by June Francis
‘This isn’t the way to the cemetery!’
She started at the sound of Rosie’s loud voice.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Amelia in long-suffering tones.
‘It isn’t!’ insisted Rosie. ‘Anfield’s north.’
‘We’re not going to Anfield.’
‘But that’s where Dad’s buried! They’d want to be together.’ There was a wild look in her eyes.
‘You didn’t mention it,’ said Amelia, exasperated. ‘So naturally I arranged for her to be buried in the Catholic cemetery with Mother and Father.’
‘But you can’t do that!’ Rosie’s expression was anguished. ‘Stop the car!’
‘Be sensible, Rosie, and sit down,’ ordered Amelia.
But the girl would not sit down. Instead she leant forward, almost knocking her aunt off her seat. ‘Driver, driver, stop!’
‘Get a hold of yourself!’ Amelia’s face screwed up with effort as she tried to drag Rosie away.
‘It’s not right! It’s not right!’ Her face crumpled and tears rolled down her cheeks as they struggled. ‘They’d want to be together. They would! They would!’
‘It’s too late now,’ said Amelia fiercely. ‘The arrangements are made. I’m sorry, Rosie, but we can’t change them now.’
She was visibly shaking, eyes full of hatred. ‘You’ve done this deliberately. You never wanted them to be together. You were against them marrying in the first place because you were jealous,’ she said scornfully.
Amelia felt a stab of pain but only gave the girl one of her basilisk stares. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And now is not the time to be saying such things. You’re getting hysterical.’
‘Yes, shut up, Rosie,’ hissed Babs, nudging her sister in the ribs.
‘I won’t! She was jealous because Mam got a man and she didn’t.’
‘I could have had two—’ Amelia bit off the rest of the words she was tempted to say, continuing to stare the girl down. Babs dug Rosie in the ribs again. Rosie dug her back but subsided into a brooding silence, arms folded, black tammy-clad head bent, trying to think of some way of getting back at her aunt.
It was as they were walking away from the grave towards the tree-lined avenue that divided the cemetery into two that Rosie glanced over her shoulder and saw the Yank. He was clutching a bunch of violets which, as she watched, he let fall into the open grave. She stood rooted to the spot.
Amelia noticed her actions. Turning, she saw the American and immediately retraced her steps to the graveside.
Rosie’s stomach did a backward flip as she watched them talking. But the last thing she’d expected was for the Yank to accompany her aunt back along the path towards them.
They stopped in front of the girls. ‘Rosie, Babs, Dotty, this is your stepfather, Sam Dixon,’ said Amelia, a tremor in her voice and a devilish glint in her green eyes.
I hate her! I hate her! Rosie seethed as she handed round plates of sandwiches to complete strangers who had once known her mother. Why couldn’t her aunt have told them her mother had married again? The marriage lines had been in that brown envelope in Violet’s handbag, apparently. Rosie was mortified that her mother had married such a young man, and she was convinced Amelia was revelling in her discomfort.
How could her mother have done this to her? Rosie ground her teeth. How could she have married this man who was at least ten years her junior, without a word to them or him of the other’s existence? He had told them that it was not until he had read the report of the accident in the Echo that he had discovered Violet was the mother of four children.
Oh, she could scream! How she wished her mother was in front of her so she could demand an explanation. But the trouble with the dead was they got out of accounting for their behaviour. Rosie wanted to weep and wail and stamp her feet but instead was stuck handing out sandwiches and having to put up with remarks about her hair and eyes, even her shape, because people said she was so like her mother when Violet had been that age.
At last Rosie managed to escape with some food and, accompanied by Babs, went in search of Dotty, who was sitting on a pouffe in a corner of the parlour, out of sight alongside the piano. ‘Let’s get away. I’ve had it up to here,’ muttered Rosie, making a movement with her hand to her throat.
‘Who’d have believed it of Mam?’ said Dotty, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet by her sisters.
‘Twenty-three he is and Mam was nearly forty,’ said Babs, shaking her head.
‘She’d have to be, wouldn’t she? If I’m fifteen,’ said Rosie tartly.
‘Aunt Amelia’s thirty-one and on the shelf. I heard some woman saying that,’ said Dotty. ‘Although someone else said she’d had her chances.’
‘They’ll all be gossiping about Mam and him now,’ muttered Rosie, dragging Dotty halfway up the stairs. ‘I don’t know what she thought she was doing.’
‘You don’t think he’ll want to take us to America?’ said Dotty with an anxious expression.
‘Don’t be daft! The last thing he’ll want is the responsibility of four stepchildren,’ said Rosie.
‘You can say that again,’ said Babs, plonking herself on the step below the one where Rosie and Dotty had perched. ‘I’m surprised he said yes to Aunt Amelia’s invitation. I’d have thought he’d have made a run for it.’
‘She didn’t give him any choice. She was hellbent on rubbing my nose in it,’ said Rosie, taking a savage bite out of a sardine sandwich.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Dotty.
‘She hated Mam and I stick up for her, don’t I? So by bringing him here she’s saying, “Look, your mother wasn’t all you thought she was! She deceived you.”’
There was no answer to that so Babs and Dotty remained silent. Their mother had kept things from them as well. Rosie wasn’t the only one suffering from shock. Sometimes, thought Babs rebelliously, she took too much on herself.
People began to disperse, standing in the hall below, putting on coats and hats. ‘It’s awful about her friend Tess Hudson, isn’t it?’ said one woman in a low voice. ‘There’s that many rumours going round the village. Comas, overdoses . . . They say she would have been blind in three months, you know. I bet Amelia’s feeling it. They’ve been close for years despite Tess Hudson being a Proddy.’
‘As if Amelia didn’t have enough on her plate with Violet’s children,’ said another.
‘You can bet she’ll be running along to the Hudsons, though, seeing what she can do to help there.’
‘I believe they’ve sent for the husband, but he’ll not get back in a hurry. He’s the other side of the North Sea and the war’s not over yet. The poor Southerners are still getting buzz bombed.’
‘Surely he’ll get compassionate leave? The twins are only eight and there’s only that brother to look after them.’
‘I don’t envy Amelia. They’re real scallywags. She’s going to need all our prayers. And so is Peter, poor man.’ The front door opened.
‘How’ll she manage with the shop?’ said the first voice.
The door closed so the girls never got to hear the answer to that. But before they could move or speak, their aunt had come into the hall.
‘Then you’ll ask the Mother Superior for me?’ she said.
‘Of course. I’m certain St Vincent’s have free places for special cases.’ It was the priest’s ponderous voice. ‘Dorothy is an orphan and your father was always most generous so her prospects are good. She’ll have to board, of course, but you know that, my dear.’
Dotty clutched Rosie’s sleeve and made to speak but her sister clamped a hand over her mouth, intent on listening to the priest. ‘About the boy – have you considered sending him overseas?’
‘I haven’t given much thought to what to do with Harry. Violet’s death was such a shock. Then my friend . . .’
‘Well, do consider it, my dear. There’s a scheme for sending orphans to the colonies. Plenty of opportunities in Australia for boys if they’r
e trained properly. They can make a good life for themselves there.’
‘But Harry’s only five years old!’ Amelia sounded slightly shocked at the idea.
‘They like them young, can mould them better.’
‘I see that. Have a child ’til it’s seven . . . But it seems so cruel.’
‘Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, my dear. You think about it and I’ll make the arrangements. Now, my hat, if you would be so good?’
The girls stared at one other, faces blank with shock. Rosie took a couple of deep breaths before whispering, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘But she can’t send Harry away, can she? And what about me? Where’s this St Vincent’s place?’ wailed Dotty.
‘Sshhh! Wait until she’s gone back into one of the rooms,’ whispered Rosie.
They waited then crept downstairs, lifted their coats and hats from the newel post and were through the front door in a flash. It was a good walk to the village where the tram started but Rosie made her sisters run, determined Amelia was not going to catch up with them.
‘What are we going to do?’ panted Dotty.
‘I need to think.’
‘That St Vincent’s place is only up the lane from the house. I noticed it when we passed in the car,’ said Babs, clinging on to the black pom-pom hat which threatened to slide from her shining ringlets.
‘If it’s that close then why do I have to board?’ said Dotty. ‘I’ll run away,’ she gulped, hanging on to Rosie’s arm.
‘Don’t be dotty, Dotty,’ said Babs, giving her younger sister an impatient look. ‘You’d be falling over your feet. Besides, it wouldn’t be sensible at this time of year.’
‘I don’t care. If I end up frozen and dead like the Little Match Girl, it’ll serve Aunt Amelia right!’
‘We don’t want you frozen and dead. Isn’t it enough we’ve just buried Mam?’ said Rosie wrathfully.
‘I’m sorry. Oh, why did she have to die?’ moaned Dotty.
‘Shut up. Crying’s not going to help,’ gasped Babs, putting a hand to her side. ‘I’m getting a stitch. Can’t we walk now?’
‘OK. But let’s shut up and do some thinking,’ said Rosie. They all fell silent but it was not until they were almost home that she had her idea.
The girls found Harry playing in the street and quickly Rosie drew him away from his playmates. ‘Did you see the Holy Ghost?’ he said, jiggling on the spot, gazing eagerly up at Rosie.
‘No. But never mind that now.’ She was overwhelmed by love for him and hugged him convulsively.
‘You’re hurting me,’ he said, wriggling out of her grasp and slanting her a reproachful look. ‘What’s up, Rosie?’
‘Clever lad. Can’t hide anything from you.’ She ruffled his short hair. ‘Come on. We’ve got to get cracking. Don’t take your coats off.’
She opened the front door with the key on the string. Once inside, she began to empty the food cupboard, glad their aunt had stocked up yesterday. ‘Go upstairs, Babs, and bring down a change of clothes and a blanket each. Put the clothes in a pillowcase.’
Babs stared at her and sighed heavily. ‘Are we running away?’
‘Shut up and get upstairs,’ ordered Rosie, scowling at her. ‘I’m going to give Aunt Amelia the fright of her life. She’ll see she can’t split us up.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Harry, raising himself up and down on his toes with excitement. ‘Can I take me engine?’
‘If you can carry it. But hurry!’
Rosie went down the yard, taking a claw hammer and an axe from the shed. She felt beneath the sideboard runner where Violet always put the rent money, smiling when she found it untouched. With the paper-round money she had been paid on Saturday, it meant she had seventeen shillings and eightpence. There were several other necessary items to remember before, heavily laden, Rosie led the others up the back entry to the rear of the bomb-damaged houses they had passed on the way home.
It was a relief to find a back gate unlocked. At least Davey was useful for something, she thought, having remembered hearing him talking about this house a while ago. She set to with the claw hammer, prising out the nails fastening the wooden boards over a window.
Dusk was falling so as soon as they had climbed over the window sill and were inside, Rosie lit a candle and led the way out of the scullery into a front room.
‘It’s cold,’ said Dot, hanging on to her sleeve. ‘And d’you think there’s mice?’
‘What would they live on?’ drawled Babs, glancing around with a resigned expression.
There were holes in the ceiling where broken latticework showed through, wide cracks in the wall where the paper had peeled off. The floor was littered with chunks of plaster and all kinds of rubbish.
‘Look at that,’ said Harry, running over to a tatty sofa, setting springs squeaking in protest and sending clouds of dust into the air as he jumped on it.
Rosie placed her burdens down and left the room. When she returned it was to chop up a couple of the wooden boards and make a fire. That done, she told the others to stay put while she did her paper round. Babs was ordered to make jam butties and to keep the fire going.
It was the swiftest Rosie had ever delivered her newspapers. On the way back, she narrowly missed colliding with Davey, cycling without lights up the entry. ‘Idiot!’ she gasped, banging her funny bone on the wall as she stepped back. Her face screwed up with the agony of it as pain tingled up and down her arm.
He backtracked and lowered his dark head so their faces were level. ‘What are you doing here?’
She caught the gleam of his eyes and could feel his warm pepperminty breath on her face. ‘None of your business.’ She tried to brush past him but he grabbed her arm.
‘What’s up?’ His voice had softened and for a moment she thought he sounded as if he really cared. Then she dismissed him as being incapable of such emotion.
She flung back her head so that the dark ringlets bounced on her shoulders. ‘Nothing! I’m on a message, that’s all.’
His mouth curled up at the corners in a sardonic smile. ‘I don’t believe you. And you shouldn’t be going down jiggers in the dark.’
‘I know. One never knows who one might bump into.’ She kept her voice light.
‘No, one doesn’t, does one?’ he mocked.
She felt a surge of anger. ‘Let me go, Davey.’
‘Sure.’ He released her. ‘How was the funeral?’
‘A barrel of laughs.’ She forced her way past him and ran.
Davey watched her a moment, thinking she was getting to be a real handful. Interesting. But no doubt about it, she considered herself a touch above him. He rode slowly home, wondering what she was up to.
Amelia was not in a good mood. She had planned on having the girls to stay at her house that night and had telephoned the corner shop, requesting the proprietor to tell Gwen Baxendale so and ask her if she could take care of Harry until tomorrow. Amelia had planned on checking if Chris and the twins were all right, then writing a couple of letters, one to Canada and one to Norway, before finally, thankfully, getting into her own bed.
Instead, here she was standing in the middle of a kitchen that was cold, dark and eerily silent, having let herself into the house with the key on the string. She could not light the gas mantle or the fire because she could not find the matches and in her search had also discovered the kettle was gone and all the food that had been in the cupboard. She turned on her heel swiftly and went and knocked on Mrs Baxendale’s front door.
It was opened by Davey.
‘The children?’ said Amelia without preamble.
‘Not here.’ He rested one hand on the door jamb, gazing down at her, face expressionless, but she had caught something in his eyes a second before. An alertness, an on-his-guard look in the second he realised who it was.
‘Have you or your mother seen them?’ She kept her voice calm, determined not to give vent to her anger.
‘Can’t you
find them?’ He allowed himself to show some interest.
‘They’re not in the house and I know the girls found the funeral upsetting. Particularly Rosie. Do you have a bobby on the beat?’
Davey shifted position, bringing down his arm, placing his hand in his pocket. ‘Are you that worried?’
‘Of course I’m worried! Why do you think I wouldn’t be? What’s Rosie been saying about me?’
He looked surprised. ‘Why should she say anything to me about you?’
‘You’re her boyfriend.’
His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘You say that to her and she’ll knock your block off!’
Amelia stared at him, then nodded. ‘If they turn up here, tell them they don’t have to worry about the Yank.’
‘Sure,’ said Davey, asking no questions, and closed the door.
Harry snuggled against Rosie. The four Kilshaws were huddled together on the sofa with a blanket beneath them and several covering them. The wood in the fireplace crackled, sending billows of smoke swirling round the room, making them cough occasionally.
‘I’m worried about this sofa,’ moaned Dotty. ‘It’s probably full of fleas and there’s a smell in here I don’t like.’
‘Oh, you and your nose! Probably a dead bird in the chimney,’ yawned Rosie, thinking she had made a mess of things, not having given a thought to whether the water would be on in the house or not. It wasn’t.
‘I’ve never eaten roasted bird,’ said Harry, his high-pitched voice echoing round the room.
‘It’s probably only a skeleton,’ said Babs.
‘Spooky and smelly!’ sniffed Dotty.
‘D’you think there’s a ghost?’ asked Harry.
‘No.’ Rosie’s tone was definite.
He sighed. ‘Then tell us a story, Rosie?’
Before she could start, Babs said, ‘The skeleton fights the Germans! The smelly spy! I spy with my little eye something smelling like . . .’
‘Evening in Paris. Can I have the half-empty bottle in Mam’s handbag?’ said Dotty.
‘Aunt Amelia has it,’ said Rosie.