by Lizzie Lane
He opened the closet door and handed it to her. ‘Wrap up warm, won’t you.’
She nodded. ‘I will.’
There was a bandstand in the park, a brick-built three-sided construction looking out over the city. Immediately between it and the view were two artillery pieces from the Great War, said to have been captured from the Germans, but might just as well have belonged to the British Army: the truth had become obscure with the years.
Henry was sitting there waiting for her, his face raw from the cold wind that swooped up from the vale, pinching at nostrils and the first of the daffodils.
He blinked when he first saw her, looked away and then took a second look. Any other wife would have welcomed the obvious admiration that he desperately tried to hide, but not Mary Anne. No matter how he looked at her, she could only feel a deep-seated, loathsome fear. She had declared forgiveness would never come and that was an end to the matter.
‘You wanted to see me?’
The firmness of her voice surprised her, and she could see from Henry’s face that it did him too.
Stanley went off to play on the guns.
Henry’s hands were clasped between his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor.
‘I’m not going to ask you back.’
‘Just as well. I wouldn’t come,’ she replied hotly.
‘That’s what I thought. What I did was unforgivable. I knew I was being wicked, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was as if the devil took me over, wearing me as easily as a preacher would wear a Sunday suit.’
He didn’t mention the war, so she didn’t either. What Thomas Routledge had said to her, she would keep to herself.
‘I can’t forgive you.’
‘I’m not surprised. But we do have a family, and before long they’ll have their own families and we’ll be grandparents. We still have responsibilities to them, even though we don’t to each other. You know our Daw’s expecting?’
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the barrage balloons floating above the shunting yards in Midland Road. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ve told her to hurry up and marry the bloke while he’s still alive. I think she understands, I think she’ll do it.’
Mary Anne sat down on the bench, being careful to allow plenty of space between them.
‘How did you find out?’
He shrugged. ‘Your whereabouts?’
She nodded.
‘Word gets around.’
‘Thomas Routledge?’
‘Let’s say there’s a lifelong brotherhood between them that’s served their country.’
Mary Anne stiffened. She didn’t doubt that the story about Lewis Allen was true, but could she trust him not to stir things up for Michael?
She turned the collar of her coat up around her face as she thought things through.
Henry was staring into the distance. ‘Our Lizzie should be off before very long. She’s still set on joining the Wrens. What with our Daw getting married, and Harry off on his own, that only leaves me and Stanley. There’s a spare room there if ever you want it.’ He held up his hand suddenly, pre-empting her protest that she wouldn’t ever consider moving back under the same roof. ‘In case of need,’ he said. ‘They bombed Warsaw you know, blasted people’s homes to smithereens. Any time in the future, one of us might want a roof over our heads, and if Stanley wants to spend some time with you, well I’ve got no objection to that either.’
‘I’m going now,’ she said, getting stiffly to her feet, not wanting to feel sorry or, indeed, to feel anything for him at all, but she found herself feeling a whole whirlpool of emotions, some of which were quite surprising.
Henry also got to his feet. ‘I’m a proud man,’ he said. ‘But I was never prouder than when I married a clever woman like you, but there were wounds in our past. You owned up to yours, but I never owned up to mine. Too proud. And all because of a bloody war. Let’s hope our children don’t get injured like we was.’ He chuckled sadly. ‘Oh well. Kiss yer mother goodbye,’ he called to Stanley, before turning for home.
Stanley did as his father ordered, his lips cold from the wind.
‘Off to school now?’
A single frown line appeared on Stanley’s shiny forehead. ‘Do I have to?’
His father overheard and called to him, ‘Only if you want to be a gunnery officer or a fighter pilot when you grow up.’
Stanley’s face changed at the prospect of firing a gun or flying an aircraft, a thoughtful look coming to his eyes.
‘Go with your father.’
She watched them walk up the incline past the park keeper’s cottage, a tall man with stooped shoulders, and a young boy marching like a soldier at a victory parade. Her feelings were too confusing, too painful and too surprising.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Arm in arm with Patrick Kelly, Lizzie ignored the questioning looks of neighbours. No doubt they were wondering at the drama at number ten in the past months, a house full of surprises. First the mother had run off, and now here was Lizzie Randall walking out with the likes of Patrick Kelly. They were probably whispering that he looked good in a uniform. Who would have thought his mother was a strumpet who’d had more men than the Sally Army had tambourines!
As they walked along the pavement, they sidestepped a small woman with a nut-brown face. Those watching switched their attention as the woman headed in the direction of Kate Harvey at number sixteen; rumour had it she was pregnant again.
Kent Street behind them, she couldn’t resist patting the buttons on Patrick’s uniform as they walked to the bus stop to get the bus for the pictures.
He smiled with pleasure. ‘Do you like my shiny buttons?’
‘It wasn’t them. You’ve put on a bit of weight since you joined the air force. Is that all you do – eat and drink?’
She fancied his face clouded a little and immediately knew why, her own smile vanishing. ‘You’re going off somewhere, aren’t you? Is it France?’
He smiled nervously, but even so deep laugh lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. ‘We’re not supposed to say.’
‘But I’ve guessed right.’ Her stomach tightened, like it did when she was frightened or excited, but this was something different, this was anticipation of an uncertain future. ‘Is John going too?’
Patrick nodded silently. She noted the concern in his eyes, but also pride. Patrick, she realised, had found his vocation in life, or rather he’d found a place where he was fully appreciated.
His expression turned even more serious. ‘Have you thought any more about sending Stanley to the country?’
She shook her head. ‘Life is very complicated at the moment what with my mum living in one place and my dad in another.’ She looked up at him, suddenly aware of the implications of what he was saying. ‘Are we going to be bombed shortly? We’ve had a few false alarms, but they came to nothing.’
He didn’t meet her look. ‘It’s best to be prepared.’
‘Ah!’
She didn’t need him to say the words. His expression said it all. She’d read the papers; although the press was under strict orders to adopt an upbeat attitude, the reports coming in from the continent were not good.
‘What does “Ah” mean?’ he asked her.
‘Spring’s coming. Don’t armies go on the march when the weather gets better?’
‘I won’t be marching. I’ll be on the ground ready to rearm every fighter that needs it. John won’t be marching either. He’ll be flying.’
And what about Daw? Lizzie hesitated, but Patrick beat her to it.
‘John and Daw are going to get a special licence.’
‘I was going to be tactful and ask if you knew about the baby. Obviously, you do.’
He nodded and looked up the road for a bus, but saw only a blue cab.
Lizzie frowned. ‘Not Dad’s,’ she said, reading his mind.
The cab came to halt immediately opposite the bus stop, and even before she alighted, Lizzie recognised the forthright fig
ure of Mrs Selwyn, her powdered face creased with rage, her angry looks shooting like arrows directly at Lizzie.
‘You!’ she shouted, eyes blazing and pointing the spike of an old-fashioned brolly directly at Lizzie’s midriff. ‘You little trollop! Don’t think I don’t know why you did this, leading my Peter astray with a view to getting your hands on the Selwyn money and business. Well, you don’t fool me, Miss Randall. I know a gold-digging slut when I see one, but to betray him!’
Although her cheeks burned, Lizzie looked at her in amazement. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, I don’t believe that either. My Peter, my darling Peter has been taken away from me. You Judas, you told them he was with me. You told them where he was—’
‘He hasn’t gone back to Canada?’
The reference to Canada seemed to stop her in her tracks. ‘No,’ she said coldly, the wind momentarily seeming to have left her sails. ‘He has not.’
‘But then, he never was in Canada, was he? That’s what this is all about.’
Mrs Selwyn’s face turned a frightening shade of eau de Nil. ‘This war is pointless. Germany was on its knees and has now regained its self-respect. What’s wrong with that, may I ask, so I make no apologies for trying to save my son’s life in a worthless quest for glory. That’s all it is thanks to the warmongers in Parliament. And you, miss,’ she said, the tip of her umbrella defected by a swipe of Patrick’s hand, ‘you turned him in. You betrayed him.’
Angered by the accusation, Lizzie opened her mouth to shout a few words of retaliation, but the woman with the nut-brown face interrupted their confrontation.
‘Maude Smith. Is that you, Maude? Surely you recognise old Mrs Riley? Remember that tablecloth you gave me for doing you a turn when you were in service up in Clifton?’ The glittery, small eyes swept over the handsome mauve two-piece Mrs Selwyn was wearing. ‘My, but you’ve come along a bit since then, me dear. My word that was in the early days of me profession, when I was just starting out, and you nothing but a humble housemaid. Now how long ago was that?’
‘Not a schoolteacher?’ Lizzie blurted, unable to keep her mouth closed.
Mrs Selwyn did not wait for any more revelations about her former life, but rushed headlong back into the cab, falling full length on the seat in her hurry to get away.
They both watched the cab pull away. The woman with the nut-brown face, carrying a tapestry bag over her arm, joined them in the bus queue.
‘I take it her son didn’t respond to his call-up papers,’ Patrick said.
‘They pretended he’d gone to Canada, even to the extent of her seeing him off at the station. They were there when I saw you off. Something funny struck me at the time. She wasn’t crying, but just standing there as though they’d only come to look at the trains. I realise now it was for my benefit. If anyone asked, I would have to admit I’d seen them at the station.’
‘So where was he?’
‘In the attic. I wondered where all the rations were going.’
‘Well, being in Canada wouldn’t save him. Certainly not now. Canadian troops and air force have arrived. She wouldn’t have been able to use that cover any longer.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll get put in the glasshouse.’
‘Glasshouse?’
‘Military prison. It’s pretty grim, double time all the time, even in the lavatory.’
‘And then?’
‘He’ll join the ranks like everyone else.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘Why so curious? There wasn’t anything between you two was there?’
‘No,’ she said, trying to sound as though it had never been so. ‘I was just interested in case I do get to join the Wrens.’
He laughed at that. ‘I don’t think they’ll put you in the glasshouse. Too disconcerting for the blokes already in there.’
Her laughter hid her concern for Harry. What if he got caught too, what would happen to him? It was obvious he’d been avoiding call-up for some time.
The man wore a brown felt trilby and a gaberdine raincoat belted at the waist.
Like an American gangster, Mary Anne thought wryly, but inside she was fearful. This was not a fictional scenario played in black and white to a mesmerised audience. This was for real and it was frightening. A uniformed constable followed him in, one of the old-timers dragged back from retirement to fill gaps left by those who’d joined the armed forces.
She dared a sidelong glance at Michael. His coolness amazed her. His voice was calm. ‘Can I help you?’
The man in the raincoat nodded. ‘You can.’ His tone was terse. He gave only a cursory glance at Mary Anne, saving closer scrutiny for Michael’s athletic frame, as though dissecting him piece by piece; either that or he was plain jealous.
‘May I see your passport?’
No asking of name, no introduction of who he was or why he was there.
Michael showed no sign of protest but went to the glass-fronted cabinet at the side of the fireplace, opened it and took out his passport from a pile of other papers.
The man in the trilby hat opened it, studied the photographs, studied Michael and returned to the photographs yet again.
It was, thought Mary Anne, as though he’s studying each facial feature in turn: nose, eyes, mouth, chin and hairline.
‘I need to check this more fully,’ he said, tucking the passport into the inside pocket of his raincoat.
‘Michael nodded. ‘Fine. I am not going anywhere.’
The policeman gave him a jaundiced look. ‘I can assure you of that. You won’t be going anywhere until I check who you say you are. In the meantime you’re to report to the police station each week until I say otherwise. Miss one week and you’ll find yourself inside. Do I make myself clear?’
Michael gave a jerk of his chin. Mary Anne fancied he wanted to say more but was not inclined to upset the system. But she was.
‘Why does he have to do that? He was born here.’
The man’s eyes flickered when he looked at her. She presumed he was weighing up the situation; what was she to this young man. Seemingly not old enough to be his mother, but not of the same age; good-looking and definitely not a relative, if he’d done any research, which she presumed he had.
He seemed to reach a conclusion. ‘We can’t be too careful.’
‘Too careful! Michael was born here. What is this all about? Who’s been pointing the finger?’
She felt Michael’s fingers brush her hand, a warning not to say anything, but she had to. She couldn’t just stand by and let this happen. This was England, for God’s sake!
The man’s face stiffened. ‘And you are?’
‘Mary Anne Randall, and I’m British and I’m not a Nazi spy or a sympathiser – in fact quite the opposite.’
The uniformed policeman, who up until now had just provided a dark-blue backdrop for the mud brown of his superior’s gaberdine, bent his head in an effort to hide a smirk.
His senior suppressed a tight smile. ‘Ah! That explains a lot. A Mrs Selwyn reported that a young man told her that Mr Maurice shouted at him in German. The young man’s name was Stanley Randall.’
Chapter Forty
Michael rubbed his face with both hands, massaged the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb, then pressed them into the corners of his eyes, anything to alleviate the glaring whiteness of the tiled walls.
He had not expected to be placed in a cell. He’d always believed the British to be a tolerant race and no one was incarcerated without trial.
Perhaps it will only be for a few days, he told himself. He certainly hoped so. He wanted to get back to Marianna, lie beside her in the warmth of his old uncle’s big bed, and lock the door against the world and its troubles.
Instead … he looked over his shoulder at the grey blanket covering the thin mattress. It looked rough enough to bring the toughest skin out in a rash, and Lord knows how many other men had slept beneath it.
The sudden ope
ning of the solid steel door heralded the arrival of a young constable, carrying a mug of something hot and steaming. He wore glasses and had the faint vestige of a ginger moustache on his upper lip. Michael presumed he was a new recruit, rejected by the military due to bad eyesight.
‘I brought you a cup of tea. Didn’t know how you like it, but put two sugars in. That be all right, mate?’ he said, his casual manner betraying his lack of training.
Michael took the tea gratefully and smiled. ‘How long will I be here?’
‘Not long. Rees Jones, the bloke who brought you here, has got to get a few papers together.’ He glanced over his shoulder before leaning closer and whispering. ‘It’s something to do with Germany.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’
It was about an hour later when the plain-clothes officer he now knew was named Rees Jones reappeared. This time he was alone and carrying a sheaf of papers, including Michael’s British passport.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, indicating the miserable surroundings. ‘But we’ve ran out of room. Normally, I’d see you at my desk, but I have to share it with the ARP and goodness knows who else until they get their own base sorted out. This place gets more like Paddington Station every day. Still, at least we didn’t lock the door on you,’ he added, smiling reassuringly.
Michael was dumbfounded at the revelation that he hadn’t been imprisoned at all. Why hadn’t he checked? He could have walked out if he’d tried the door.
‘Your passport checks out as do the details you’ve told me about your uncle leaving you the shop. Lucky you had a good solicitor.’
He handed him the passport, his joviality diminishing as he fished among the other official-looking documents. ‘However, there has been a development, one of which you may not be aware.’
Michael leaned forwards, his teeth aching because he was clenching them so hard. One bright hope burned in his heart.
‘My parents? Have you heard from them?’
He wanted to ask whether they were alive or dead, but he reasoned they couldn’t know. No one could find out what was happening in Germany, even the people that lived there. It must be something else.