by Dawson, H A
Their low standards continued to bewilder Janet; the sight of mess, dirt, and the smell of smoke and damp often bringing about a surge of childhood memories and a gut-wrenching sickness to form in the pit of her stomach. More often than not, she relived the resentment experienced upon her first visit to London, along with her father’s constant reprimands. Why had they despised her choice of life? All she had done was better herself by acquiring additional knowledge, values and experience. She was still the same person, still cared for them as deeply.
Her mind drifted to the end of the war. After her visit to the then vacated family home, Janet had shed endless tears, crying herself to sleep and yearning a reunion with her parents and siblings. Repeatedly she had told herself the evacuation had not been of her choosing, likewise with the issues that followed. They were at fault for ignoring her letters and ultimately her. Her parents had hated her for reasons unknown, an unforgiveable act.
Karen trotted into the kitchen, her light patter of footsteps pulling Janet from her ponderings, and the gentle tug of her skirt drawing her eyes.
‘Can I play outside Mummy?’
‘Not today darling.’
‘Please,’ she said in a drawl.
‘I said no. I don’t want you getting dirty.’
‘But it’s not fair.’
‘It’s your sister’s birthday. It’s very fair.’
‘She doesn’t care. She’s asleep.’
‘She will be awake soon enough.’
‘I’ll make sure I stay clean,’ Karen said, wide-eyed.
‘I said no.’
Karen stomped to Ann, who was resting on a chair at the table. ‘Please Auntie Ann, tell her I’ll be good.’
‘It’s up to your mother.’
‘It’s not fair!’ Karen squealed, her posture blocky. ‘I hate her! I hate her, I hate her!’
She stormed towards the kitchen door, slamming it into its frame, and causing reverberations to pass along the walls and floor. Janet peered at Ann, expressing a mystifying concern.
‘I don’t know what to do with her,’ Janet said, ‘whenever I give Fiona attention she creates havoc.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much. A bit of jealousy is normal. She’ll get used to it.’
‘Do I treat them differently?’
‘You treat them according to their needs. Fiona is still a baby. She is bound to need more attention.’
Janet leaned against the kitchen unit. ‘But I could have let her play out. It’s still a couple of hours before anyone arrives, and she will be changing her clothes before then.’
Ann blew out. ‘She’s probably already doing something else . . . forgotten all about it.’
Janet busied herself by tidying the worktop, but her mind continued to tumble. She wanted to ask her mother if she had ever been jealous of her younger brother, but that link had been severed. She couldn’t ask Ann, since she hadn’t had children of her own, and it caused her to experience a sense of isolation.
An image of her mother appeared in her mind, yet the details were hazy and she appeared in a ghost-like fashion, unable to remember the shape of her nose, her jaw line, her lips, and her eyes. It was wrong; a major part of Janet’s entire life had been taken, removed without consideration, ripped away from her, severed without anaesthetic.
Janet turned to Ann. ‘I wish I knew why my family deserted me.’
The older woman averted her eyes, gazing at a newspaper resting on the table. ‘They must have had their reasons.’
‘But what? What did I do to deserve that?’
The chair grated on the floor as Ann stood up and then hurried to the sink. ‘You haven’t missed out. You’ve had a good life.’
‘But I still would like to know why they went. For years, I would check the post hoping for a new address.’
Ann stared into the sink as it filled with gushing water. She seemed flustered, her skin was a blotchy red and moisture crept from her pores.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
She thrust a few dirty items into the sink. ‘The water’s making me hot. It’s stuffy in here. Go open the door.’
She did as instructed and listened to the sound of stomping feet and screeching exclamations. She peered up the staircase and focused on the sound.
‘Karen!’ she called.
The sounds continued. Janet hurried to the first floor and into a bedroom and saw Karen marking Fiona’s possessions with a black pen. Her face was beetroot red and scrunched, and her body taut.
‘You naughty girl!’ Janet grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her away from the ruined blanket, clothes and dolls.
Karen’s body became weighted; she dragged her heels and let loose a bellowing scream.
‘Stop it!’ Janet slapped her legs. ‘Stop it I said.’
She screamed again, louder and more forcefully, and thrashed out with her arms, pummelling Janet’s legs.
‘Naughty girl!’
In one swift action, Janet picked up the girl, forced still her thrashing body, and waited for her anger to dissipate. She could feel the heat radiate from her, the burning anger evaporating into the air.
‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Karen yelled.
Ignoring the emotional onslaught, Janet carried her daughter downstairs and forced her to sit on the bottom step. Moments later, having gained an element of control, she returned to the kitchen feeling emotionally drained and slumped onto the chair.
Today was a day of celebration, so why did she feel so unlike being joyous? Yet Janet already knew the answer. Her life without her mother, brothers and sister was wearing her down. She wanted them back with her and with great sadness reflected on the moment that she discovered they had left their London house.
The guests had vacated the house, the children were in bed, and Gerry and Ann were in the next room, leaving Janet alone with her husband. She edged closer to him, pressing herself into his slender frame, and gained comfort and strength from his presence. Her earlier moments of disillusionment now lacked significance; she lived in a beautiful house with caring and wonderful people, and had a fantastic husband and two beautiful daughters.
Janet turned her head and pressed her lips to Roy’s cheek. He smiled, his washed out complexion and tired eyes secreting his love.
‘You look done in,’ she said.
‘I am. It’s back-breaking work out on the fields.’
‘Why don’t you do something less demanding?’
‘Like what? We’d have to move to the city and it’s not what you want.’
‘I know, but I don’t like seeing you like this.’
Roy pulled away and leaned towards the table to pour out another drink. ‘So what are you saying? I should find an office job in the country.’
Clamping shut her mouth, she watched him gulp down the liquid before pouring a second. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’
He glared. ‘Don’t start.’
There was silence.
‘Your problem is,’ he continued, ‘you think having a labourer as a husband is beneath you.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘And if I have an occasional drink I’m turning into an alcoholic.’
‘Is it any wonder I feel that way after what that horrid man did?’
‘You still haven’t got over your first guardian?’
She rose to her feet. ‘I saw what it did to him . . . and to me.’
‘I’m not going to start beating you or the girls.’
‘You’d be straight out if you did.’
She stared into the fireplace. Those few months had changed her forever. Never before had she questioned her father’s drinking or loud behaviour. It was just what men did, their way of relaxing at the end of the day. However, having experienced Uncle Tom’s extreme reaction and then felt the tender hands of Gerry, her opinion changed. Gerry was kind and warm-hearted and rarely drank more than one glass of alcohol in one sitting. She had always felt safe in his presence, never needed to fear any unjustifie
d explosions.
‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t like excessive drinking,’ she said.
‘That’s clear.’ He gulped down the liquid, rested the glass on his thigh, and stared into a space across the room. ‘I need it to relax.’
‘Can’t you get more workers?’
‘Gerry says we can’t afford it.’
‘He’s had others in the past. I wouldn’t have thought it a problem.’
‘I agree.’ He caught her eye and hesitated. ‘He turned a man away today. It was a bit strange. I thought I heard your name mentioned, but when I asked Gerry about it, he said I was mistaken.’
‘Why would anyone be talking about me?’
‘It could have been someone you went to school with. He looked about your age.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I don’t know . . . normal looking. His name was Patrick.’
Patrick? Her brother? Could it be?
She bolted to her feet, out of the room, and into the next room to Gerry and Ann. ‘Was my brother looking for me today?’
Panic flashed onto their faces.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘We were going to,’ Ann said, her voice little more than a squeak.
She slipped her fingers through her hair. ‘You sent him away. I can’t believe you’d do that.’
‘We didn’t send him away . . . not exactly. He-’
‘But he’s my brother!’
‘He never said he was your brother. It could have been anyone.’
‘But he was asking after me.’
‘He was also after a job,’ Gerry said.
‘Is he staying in the village?’
‘Seems so.’
‘I have to go see him. Where’s he living?’
Gerry strode to a small chest near the window and removed a small piece of paper from within. He held it in his hand, refusing to let go. Janet pleaded with her eyes.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ he said.
‘He’s my brother. I have to see him.’
‘You’ve not thought this through. It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes, it’s been too long.’
He appeared as though he wasn’t going to relent and it triggered her panic. Pleading for support and understanding, she looked between them, noticing their doubt and anxiety. After what seemed like an eternity, Gerry relented and passed her the paper. With her heart pounding in her throat and her hands shaking, she absorbed the details.
‘It appears he is not alone,’ he said.
She lifted her gaze and fought her quivering limbs.
‘He mentioned his father.’
Chapter 20
1954
Janet’s heart was pounding so hard she thought she might explode as she walked along the village centre street, counting the houses up ahead to determine which was number twenty-two. All thoughts were incoherent, crisscrossing her brain like snakes in a pit.
There were days in the air-raid shelters. There were family meals around candlelight. There were experiences shared with her sister and brothers. Then there was the evacuation and the introduction to her new family. There was the sting of the whip, the comforting touch of Auntie Ann, the soothing tones of Uncle Gerry. Next, she was twelve-years-old returning to London full of countryside tales, and for the first time whilst within the company of her family experienced an intense feeling of not belonging. Character differences had emerged. There were mismatched principles, arguments, and tears.
Her jumbled thoughts did not stop there. She wanted to share every moment of the intervening years, from her education to her personal life, her marriage to Roy and the birth of her daughters. There was much to tell, hours, days and weeks of catching up.
What would they look like? Patrick was not likely to be recognisable, and was still a boy in her mind, although her parents should look similar. He would be scrawny and with a complexion that told of his hardship, and she would have a grey podgy skin tone and jutting chin and she would still carry a solemn demeanour.
Her steps slowed as the house came into view, her breaths shorter and faster and her excitement wild and vivid. She would forgive them for leaving and enjoy the moment. She would look forward to a future of opportunities.
She rapped on the door and held her breath. A faint sound of voices came from within. The door opened. A pregnant woman a few years her junior stood before her.
Flustered, and fearing she had made an incorrect assumption regarding the occupancy, she did not speak.
‘Yes?’ The woman urged.
There was movement at her rear. A wrinkled man wearing an ill-fitting jacket and matching trousers approached the door. Their eyes met.
‘Dad?’ she asked.
The woman stepped out of the way allowing Eric through.
For a few moments, neither spoke. Janet decided against giving him a hug and welcomed his suggestion for her to go through to the living room. It was similar to her London home, possibly a little smaller, and there were newspapers scattered on the sofa, several ashtrays on the surfaces, and dirty marks on the wallpaper.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Tentatively, she smoothed out her skirt and perched on the edge, keeping her legs together and her back straight.
‘I see you’ve not changed,’ he said.
There was a disapproving undertone in his voice and she became the little girl, returning after spending a year in the country. Her planned speech vanished, her mouth dried, her imaginary happy reunion a forgotten dream.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘It’s a bit late for happy families don’t you think.’
‘I . . .’ Janet was stunned.
Her sickness swirled and her emotions scurried; the day she had discovered they had moved away from London seeming only days previous. She had knocked on the door. She had spoken to a stranger. She had slumped onto a wall, dazed and forlorn.
For years, she had told herself it was a misunderstanding. She convinced herself that they had made a mistake and in actuality wanted contact. She had even made up excuses for them and felt their desperation having discovered that they had lost her address. She had listened to their panic, envisaged their tears, and felt their burning hearts, an exact reflection of her own.
None of it was true and the reality was crushing.
There they were, living in her village, sharing her country life, just as she had dreamed of years previous, yet it was not for her.
‘I should go,’ she said.
She was about to raise herself to her feet when Patrick entered the room. He was tall and handsome, and not the slip of a boy that she remembered, but there was no doubt it was him, his long dark eyelashes, large round eyes and prominent cheekbones the giveaway.
‘Patrick,’ she said excitedly.
The expected outburst of joy was absent, and coolly, he nodded his head.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘Married . . . expecting my second child.’
‘That was your wife? What’s her name?’
‘Janice. It’s due in a few weeks.’
‘That’s fantastic. I have two girls, Karen and Fiona. You must come and see them.’ She glanced at her father. ‘All of you.’
Eric held a stony glare.
‘I . . .’ she knotted her hands. ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’
‘It’s a little too late for that. You’ve got your life, we’ve got ours.’
‘So why did you come? Why here?’
He raised a cigarette to his mouth and exhaled small circles of smoke, his eyes locked with hers. ‘We’ve met your fancy guardians. We heard they were after workers but he turned us down. It seems we’re not good enough. We would ruin their cosy life and fancy ideas.’
‘Gerry and Ann are not like that.’
‘You think? They always wanted us out of the picture. You know she’s barren . . . couldn’t wait
to get their hands on you.’
‘That’s not how it was. I had no choice but to stay. You all left!’
Eric’s forehead crumpled and his eyes narrowed. ‘How do you think your mother felt when you turned your back on us? Do you think we’re ever going to forgive you for that? It broke her heart. She never wanted you to leave in the first place.’
‘It wasn’t my choice. I admit I enjoyed living here, but I wanted to return. I wanted us to all be together.’
‘Likely story.’
‘It’s true!’
Her eyes shifted between Eric and Patrick, both men at different ends of the room, both looking at her with disgust and contempt. They did not see her as the victim but the assailant, and she felt cornered and silently pleaded for their forgiveness. Yet Janet did not have a clue what she had done wrong; Patrick had been an evacuee and he had been able to return home. Why hadn’t she been able to do the same?
‘I returned to London after the war,’ Janet said, hoping for a reprieve, ‘but you’d left.’
A glance past between the two men.
‘We weren’t going to hang around forever,’ Eric said, ‘you’d made clear your decision.’
‘I did no such thing! I wrote to you. I sent you letters! You didn’t read them.’
‘If anyone should be throwing accusations it should be me. Your poor mother . . .’ Eric’s eyes became watery and his head dropped, searching his feet for privacy. ‘. . . I can’t forgive you for that.’
Focusing on his sorrowful figure became too difficult, and she turned to Patrick. He too displayed a deep regret.
‘W-where is she?’ Janet asked.