by June Francis
She experienced a moment’s pleasurable excitement at the thought of going into town. ‘I’m going.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Are the twins all right, by the way?’
‘Full of beans,’ sighed Amelia.
‘Pity!’ She grinned. ‘There was a woman in here the other day who said mumps was going round. That’d stop their gallop!’
‘They’ve had it. They looked like they’d loaded their mouths with gobstoppers,’ said Amelia, opening a box of soaps. ‘Now go!’
Rosie went.
Seated on the tram, she rubbed a circle in the condensation on a window and peered out. She had not been into town since before Christmas when Lewis’s and Blackler’s, still bearing the scars of the Blitz, had done their best to make it look festive. In other parts of the city there were acres of wasteland where once there had been shops, offices and homes. It made her feel sad, seeing places so derelict, wondering how long it would be before rebuilding really got going. She doubted, though, that Liverpool would ever be its old self again.
Rosie got off the tram in Church Street and hurried up Hanover Street to Thomas’s drug company. It was lovely being out among the bustling crowds. A year ago, the war was still on and the atmosphere had been completely different. Battles were still being fought; men, women and children were still dying. Davey would surely stand a better chance of surviving his call-up now than he would have twelve months ago.
It was on the return trip that Rosie thought she saw her granddad and waved to catch his attention. He did not appear to see her. It was then that she realised he was not alone but arm in arm with a woman. She decided to take a closer look, pushing her way through the crowds, but the couple had crossed into Clayton Square before she could catch up with them.
She followed them, getting glimpses of the woman every now and again. She was taller than Granddad, with brassy sausage curls showing beneath a red felt hat. Rosie almost caught up with them outside St John’s Market but a woman came hurrying out with a pram and Rosie only just managed to stop herself from falling over it. The woman apologised. Rosie smiled and brushed away her words and hurried on, past Kendall’s the umbrella shop and round the corner into Lime Street. There was no sign of the couple. It was as if a genie had magicked them away.
*
‘You’re late!’ said Amelia from her place in the window.
‘Sorry.’ Rosie had walked the whole length of Lime Street, peeking into the doorway of the Washington Hotel, O’Connell’s pub, even the railway station, but had not been able to spot Walter and his companion. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Never mind what I’m doing,’ retorted Amelia. ‘You’re supposed to be working here, my girl. Now get into the dispensing room and give that box to Brownie. It’s almost lunch hour.’
Rosie went.
Amelia wiped the neck of a carboy filled with coloured water in the display and gazed through the window. Movement on the other side of the road caught her attention. A man was standing outside the tobacconist’s staring in her direction. Suddenly, she realised who it was and with unsteady fingers bent and arranged packets of Amami shampoo in the shape of a fan, surreptiously watching him.
He was coming over! She dropped a packet, stepping down from the window and racing behind the counter, knowing she would feel safer with a barrier between them.
The door opened and Bernard Rossiter stooped to enter. He was well over six feet and as he stared at her for a moment, Amelia felt like a mouse mesmerised by an owl.
‘Good day, Amy.’
‘Mr Rossiter.’ She inclined her head, hoping she appeared calmer than she felt. Her heart was thudding like an engine that had already got up steam and was about to chug away.
He moved towards her with all the grace of a large cat. His dark hair was greying at the temples and he sported a pencil moustache, reminding her of Ronald Colman in The Prisoner of Zenda. He had broadened over the years so that the pinstripe material of what was obviously his demob suit stretched tightly across his chest.
He rested one elbow on the counter. ‘Why so formal? I’ve forgiven you. Surely you can forgive me?’
She knew from his eyes he was lying. He hated her and in a way she didn’t blame him. Men and their pride! She had jilted him and he had never accepted her reason for doing so, seemingly unable to believe that ending their engagement was as painful to her as it had been to him. ‘Are you here on business?’ Her voice was cool.
‘What else?’ He brought his hand down over hers, resting on the glass-topped counter. ‘Nothing seems to have changed here,’ he added, glancing around.
‘Everything’s changed.’ She kept control of her voice, pretending to ignore the pressure bearing down on her hand. ‘Father’s dead.’
‘I heard. Too late for us, though, isn’t it? If only he’d died earlier.’
‘I loved my father.’ She made to withdraw her hand but he pressed down on it even harder. Her eyes glinted. ‘I think you’re forgetting yourself, Mr Rossiter. Please take your hand away or I’ll have to call for help.’
A corner of his mouth curled. ‘Brownie? Now there’s a joke!’ He removed his hand. ‘How’s business?’
‘The sick are always with us,’ she said, moving away from the counter to lean against the rows of small drawers behind her.
‘I was sick and ye did not visit me.’ His mouth curled into a sneer. ‘How did that match up to your sense of duty?’
‘Your bad chest didn’t stop you getting into the Army.’
‘Never left old Blighty, though, sweetie.’
‘I’m not a dolly mixture.’
‘You were sweet on me once.’
‘Those days are gone, and besides you soon married someone else.’ She folded her arms. ‘How is your wife, by the way?’
‘Sick.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and threw it on the counter. ‘Here’s her prescription. She was bombed out during the Blitz and had to move in with my mother. Her nerves are bad. I hear you’ve married?’ There was that curl to his mouth again.
Amelia’s heart jolted in her breast. She hoped whoever had told him had not mentioned to whom, but she hoped in vain.
There was that look of smouldering hatred back in his eyes again. ‘Peter Hudson, I believe. Tess hardly cold in her grave and you tie the knot? Suspicious.’
‘She had been ill for years, you know that.’ There was a tremor in her voice despite all Amelia’s attempts to keep calm.
‘Even so, for the pair of you to marry so quickly . . . Some of us with nasty minds might think there’d been hanky-panky going on for years. I’ve never forgotten his interference in something that was none of his bloody business!’
‘I was thankful for his interference,’ said Amelia hotly, remembering that day Bernard had followed her. ‘And please don’t use that language in my shop. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take this prescription through to Mr Brown.’
She was glad to get away and seriously thought of knocking off work there and then and letting Rosie deal with him. But almost immediately she decided against it. Bernard would think he had put the wind up her and Amelia wasn’t having that. Fortunately, when she returned there were a couple of other customers waiting and he was over by the door, gazing out. It was not until Rosie popped out of the back with his wife’s tablets that he came over to the counter again.
‘You’ll be seeing more of me, Amy,’ he said, barely glancing at the girl. Amelia made no comment, taking his money and handing over the tablets. ‘Yes.’ He flung back his head. ‘I’m going back to my old job, working for Evans, Lescher & Webb. I’m sure you won’t let the past affect any orders you might give me, Mrs Hudson?’ There was a definite challenge in the way he threw the words at her.
‘Business is business, Mr Rossiter,’ she said coldly. ‘Good day.’
He walked out of the shop. Rosie’s eyes followed him. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Just an old sales rep back from the war,’ said Amelia, turning the sign on the door to CLOSE
D. ‘But you need to watch him. He has the gift of the gab. I’m going home, Rosie. I want to see how Peter is.’
‘OK.’ For a moment, the girl looked as if she was going to say something more. Amelia did not want her asking any awkward questions about Bernard. She put on her coat and hat and hurried out.
As soon as she closed the front door and set foot in the house, Peter called down, asking who it was. Amelia hurried upstairs, knocking gently on his door before going in. The room was cold and all she could see of him was the crown of his head.
‘Are you OK?’ she whispered.
He lowered the covers and elbowed himself up.
She stared at him and the exchange with Bernard was completely forgotten. The left half of his face and jawline was swollen and his skin was a fiery red. ‘You look awful!’
‘I feel awful,’ he groaned.
‘Oh, dear!’ She bit on her lower lip and sat on the bed. ‘I don’t think it’s ’flu, Pete.’
‘I know.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I haven’t been sneezing but I’ve got a damned awful earache. Can you give me something? And can I have a drink?’
‘Yes to both. But I think you’d better see the Post Office doctor after all. I think you’ve got mumps.’
He peered at her resentfully from beneath heavy eyelids. ‘That’s not funny.’
‘It’s going the rounds, and honestly—’ She said no more, only smiling sympathetically.
His expression was so horrified it was almost comical. ‘You’re serious!’ he croaked.
‘Sorry.’ She gripped her lower lip between her teeth to prevent herself from laughing.
‘But I’m grown up! This can’t be happening to me!’
Amelia repeated, ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re enjoying this,’ he groaned, burying himself beneath the bedcovers. ‘And get off my feet. You’re no Skinny Melink, you know!’
‘I’m no Two Ton Tess either,’ she retorted, getting up. ‘I’ll get you that cup of tea.’
‘Yeah. And a bottle of Aspirin.’ His words were muffled.
She patted his hunched shoulder and left the room, feeling like dancing because there was no question of her returning to the shop in the next few days. She was going to have enough on her plate to cope with here without having to deal with Bernard and his snide insinuations if he came into the shop again. She would have to warn Brownie about him, though.
By the time the twins arrived back, Amelia had been in touch not only with the doctor and Mr Brown but had called at St Vincent’s as well. ‘Do you want a visit from your sons?’ she said cheerfully to Peter.
‘Too full of bounce. I don’t want to see anyone,’ he muttered, turning over on to his stomach and burying his hot face in the pillow.
Her eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll remember that when you want someone to mop your fevered brow.’
‘“For better, for worse, in sickness and in health,”’ he reminded her.
She could just about catch the words. ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ she said, thinking mumps was not exactly what she had expected to cope with when she made her marriage vows. ‘Then you don’t want visitors?’ she asked again.
He shook his head and she left the bleak little room, wondering if she was being heartless abandoning him in his misery.
The next morning, he seemed fractionally worse and the other side of his jaw had swelled up. The doctor still had not called. ‘I’d best ring him again,’ said Amelia, sitting on his bed in her pyjamas.
‘No, I’ll go to him,’ croaked Peter, struggling to sit up.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t be stupid! You’re not fit.’
His mouth set stubbornly as he attempted to throw back the bedcovers. ‘I’m not having him visit me in this box. What’s he going to think?’
‘That you’re a sick man, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said as patiently as she could. ‘And that you’re in quarantine.’
‘From my wife?’ He stood up on obviously wobbly legs.
She scowled at him. ‘Lie down before you fall down. What do you suggest? That we move you?’
‘Yes!’ He glared at her. ‘We planned to anyway. I could have a fire in your room,’ he said mournfully. ‘It would make me feel more cheerful.’
He noticed her reaction to this only because they were sitting so close. ‘You’ll be safe! I couldn’t do anything to anyone at the moment,’ he said, gingerly touching his jaw. ‘I’ll stick to the letter of what we agreed.’
‘Did I say anything? I’m just hoping you don’t give it to me. I’ll rouse the twins and get them to help move the bed.’
Faced with that challenge and a father they had never known ill before, the twins behaved sensibly and even chopped some wood and fetched some coal. Soon a fire crackled in the fireplace in the large front room.
‘That’s better,’ said Peter with a satisfied sigh, eyes on the flames, propped up by pillows.
Amelia agreed that there was something about being in bed, watching a fi burn brightly while rain lashed against the windows. Going one step further in her mind she thought how nice it would be if they were both in the bed. But now was not the moment. She went downstairs to make him a drink.
The first night Peter spent in her room, Amelia was convinced she would lie awake, listening to his breathing and waiting for something to happen, but she was asleep in minutes, tired out with all she had done that day.
The next few nights were just the same and she began to get used not only to Peter’s presence in her room but also to the change in her routine as she continued to leave the shop in Mr Brown’s and Rosie’s capable hands. The twins seemed happier, too. She did not know how Chris felt because she had seen little of him.
But a week after Peter had gone down with the mumps, when Amelia was pegging out the last shirt in the washing basket, she heard a bike being wheeled up the front path. Chris came through the back gate. She smiled at him. ‘I didn’t expect to see you at this time of day.’
‘I thought I’d drop in and see how Dad is. He’s not infectious now, is he? It’s my lunch hour so I can’t stay long.’
‘I think he’s a little better. Go up and see him but don’t get too close.’ Amelia went into the kitchen and then remembered something Peter had asked for so slipped into the parlour. It was quiet downstairs and she was immediately aware of raised voices overhead. She was surprised because father and son seldom argued.
When she heard feet thundering on the stairs, she hurried into the hall. ‘Is everything OK, Chris?’ she asked, worried.
There was a strained expression on his face. He rubbed his eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know! I thought—’ He stopped, his Adam’s apple jerking.
‘Didn’t know what?’
He looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Of course it did, she thought. He was upset. ‘Stay and have a cup of tea with me,’ she coaxed, taking his arm. ‘It’s not often we have a chance to talk. You’re always at work, playing football or at the pictures.’
He hesitated, rubbed his eyebrow again, then blurted out, ‘No, I’ve got to go.’
‘But you’ve hardly been here five minutes. Have a warm drink.’
‘I’m OK!’ he shouted, yanking open the front door and slamming it behind him.
Amelia could not believe Chris had behaved in such a way and ran upstairs, tapping on the bedroom door before opening it.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Peter, tawny hair dark with sweat. ‘This is your room.’ He sounded vexed.
‘And yours. I brought you these.’ She placed the book and pencils on the bedcover. ‘What’s up with Chris?’
He reached for the exercise book as a drowning man clutches a rope. ‘He hadn’t realised I’d moved in here. He doesn’t like it. Says I’ve betrayed his mother’s memory. Have you ever heard such rubbish?’
She hesitated. ‘Didn’t you tell him why you’ve moved in here?’
Peter’s expression hardened. ‘I’ve told him as much as he needs to know.
I’m not having him dictating to me. It’s none of his business what goes on between us. I’ll never forget Tess and he should know that.’
Amelia’s heart sank as she sat on the bed but she tried to sound sensible and reasonable. ‘It’s not so long since the anniversary of her death. That probably opened the wound again. They became very close while you were away. And don’t forget, he found her body. It was a shock and it takes time to get over these things.’
Peter scowled. ‘Don’t be so bloody understanding, Lee! I’m not having him speak to me that way. You don’t know—’ His voice faltered and he sank back against the pillows. ‘Go away,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m not fit company. Leave me alone. You don’t know it all.’ He closed his eyes.
For a moment, she gazed down at him, feeling the pain of failure all over again. Then she went downstairs and sank on to a chair, determined not to think about Tess or Bernard again. She yawned, wistfully remembering the days when her mother had had an all-purpose maid to help her with household tasks. But the maid had gone even before the war when domestics had left for the factories or the Forces.
The cat miaowed, reminding her none of them had had lunch. She went into the kitchen and scraped butter on to bread, poured lentil soup into bowls, made tea and took it upstairs. Peter’s eyes were closed and, thinking he was still asleep, she went to creep out, only to be stopped by the sound of his voice. ‘Don’t go!’
She turned and their eyes met. She knew he was sorry for being cross. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you but I thought you might be hungry,’ she said softly.
‘I was waiting for you to come up. I must have just dozed off a minute. I was thinking about my being in here and whether you were unhappy about it. I don’t want you to be, Lee.’ His eyes searched her face, seeming to plead with her. ‘If you want me to move out again when I’m better, I will.’
She put down the tray and sat on his bed, unsure how to answer. ‘Would you like something light to read? There’s a comic in the lavatory downstairs. It has a picture of a German soldier and a flying officer on the front, wrestling with one another.’