The Soldier's Valentine

by Lizzie Lane

  Adjusting to the new circumstances of their relationship she had doted on her family, making sure they had the best of everything she could give them. Loving them helped compensate for Henry’s shortcomings and eased her guilt.

  In the process of paying for the boots, Mary Anne had rolled up her skirt and rummaged in the pocket sewn on the leg of her knickers.

  Biddy had eyed the lace-edged pocket.

  ‘I might sew on one of they meself. Keep my Alf’s hands off it. Does it work with your Henry?’

  ‘Safer than the Bank of England. It’s not my knickers he’s after – it’s what they cover!’

  Biddy laughed. ‘Men! Like bloody animals they are!’

  Mary Anne handed her the money. ‘I lend you a shilling, you pay me back one shilling and thruppence or I sell the boots.’

  That was how it had started. Biddy never did pay back the money and Mary Anne kept the boots, only selling them once Stanley had grown out of them. But there were other times and other neighbours needing a loan to tide them over, and so her business had grown. She’d turned a good profit.

  The whole neighbourhood – or at least the women in it – had got wind of what she was doing and as her rates were cheaper than the real pawnbroker and it wasn’t so far to go, she didn’t have a bad little trade.

  ‘You’ve got a good business ’ere,’ said Biddy. ‘And yer kids are grown up. Love ’em as you may, babies can cramp yer lifestyle. They certainly did mine, and as we get older, well …’

  ‘I’ll send her a note,’ said Mary Anne. ‘I’ve got a stamp somewhere.’

  ‘You could send a note with Muriel Harrison’s husband,’ suggested Biddy.

  Mary Anne shook her head. Muriel’s husband was a bus driver used to taking notes a bit wide of his route – not that Old Market was any problem. He was on that route – Knowle West to Eastville. All he’d have to do was pull up, say he was off to take a leak and nip round the back of Old Market to where Nellie Riley lived.

  ‘I prefer to keep my business to myself.’ She threw Biddy a warning look. ‘And I’d prefer you to do the same if you don’t mind.’

  Biddy threw up her hands as though astonished that Mary Anne could possibly suspect her of doing otherwise.

  ‘I won’t breathe a word. Everything will be fine. Give it a fortnight and you’ll be right as rain. Her concoctions don’t taste all that grand, but they do work – I’ve heard hundreds say so, and anyway, even if it don’t, she’s got other methods, if you know what I mean.’

  Mary Anne tried to ignore the last comment. The thought of having to resort to anything other than drinking one of Mrs Riley’s brews was anathema and she shivered at the thought of it.

  ‘I hear she’s discreet,’ she said thoughtfully, pulling on her boots so she could return to digging up potatoes from the garden for dinner. She liked gardening, was proud of her busy little plot, but only grew things that could be eaten. Rows of cabbages divided potatoes from peas, runner beans climbed up canes and raspberries, gooseberries and blackcurrant bushes stood shoulder to shoulder against the fence.

  ‘She is, but don’t help to give her directions. After all, you’re the one paying. Up to you how you wants things done.’

  ‘I’ve got Stanley to think of.’

  ‘You mean if he has a good day, he might be wandering about.’

  Mary Anne nodded. Stanley had a bad chest at the beginning of the year and she’d been sick with worry. He was puny for a ten-year-old and caught any coughs, colds and sneezes that were going around. So she protected him, some said too much.

  ‘I’ll send her it by post,’ said Mary Anne. ‘I want to keep it a secret. I don’t want Henry to find out.’

  Biddy sipped at the tea slowly going cold in the cup balanced on the boiler. ‘Of course you don’t, love.’

  Before closing the cupboard door, Mary Anne glanced over her shoulder. Biddy was a gossip; a little bribery, she decided, wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘No. Here,’ she said, handing her a pair of silk stockings. ‘I don’t know who pledged these but it was over six months ago. Can you make use of them?’

  Biddy’s eyes grew round as she fingered the fine silk. ‘Ooow! They’re nice. If you’re really sure …’

  ‘Go on. You might as well have them.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ After rolling the stockings into a ball, Biddy shoved them down her cleavage.

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘Haven’t you got a pocket?’

  ‘Not in this frock. It’s like a second skin. Must ’ave shrunk in the wash. You know ’ow it is.’

  Mary Anne moved a pile of washing from chair to boiler lid in order to hide her smile. Biddy had a good appetite; her body had got larger, not the dress smaller.

  The rolls of fat resettled in different positions as she got up to leave. ‘Well I ’ope I’ve been of some help. Best of luck with Mrs Riley. And thanks for the stockings.’ She looked like the cat that got the cream.

  Mary Anne smiled. ‘What are friends for?’

  Biddy sighed with satisfaction and swigged back the last of the cold tea.

  If she knew the stockings were a bribe, she didn’t let on. Biddy might be a friend, but she gathered and gave out gossip quicker than the milkman delivered two pints of gold top. Mary Anne hoped she had given her enough for her silence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Michael Maurice handed his passport to Mr Abner Crombie of Crombie, Benson and Spyte, Attorneys at Law in Small Street. He sat rubbing his hands together, uncomfortable in alien surroundings in a building as dark as his thoughts.

  The office walls were panelled in dark oak and the floorboards squealed underfoot as though being tortured. Lead-paned windows opened out over the cobbled street outside where costermongers sold fruit from barrows and barrels from a brewery dray thundered into the cellar of the Assize Court pub next door.

  Mr Crombie raised his eyebrows. ‘A British passport?’

  ‘I was born here.’ Michael spoke slowly and precisely, anxious to impress by clear pronunciation that he had indeed been born in England.

  ‘Mr Rosenburg was your mother’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘That is true.’

  Mr Crombie nodded without taking his eyes from the black and white photograph of a serious-looking Michael taken three years previously.

  ‘And you have lived in Amsterdam for most of your life.’

  Michael nodded. ‘That is true.’

  The lie rolled easily off his tongue. He’d decided it was sensible not to mention having lived in Germany since he was twelve years old. He was in England now and anti-German feelings were running high.

  Mr Crombie gave him a direct look, blinked and said, ‘I see.’

  It occurred to Michael that the solicitor knew the truth. He swallowed the fear that rolled into his throat like a ball of wire. He couldn’t know. It wasn’t possible. The letter had come to him via a cousin’s address in Amsterdam. His cousin had known that the family had moved on from Holland but had not divulged the truth to this solicitor, a fact for which Michael was grateful.

  The smell of dust and drains drifted through the window. Michael refrained from wrinkling his nose. He did not want to cause offence.

  For his part, Mr Crombie, though not appearing to, studied Michael Maurice more intently than he would have before war was declared. He was not at all what he had expected, too young in his opinion to be left any business at all. His uncle had been swarthy, dark and very stout. The dark blond locks of the man sitting in front of him curled over his coat collar. No Englishman would wear his hair that long, thought Crombie, who had an inherent distrust of anyone who didn’t conform to his own, musty and very old English style. Although he admitted Michael Maurice had an open face, such faces, in Crombie’s experience, could be deceiving. On top of that, he didn’t like being scrutinised quite so intensely. An Englishman wouldn’t study another person to such an extent, certainly not until they’d met on a number of occasions. That didn’t mean, however, that h
e couldn’t do exactly the same thing and form an instant opinion. His opinion was that Michael Maurice had what he termed ‘presence’. Deep-set blue eyes gazed steadily at each movement he took. His shoulders seemed tense, though perhaps they were just muscular, if so, they matched the strength in his face.

  ‘Everything seems in order,’ said Crombie, handing him back the passport plus a brown envelope containing a bundle of crisp five-pound notes. ‘As I told you, there is only a small amount of cash.’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  The solicitor nodded. ‘Times have changed. There’s a lot of competition in the pawnbroking business nowadays. I’ve heard of people doing business from their front parlours.’

  ‘Not proper shops?’ Michael sounded surprised.

  ‘No. Not really legal either.’

  ‘I will make the shop better profitable.’

  ‘More profitable,’ Crombie corrected.

  Michael flushed at his slip in grammar. ‘That is right.’

  ‘I have the keys here.’ He reached into a desk drawer and brought out a bundle of keys. ‘Thomas Routledge, the caretaker I placed in your uncle’s shop following his demise, is still in situ. Morose would be the best word to describe him. Would you like me to come with you in case he takes to being surly?’

  ‘I can manage,’ said Michael, rising to his feet at the same time as taking the bunch of keys from Mr Crombie’s hand.

  The two men shook hands. ‘It won’t be easy for you especially seeing as you’ve never ran a business before.’

  ‘I will learn.’

  ‘I’m reminded of an old saying that there’s no sentiment in business. I’m afraid your uncle did not adhere to those words. He had a soft heart.’

  Michael blinked but said no more. He didn’t want to say that his heart was dead or that ruthlessness could easily override sentiment if survival was involved. He didn’t want to mention anything about his flight from Germany – nothing, nothing at all. At least, not yet: the memories were too painful.

  The solicitor stayed behind his desk watching as Michael ducked beneath an overhead beam before gaining the door. It occurred to him that Michael had not smiled even once: a grim man for one so young.

  Three brass balls hung above the shop door. Wooden shutters hid the windows and the door was firmly shut, the paintwork faded and peeling like burned skin.

  Shielding his eyes from the bright September sunlight, Michael took a step back into the road and regarded his inheritance: at least one room on the ground floor, plus the shop, perhaps two above that and perhaps one or two attic rooms at the very top.

  There was no sign of the caretaker, so he took it upon himself to enter. The key grated in the lock. An overhead bell jangled as he pushed the door open into a small porch enclosed by wire screens. Another bell hung beside a hatch arrangement. The notice above the hatch said that in the interests of privacy, only two people at any one time would be dealt with. The rest must wait outside.

  He wasn’t sure whether this was more to do with security than privacy.

  No one came in answer to the bell. He looked around for a door into the rest of the premises but could see nothing. The wire screens finished about two feet from the ceiling, blocking his view. Taking hold as far up the screen as he could, he laced his fingers into the holes, placed one foot on the polished counter, and heaved himself up and over.

  He found himself surrounded by glass-fronted cupboards filled with all manner of china, cameras, scientific and navigation instruments, musical instruments and, in barred and locked cupboards, an assortment of guns, sabres and assegais. Labels sprouted from brown paper parcels heaped along the shelving at the back. There were also drawers marked ‘gold’, ‘silver’, ‘wedding’ and ‘engagement’. A pile of ledgers sat in a corner on the counter.

  He’d expected to see the caretaker, but no one appeared.

  The living room at the back of the shop was exactly how he’d imagined it would be. Sepia photographs of family ancestors in stiff poses hung from the walls. The paintwork was dark, the wallpaper from the previous century unbearably ornate and furry beneath his fingertips. A chenille pelmet hung from the high mantelpiece and a tea caddy made to celebrate the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria sat next to a black onyx clock.

  There was a kitchen beyond the living room where a teapot and two cups and saucers sat on the table. He reached out and touched the teapot. It was still warm and there were dregs of tea at the bottoms of the cups, a trace of lipstick around the rim of one. Someone was in the house. He listened intently, heard a small noise and looked up at the ceiling.

  If Thomas Routledge was up there, why hadn’t he heard him? What was he doing that distracted his attention?

  The stairs were so narrow that his shoulders grazed the walls. The landing at the top was surprisingly wide and there was an arched window at one end. He paused as the heavy lace curtain billowed inwards in the breeze. The window, attractive as it was, looked out on a backyard and a tree vivid with red leaves.

  A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot and brought an exclamation from behind a bedroom door following by frenzied muttering.

  Without preamble, Michael opened the door. The room smelled of sweaty bodies and recent sex. The man was naked. The girl was young, possibly no more than fourteen, though she had a worldly face.

  The man pulled the bedclothes over his lean shanks. ‘We’re closed!’ he barked, but looked nervous.

  The girl giggled, her small breasts jiggling in sympathy.

  ‘No. It is open,’ said Michael. ‘You were supposed to be running the business not lying in bed.’

  Realising who he was talking to, the man adopted a nervous grin. ‘I can explain—’

  Michael stayed his tongue but made his feelings very obvious. The curtains tore as he pulled them back, the window jamming then squealing as he pushed it open. Fresh air funnelled in.

  ‘Ere, just a minute …’

  Michael pointed at him. ‘Get out of my shop, and take the girl with you.’

  The girl opened and closed her legs, giving him an unobstructed view of what was on offer. ‘I only charge ten shillings, mister,’ she said, her rouged lips smiling invitingly as though she were the most glamorous woman he’d ever set eyes on.

  She aroused no desire, but only memories of beds once slept in and events he’d prefer to forget.

  ‘Out,’ he said; his words as controlled as in the solicitor’s office. ‘Out,’ he said again, his fingers tightly gripping the door handle.

  Routledge shuffled his trousers before putting one hairy leg inside the brown, cheap material, closely followed by the other. ‘I’m still owed five pounds,’ he grumbled.

  Michael regarded Routledge with contempt. He’d met plenty of his sort; the coarse exterior hiding a matching though cowardly inner soul. His inclination was to take hold of the man by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants and throw him out through the window, glass, shutters and all, but he couldn’t. He mustn’t. He had to tread carefully in a country where foreigners were viewed with more suspicion than they’d ever been.

  Although it grieved him, he peeled off a fiver from the pile in the envelope.

  ‘And then there’s expenses …’

  Michael hardened his look.

  Routledge was wily enough to know when he was pushing his luck. He rubbed at the three-day growth of stubble sprouting from his cheeks and chin. ‘I can see you think I’ve had more than a fair share.’ He glanced at the girl. ‘Maybe you’re right, sir, maybe you’re right.’

  The girl squealed as he took her elbow and pushed her out of the door in front of him, even though she was only half dressed.

  ‘You owes me,’ she whined.

  ‘Let’s go down the pub. I’ll pay you there.’

  Michael followed them out to the door, where he wrenched the spare set of keys from Routledge’s hand, then locked and bolted the door behind them.

  Once it was closed, he sighed with relief, glad to be in
side the shuttered building even though the smell of neglect was strong and the sound of water dripping from a faulty tap echoed like halting footsteps.

  Out in the meagre kitchen, he found a larder containing tins of food, some cheese, ham and bread. He also found a bottle of Camp Coffee, made himself a thick, black cupful, and winced as the bite of chicory crawled along his tongue.

  The living room was comfortable though dark. After eating and half finishing the coffee, he settled down to doze, the tiring journey, the fear of what the future held finally catching up with him – except he didn’t sleep. Something caught his eye.

  In the corner of the room, he saw – wooden, old-fashioned, but compelling – a gramophone. Next to it was a pile of records. Like a man starved, he slid one after another off the pile, his eyes widening and his heart lifting. Jazz, popular songs of the day and classical; the latter were in the majority.

  Lovingly, he caressed the works of Hoagy Carmichael, Ella Fitzgerald and Caruso. Amongst them all he found a performance of Cavalleria Rusticana.

  The music wafted over him, salve to a tormented soul. The memories returned. Fearing to face them and blaming the music for their resurgence, he went to bed, but even there he could not escape. The past was too recent, too raw.

  Behind his closed eyelids he was back there, in 1929, pledging allegiance to the Nazi Party. To do otherwise would have isolated him completely from his friends, the young men he’d known for most of his life.

  The dream was pleasant enough, but unfortunately led into the later nightmares. He wasn’t ready to face them, and wasn’t sure he ever would be.

  In the morning, Michael checked his inheritance. The pledges – so he had found them named in his uncle’s ledger – were stacked on shelves, in cupboards and drawers, each labelled as to their content: watches; gold, watches; silver, bracelets, necklaces, rings; miscellaneous silver; miscellaneous gold – the latter, he discovered, included a number of gold teeth. He wondered what misfortune had occurred to necessitate the obvious discomfort of having a filling ripped from one’s mouth.