by Annie Murray
One night in October little Dorian was restless with a cold and fever. Audrey gave up trying to pacify him in her room and carried him downstairs to make him a drink. When she took him, snivelling, into the back room and turned on the light, she found that she was not alone.
‘Oh my God, Sylv!’ she laid a hand over her pounding heart. ‘You frightened the life out of me. I came down with this one – he’s a bit poorly . . . Sis, are you all right?’
Sylvia was sitting bolt upright at the table, her hands resting on the cloth. Audrey took in the look of her, pale and so very still. Her hair was tied back, rather austerely, from her face.
Audrey went and sat beside her. Dorrie quietened a little at the sight of his auntie and reached his hand out.
‘Sylv?’
‘He’s flying tonight,’ Sylvia said in a barely controlled voice. ‘I know he is. He’s out there somewhere. I can’t sleep – I don’t know where to put myself. Every time I just think: There’s another chance gone . . . I can’t believe we’ll ever really get married. Something will happen – I think I’m cursed.’ She turned to Audrey, her eyes wide with fear. ‘I can’t stand it. I feel as if I’m going to . . .’ She lowered her head. ‘I don’t know.’ She spoke in scarcely more than a whisper. ‘I feel as if I’m going mad thinking about it.’
‘Oh, sis.’ Audrey reached over and laid her hands over Sylvia’s, clasped on the table. They were icy cold. There was nothing she could say. Nothing that was sure to be true. Sylvia curled a finger round one of Audrey’s, as if for comfort.
‘Do you come down here like this often?’ she asked. ‘You should wake me, not sit here on your own.’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘Sometimes. No point in anyone else losing sleep, is there?’
She sat staring ahead of her, and Audrey knew her thoughts were far away, flying out into the night sky as if she could be like an angel, keeping Laurie safe. Audrey’s heart ached for her.
By the time Laurie finally came home on leave in November, Sylvia had lost weight and looked hollow around the eyes. She had been close to the edge, so convinced that she would never see him again that, when she did, she went to pieces and wept in his arms.
‘I thought you’d be taken away from me,’ she sobbed, unable to help herself, once they were alone in her room. ‘I thought you were going to leave me again. I thought we’d never get married, and I want . . .’ Her words were lost in a storm of crying.
Even in her distraught state she could see that Laurie was disturbed by the sight of her looking so thin and haunted. He held her close, murmuring reassuring words.
‘I’m here now, my love. Oh, Sylvia, it’s all right. I love you so much and we’re going to be married – in two days’ time.’
She pulled back and looked up into his face, her eyes swollen with tears. ‘Are we? Is it really going to happen? I can’t believe anything any more.’
‘It is,’ he whispered, drawing her close again. ‘You and I. Nothing can happen now. We’re going to be together.’
She sank into his arms, feeling the breath going in and out of his body and the warmth of him. At last she began to trust that it was really true.
Sylvia and Laurie married at All Saints’ Church in Kings Heath on a sunny November afternoon. Sylvia managed to get Elsie to come and be her bridesmaid. She stood beside Laurie in the church, in the beautiful, simple white dress that Marjorie had kept for her, with Laurie in his uniform. They looked into each other’s eyes and she knew that she had come home, and that she had never been so sure of anything before. The sight of Sylvia, now so radiant, reduced both mothers to tears. They knew everyone was thinking how easily this day of joy might never have arrived.
Sylvia had leave from work for two days, and she and Laurie went away for a night to an inn in the Warwickshire countryside. Although food was in short supply, the place was an oasis of peace.
They stood side-by-side in the old timbered room late that afternoon, looking out at the view of fields and copper-leafed trees in the gathering dusk. Sylvia snuggled close to Laurie and he put his arm round her.
‘It’s so lovely,’ he said, moved. ‘God, when I think of Belgium and France, with those bastards crawling all over them . . .’ He turned and looked down at her. Sylvia was struck then by how much Laurie had aged. He looked content at that moment, full of love and joy, but she could see that he was no longer the happy-go-lucky boy she had once known.
‘While we’re here,’ he said, ‘let’s just try and forget about it: the war, flying, everything. We won’t talk about it or think of it again. Let’s just be us, here and now.’
She turned to face him and kissed him. ‘It might be just a bit easier to pretend out here. The fields and trees don’t change all that much, do they?’
Laurie gently touched one of the scars on her cheek, first with his fingers, then his lips. His other hand found its way to the buttons of her blouse and she felt her breasts tingle with longing for him to touch her. She helped him, unfastening her brassiere, so that his warm hands found her all the sooner.
‘You’ve changed a bit,’ Laurie murmured, kissing her nipples. She could hear the smile in his voice. They had not seen each other fully naked since they were about four years old.
‘I should hope so,’ she said and heard him laugh with pure happiness.
Sixty-One
January 1944
One evening during the dark of the New Year days of 1944 Ted Whitehouse arrived home from work through the back door with urgent speed. Sylvia was upstairs, and the first she knew of anything going on was a yell from Jack.
‘Sylv – Audrey! Come and see this, quick!’
Audrey was bathing Dorian by the fire in the back room. As Sylvia ran downstairs she heard her calling, ‘I can’t just come, you idiot! D’you want him to drown? You come here, if you want me.’
Sylvia went into the kitchen to find Mom and Dad bent over the kitchen table, staring intently at a copy of the Daily Sketch.
‘I don’t know,’ Mom was saying, squinting at a photograph on one of the inside pages. ‘Is it? How can you be sure? I’m no good with faces.’
‘It is. Look! ’ Ted jabbed his finger at it. ‘Shape of the face – everything . . .’ He caught sight of Sylvia. ‘Look, that’s that wench who was living here. You can tell a mile off.’
‘You mean Kitty?’ Sylvia felt her heartbeat begin to pick up speed. The thought of Kitty Barratt always filled her with a sickening dread and they seldom mentioned her name. What on earth could Dad be talking about?
She leaned over the paper. Beside headlines about the Allies fighting at Monte Cassino she read the words: BARONET KILLED IN NIGHTCLUB SHOOTING. Alongside it was a poor-quality photograph. Her eyes dashed through the story: love-rivalry in a Soho house of hospitality between a baronet, Sir Rawsthorne Chalmers, and Donald Benson, 24, a white US airman. Both men were besotted with the same woman, who offered ‘hospitality’ in a private house in the area, one Kitten Amador, 22. Sir Chalmers – ‘Rawty’ to his friends – was found in a pool of blood, having been shot through the heart by Benson in a love-feud.
Even as she was devouring the words, Sylvia could feel her attention drawn as if magnetically by the photograph. A chill wrapped itself tightly around her heart. A woman with pale hair was seated at a table on which there were drinks, beside a man with a long face and soulful, hooded eyes: Rawsthorne Chalmers, in happier times. Each had a glass in their hand and was smiling at the camera. The hollows of their faces were heavily shadowed. In a second, before Sylvia had even taken in the details, the shape of the face leapt out at her, instantly familiar. She knew from a glance – and from a gut recognition that preceded her more conscious thoughts – that, despite the exotic name, this was Kitty Barratt. That smile, even from the grainy, slightly blurred picture, could not be that of anyone else.
‘It is! It’s her.’ She had to remind herself to draw breath, amazed that even the sight of Kitty, a mere outline of her, could affect her so strongly. She
stared at the picture with rage and horror, but also with an absurd pang of longing. How she had loved it when that smile was directed at her! And that poor Irishman, Joe Whelan, had become besotted with it. Ian had fallen for it, too. And now a titled man with sad eyes had been drawn into Kitty’s spell, plus an American far from home, who, the report said, was now in gaol at Shepton Mallet awaiting trial.
‘God!’ she said. No other words would seem to come. She felt sick.
‘So, she’s been one of them Yankees Bags now,’ Ted observed. ‘Doesn’t stop at anything, that one.’
‘A murder!’ Jack was relishing this. ‘Will she go to prison?’
‘What’s going on?’ Audrey came in with Dorian trotting beside her, wrapped in a pale-blue towel.
Pauline handed her the paper.
‘D’you know who it is?’ Jack couldn’t resist quizzing Audrey.
Her eyes moved over the page. They saw her horrified realization. ‘That’s her, isn’t it? Is it, Sylv?’
Sylvia nodded. ‘That’s her all right.’
‘My God!’ Audrey breathed, trying to take it in as well. ‘Look what she’s done now! What a . . . She’s like a poison tree: everything she touches . . .’ She was reading on further. ‘Oh, it says here she’s expecting a child!’
‘Whose?’ Pauline asked.
Audrey shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t say, would they – even if she knows.’
‘Poor little bugger,’ Ted said, finally taking off his coat. ‘With a mother like that, what chance has he got?’
‘They won’t send her to prison, will they?’ Sylvia asked. Dear God, she was even feeling protective now, after all this!
‘It wasn’t her who pulled the trigger,’ Audrey said. ‘It’s that poor Yank’s going to swing for her.’
Sylvia sat staring across the table, trying to take in the life that Kitty had been leading far away in London. And, despite her bitterness at the way Kitty had betrayed her and lied to her, and in the face of all the horror Kitty had caused, she felt an overwhelming sadness at the memory of the girl she thought was a friend. The girl who had once seemed sweet, who had cooked and chatted and laughed with them in this very kitchen.
To mark Sylvia and Laurie’s married life, Marjorie Gould had given the two of them Raymond’s old room at the front of the house, as it was the biggest. Sylvia and Laurie were very touched by this. In the brief times he was at home it became their cosy nest.
Sylvia imagined that, because she was married, she would have a baby at once. Instead, life continued as usual. She was still living at home the rest of the time and working at Snow Hill. Laurie was away, and once again it was her lot to spend her time fretting. Even though the agonizing, superstitious terror she had felt before their wedding was never repeated, the fear and worry were forever acute. Usually she knew whether he was flying or not. If so, she lay sleepless, imagining the dark swarms of aircraft taking off from the east coast. During the spring of 1944 the papers reported raid after raid, casualty list after casualty list. She felt as if her whole existence was strung between one communication from Laurie and another, letting her know that he was still there, still alive. They wrote to each other as well as speaking on the telephone. She loved letters – they often said so much more than a telephone call. The raids were now focused on France, on preparations for what would become known as D-Day. All she knew was that everything Laurie did was terrifyingly dangerous, and that each day he was alive was a bonus.
She was so caught up in her own feelings and fears over Laurie during this time that she scarcely noticed the changes in Audrey and what was happening to her. That was something they all had to come to terms with later on.
Sixty-Two
September 1944
Audrey never knew exactly what made her write the letter.
By the autumn of 1944 she had been back at work for a few months doing secretarial work in a firm in Balsall Heath. She was doing her bit, she told herself. And she did not want to be too far from home, so that she could get back to her little one all the sooner. Two-year-old Dorian was the centre of her life.
All the same, Audrey was feeling restless. Perhaps that’s all it was. Though Sylvia was still at home, all her attention was fixed on her concern for Laurie. Audrey was happy for her sister, though she also worried about them. She knew Sylvia and Laurie were right for each other.
As for herself, she had shelved any thoughts of marriage or even romance. She was ashamed of the way she had strung Colin Evans along, giving him reason to hope that he had a chance with her. Colin had really been in love with her, she knew that. He was a good, kind man, but try as she might she could not love him back. In the end, to the family’s bewilderment, she had broken things off with him and had said it would be better if they did not see each other again. She knew she had hurt him badly. Since then there had not been anyone.
One mellow afternoon she was walking to the bus stop on the Moseley Road after work. She was wearing an old skirt that she had had for years, in a dark-green colour, but the skirt was quite full and swinging, for these austere, utility-clothing days, and she knew it hung well on her slim figure. She wore a cream short-sleeved blouse and had a black cardigan draped over her shoulders. Away from the clack of typewriters and office bustle, she felt suddenly very alone. Stopping at the end of the line of other office and factory workers waiting for the bus, she had a sad, sinking feeling. Looking along the queue, she thought: If only one of those faces was familiar! If only she could look and see someone whose presence would fill her with happiness and enthusiasm. Instead there were all these tired, grey-faced people, worn down by years of war, work and rationing, and she didn’t know any of them.
I suppose I’m lonely, she admitted to herself. Audrey never found it easy to admit her own weaknesses to anyone. But the ache persisted. Oh, to have someone she longed to see, who made her laugh and feel excited!
When she got home it was easy to forget this feeling because life was all busyness again. As she came in at the door, she heard her mother say, ‘Who’s that? Who’s come home, Dorrie?’
Audrey waited in the hall, a smile growing on her face. There was a pause as her mother helped Dorian down from his high chair, then the sound of his feet and his eager face appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Hello, little man!’ She squatted down, her arms outstretched.
‘Ma-ma!’ His dark eyes alight with happiness, he came charging along and into her arms.
‘Oh! There’s my boy!’ She held him tight, kissing his round cheeks, his soft arms, overwhelmed with love for him. Every time she saw him, her son seemed more beautiful.
‘You’re back soon,’ Pauline said, at the kitchen door.
‘I was lucky with the bus. Everything all right?’
‘Yes, he’s been a good boy, haven’t you, Dorrie? He was just finishing his tea. Come on, I’ve boiled the kettle.’
It felt very reassuring to sit with Mom and her little boy as they caught up on the day over a cup of tea. The evening was taken up with playing with Dorian, tea with the rest of the family and getting her son off to sleep.
Once it was bedtime and she was alone in her room, Audrey sat for a time with the lights off and the curtains open, looking out at the trees in the fading light. Her loneliness surfaced again, and the memories that she tried to keep from her mind of the one person who had ever made her feel completely happy, excited, loved. Dorrie’s face blazed vividly in the forefront of her mind. Dorrie waving from a service jeep, or bent in concentration over her writing; Dorrie smiling at her, full of love and fun.
Audrey was washed in a sense of shame at how she had treated her friend. With increasing distance from the situation, and now that she was not in a panic, she felt angry and disappointed in herself. So Dorrie was a woman who preferred women (Audrey didn’t like the word ‘lesbian’, which made her cringe). Was that really so bad? And she, who had been supposed to be Dorrie’s friend, had turned against her and betrayed her, instead of standing by
her and being able to accept her for what she was. But hadn’t that been because . . . ? Audrey still could not let her mind admit that there was a because.
She got up to close the curtains and, after draping a cover over the top of the cot so that Dorian would not wake, she turned on the light and went to her chest of drawers. A few weeks ago she had paid for a studio picture of Dorian, and she had some small prints of it. The photographer in the High Street had sat the little boy on a low stool with a white fleecy cover on it. Audrey had dressed him in white and, with his dark hair and solemn eyes, he had sat staring intently at the camera. Despite all their efforts, they had not persuaded him to smile, but he looked lovely: alert, intelligent and sweet.
She selected a small print and sat down on the bed with the remains of a pad of writing paper and a pencil. There were a hundred ways she could begin, and she was not happy with any of them. In the end, sitting with her legs tucked under her on the bed, she chose to be direct. ‘Dear Dorrie,’ she wrote, ‘I thought you might like to see a picture of my little boy. His name is Dorian and we all call him “little Dorrie”.’
She stopped and stared at the page. Only now, seeing the words written down, did she wonder what on earth Dorrie was going to make of this. How stupid could she have been, all this time? She knew really that she had named her son after the person she truly loved. It was because she wanted to hear that name on her own lips, and other people’s. And it was because that was all she had left of Dorrie. The family had thought the name strange at first but by now everyone was used to it – ‘Little Dorrie’ was just her son’s familiar name. But seeing this statement written down to send to Dorrie herself, the force of what she felt truly hit Audrey. She thought about tearing up the letter and not sending it. But now, she realized, whatever anyone thought – and whether or not Dorrie was happy, had found a new love, or several – she wanted to put her side of things straight.