled with the smell of beeswax and watered-down vinegar, brought her mother to mind and she shivered.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked once he was behind the counter and facing her.

  She met his gaze, but continued to shiver, not because she was cold; the day was milder than it had been of late. Hopefully spring would be early this year. Apprehension and a silly feeling of discovering her mother had become a stranger had haunted her sleep the previous night. Meeting her could not be put off, or she’d be too tired to function.

  Licking the dryness from her lips, she readied herself to pronounce the words she’d rehearsed in front of her dressing-table mirror.

  Swiftly she took in his details. Michael was no real surprise; Harry had primed her, told her he was younger than her mother but seemed a good person.

  She was surprised to see how handsome he was, a good specimen of what the new Germany expected its citizens to be, if everything she’d read in the newspaper and seen at the pictures was correct.

  ‘I’ve come to see my mother.’

  The words were rushed and uncomplicated. What was the point in them being anything else?

  For a moment, he stared at her, a fleeting fear entering his eyes before being replaced by realisation. ‘Of course. I should have realised. You look so much like her. Please. Come this way.’

  He reopened the hatch he had entered through, closed it behind her and led the way down a narrow passageway that folded in on them, having no door to right or left and no steep stairs like the family home in Kent Street.

  Lizzie stopped at the entrance to a small room at the rear of the shop and looked in. Off to her left a narrow doorway exposed an almost as narrow kitchen. Beside that was a window with a view onto an ugly yard; its only redeeming feature seemed to be a young tree showing the first signs of spring buds.

  Her gaze was drawn to the heavy mahogany mantelpiece. To one side there was an opening exposing a set of winding stairs.

  Michael went over to these, rested his hand on the fireplace and tilted his head back.

  ‘Marianna, Marianna. You have a visitor.’

  Marianna? Lizzie wondered whether she had made a mistake, that perhaps she was at the wrong address. But this must be the right place; besides, Harry had said so.

  She felt Michael’s eyes on her, reading her as he might the words written in a book, interpreting the confusion on her face.

  ‘Marianna is my name for her.’

  She nodded, but couldn’t find her tongue and, even if she could, what would she say? That she felt like an intruder in a private world? These people had created a small intimacy in which she had no share.

  The
urge to leave became very strong, but her legs were like jelly, just like on the very first day at school when she hadn’t been sure she would make a single friend, and had feared the look of the headmistress.

  Footsteps thudded down the narrow staircase.

  ‘Lizzie!’

  Lizzie’s jaw dropped. The woman before her shone in a way her mother never had. The grey-green eyes sparkled; her complexion had a peachy tone, as though she’d been sitting in sunshine, which was quite impossible. Spring was early this year, but the sunny days were still subject to chill air.

  The green woollen dress she wore was perhaps a little old-fashioned, but it matched her eyes and hair, the latter of which seemed a more vibrant colour than she remembered, and yet it had been only a few months.

  ‘Lizzie!’

  There was no doubt in Lizzie’s mind that she was glad to see her, and the feeling was mutual. She had fully expected to fall into her mother’s arms, and yet there was hesitation, and that too, like their joy, was mutual.

  Mary Anne indicated the old chaise longue, which she’d freshened with a sponge and soapy water, then added some glorious tapestry cushions and draped a wonderful silk scarf – large enough to cover a table or use as a shawl. According to the date on the label, whoever had pledged it had died long ago. ‘Please. Sit down.’

  Lizzie noticed the whiteness of her mother’s hands, the way she tangled her fingers, clasped them together and then separated them again. Her eyes flickered between her daughter and the man she was living with as she sat beside her.

  Michael, his attention switching between the two, sized up the situation, identified himself as the reason for their discomfort.

  ‘I will make us some tea,’ he said, closing the kitchen door behind him.

  In his absence, the two women looked at each other. Mary Anne’s shining eyes were the first to glisten with tears.

  ‘Lizzie! Can you forgive me?’

  Lizzie shook her head, not in a negative way, but because the question was not necessary. ‘Ma, I was there. Remember? I heard and saw everything, and the worse thing is, I learned it from Stanley. You know he’s been stealing, don’t you? It was him who pinched money from Dad’s pocket. I heard from Daisy – her father is landlord at the Red Cow – that he came in to buy a pint that day. There it was sitting on the counter, poured straight from the barrel, but when he came to pay for it there wasn’t a penny in his pocket.’

  Mary Anne hung her head, remembered the money missing from her cashbox. She’d accused nobody. Those with the opportunity to take it were either friends and neighbours or members of her family.

  ‘I was so ashamed that he knew and saw so much. Not just that he saw things a boy shouldn’t see, but also because I presumed he wouldn’t be affected by it. I was so sure I was doing the right thing: making sure there was food on the table and a comfortable home; pretending that me and your father weren’t so much a happy marriage as a stable one.’

  Her own eyes welling up with tears, Lizzie took hold of her mother’s hands, surprised to find them so cold and so smooth.

  ‘Ma, you can’t imagine how happy it makes me feel to see you looking so happy.’

  Mary Anne smiled through her tears. ‘Oh Lizzie.’

  Still clasping hands, they hugged each other.

  Michael joined them with the tea. He talked of the business and how much her mother had helped him sort things out.

  ‘She is better at this business than I am,’ he said.

  Lizzie hung on to his every word, not just because they concerned her mother but also because his accent pleased her.

  She addressed him directly. ‘I hear you come from Holland. Is that right?’

  There was an exchange of looks between him and her mother. Judging by the look on both their faces, they’d talked about how much of their personal life they would divulge to her.

  Calmly and slowly, as though he were using every second to think carefully about it and choose his words, he put first his saucer back on the table, then the cup, turning it and placing the teaspoon so the handle pointed back at him.

  ‘I was born here, but have lived most of my life in Germany.’

  The swastika painted on the front door had slipped her mind.

  ‘Ah! Yes,’ she said stoically. ‘Well, that explains that.’

  ‘Explains what?’ asked Mary Anne.

  Michael put his cup down on the tray. ‘Another swastika was painted on the front door. I did not like to worry you.’

  Mary Anne sighed and shook her head, the calm retreating from her eyes. ‘Thomas Routledge. I bet he’s got something to do with it.’

  ‘But you were born here,’ Lizzie blurted.

  Michael’s smile made her feel terribly young and naive. The colour of his eyes, and the way they glittered in response to the creasing around them, made her heart skip a beat. He was older than her, younger than her mother, yet she could see the attraction.

  ‘But I do not sound British.’

  There was more talk about the business, the family and the war. Mary Anne mentioned Harry’s visit.

  ‘I was so pleased to see him, and so relieved that Stanley is full of beans.’ Some fragment of the old Mary Anne flashed across her mind. Was Harry telling the truth? She had to have it confirmed. ‘He is full of beans, isn’t he?’

  Lizzie smiled broadly. ‘Of course he is, though a bit wild, but I think he’ll grow out of it.’

  Reassured, Mary Anne smiled and nodded gratefully. ‘Our Harry said that he was doing fine. I just worry,’ she said, gesturing with one hand before bringing it back on top of the other. ‘At least our Harry and you are there to keep an eye on him – and his father of course.’ She added the last comment in a more sober voice and there was no hiding the hint of bitterness.

  ‘It’ll be only me now. Our Harry’s left home. I believe he’s sharing a flat with a friend and he’s gone into business with someone. He hasn’t told me much about it, except that it pays better than making cigarettes and that I wouldn’t understand even if he did decide to explain. But he will call in regularly. He reckons he can’t help but do that. He worries, although he doesn’t always show it. But at least he’s around.’

  ‘I am surprised he has not been called up.’

  Michael’s words had the same effect as cold water being poured down her back. She might have shrugged it off, but there was something about the way he looked at her that made Lizzie blush. She hoped to God he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  Mary Anne stacked the saucers in a neat pile, the cups lying on top, one inside the other like a large porcelain flower.

  ‘No doubt he’ll tell me more when he next calls.’

  Lizzie managed a tight smile. She still hadn’t come to terms with Harry’s deception, although she’d admired him taking a stand for what he believed was right. But using a crippled man to attend the medical in his place stretched her compliance. Patrick and John hadn’t hesitated to enlist and, even if he didn’t want to fight, Harry could have declared himself a conscientious objector and served in the medical corps.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s declared himself a conscientious objector,’ her mother said suddenly.

  It was an extraordinary comment, perfectly attuned to her thoughts. ‘You could be right, Mother. Oh, and I had another letter from Patrick. He sends you his love.’

  ‘And another poem?’ Her mother’s eyebrows arched in expectation.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And John, and Daw?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  No news yet about the baby, thought Lizzie. I can’t tell her just yet.

  Mary Anne cocked her head to one side and eyed her daughter appraisingly. They had the same colouring. She hoped they wouldn’t have the same lives.

  ‘And how is Peter Selwyn?’

  Lizzie’s look was steadfast, and this was one sentence she didn’t need to rehearse. She knew exactly how she felt.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve left Mrs Selwy
n’s employ.’

  Her mother leaned forwards expectantly. ‘You’re not going to join the Wrens, are you?’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. Someone has to stay and look after our Stanley. There’s plenty of jobs on the home front. I might train as a full-time firefighter. There’s a lot of jobs going with the fire brigade, what with some men preferring to fight the Nazis rather than fires.’

  Her mother didn’t go on to ask any more about Peter, and for that she was glad. Peter wasn’t worth anyone’s attention and she’d have no hesitation in shopping him to the authorities, if it wasn’t for Harry. Oddly, Peter and her brother were two of a kind – though one was a coward and one was not.

  ‘And now …’ She got up to leave.

  ‘I will get your coat,’ said Michael and went ahead of them into the passage where a number of coats hung from a hallstand.

  ‘He’s very considerate,’ whispered Lizzie.

  Mary Anne’s smile lit up her face.

  ‘He’s very many things. You wouldn’t believe … No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I won’t tell you of the things he’s been through and the things he’s seen. Perhaps he’ll do that himself in years to come when this dreadful war is over.’

  After Michael held Lizzie’s coat while she put it on, he slid the bolt back on the front door and waited patiently while mother and daughter said goodbye, rocking with emotion as they embraced.

  ‘I miss you, Mum. You know that, don’t you?’

  Mary Anne bit her lip and nodded.

  Lizzie went on. ‘I’m not going to ask you to come home because I know you’re happy here.’ She threw a thankful smile at Michael. ‘And we’re old enough to look after ourselves, and perfectly capable of looking after Stanley, but I need to tell him, Ma, and I also think Daw should know. Dad isn’t going to find out just yet, but you know how things go round. You can’t stay indoors forever.’

  Mother and daughter held each other at arm’s length, Mary Anne biting her bottom lip and frowning slightly as she considered what she was being asked.

  Lizzie sighed. There was nothing for it but to tell her the one thing that would decide her.