by Nancy Carson
Lizzie nodded, and smiled. ‘Words can’t tell,’ she answered quietly, and felt her eyes fill with tears of self-pity. She bit her bottom lip so she wouldn’t weep, and turned away. But she was so depressed with grief, so deprived of love, and so sensitive to the loneliness that had befallen her, she couldn’t help but respond with tears at such a question. At once, she took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, but she felt such relief shedding these tears, that she let them flow.
She felt Stanley’s arms about her, surprising her. But she turned to him, allowing him to press her head to his chest and run his fingers comfortingly through her hair, like Ben would. He hugged her, and she savoured the sensation of physical affection, yielding to it, exploiting it to coax more tears, which were bringing so much relief.
‘That’s the way, Lizzie,’ he breathed. ‘Let it all come out. You’ll feel better after.’
She closed her wet eyes. It could have been Ben speaking; the one clear voice of sanctity and sanity in a world riven with tragedy and sorrow. She huddled up to him and put her hand to his chest, feeling the texture of his uniform. It could have been Ben standing there, holding her so lovingly; he must have a uniform like this; like this one she was fingering now, tentatively, fancifully. ‘Ben … Oh, Ben …’ she mouthed to herself, silently willing him back to her in her absolute heartache. She turned her face to Stanley’s neck and, with every indrawn breath she could smell the clean, sensual smell of his skin, of his uniform, and a deeper, sweeter, manly smell. It could so easily have been Ben. She looked up into his face. It could so easily be Ben’s face she could see through the indistinct haze of tears.
‘You look so beautiful when you cry,’ Stanley whispered.
Ben’s words …
At once she was swept back to that early morning fifteen months ago when he left her. ‘You look so beautiful when you cry.’ Those very words had been his last to her. How could she ever forget them? Now she felt his lips on hers, at last, cool, probing, sensual, like a soothing balm bringing succour to a stinging wound, wringing every last drop of bliss and sensation out of this one kiss. Eagerly she responded; as she had always responded, and it went on and on, intoxicating her with pleasure. He urged her to one side and she felt herself gently pressed against the cupboard at the side of the grate. The length of his warm body was pressed against her, as lean and as firm as ever it had been. Now, eyes closed, she held him tight, savouring the moment, and they kissed again. This time she was not going to let him go off to war. He scooped her up into his arms as if she were a child, lifted her, and laid her down gently on the hearth-rug. He lay beside her and kissed her wet, closed eyelids, but her mouth searched again hungrily for his; such an alluring mouth. God, it had been so long. She touched his face tenderly with her fingers and felt his smooth forehead, moist with perspiration, and his dark, close cropped hair. She felt him unbuttoning her dress at the back, and raised her shoulders to make it easier.
‘Ben … oh, Ben,’ she whimpered, ‘never ever leave me again … please … never, ever …’ She felt him take a handful of material at the hem of her dress and pull it up above her waist. He untied the ribbons of her drawers and, as she willingly raised her bottom off the floor, he eased them down her legs.
Above the sound of her own expectant sighs and the gentle rustling of her underwear she could just about hear the voices of a group of carol singers outside, somewhere in Cromwell Street.
*
It was well after midnight when Stanley left Lizzie that Christmas night. He would not see her again, he said, since he had to rejoin his regiment so soon. She told him it didn’t matter, but wished him well and said good-bye. As she climbed the stairs to bed, naked, she carried her clothes in a bundle under one arm and an oil lamp in her other hand. She dumped the garments onto the ottoman and placed the lamp on the tallboy, then took her night-dress and pulled it over her head. She brushed her tousled hair before she took a last peak at Maxine sleeping soundly in her crib in the same room. Then she dropped on the bed, utterly exhausted, but wonderfully content.
But she could not sleep. She relived the past three hours over and over in her mind. The intense emotions she experienced surprised her, but the welcome relief, the fantasy, the sheer sensual pleasure, were like a healing elixir to a tortured soul. There was a sort of twisted irony in what had occurred with Stanley after all this time, in the shameless lust that had driven her; that she knew had always driven her. In the past they were like brother and sister. Years ago, as their sexual awareness increased, she’d tried to imagine what it would be like making love with Stanley yet, as time passed, she realised she would never know; and the desire to know had diminished with her changing circumstances. Now, paradoxically, she did know, when she was a supposedly respectable, married woman with four children.
Lizzie was tortured with mixed feelings. She certainly felt guilt, but not regret. How could she regret such unexpected pleasure after such abject deprivation? There was no doubt that the one was heightened by the absence of the other. She had wanted so much for it to have been Ben that she made believe it was Ben, and lived out the fantasy. And this pretence justified her allowing herself to be seduced, suppressing some of the guilt. She relived Stanley’s kissing her throat, then suckling her breasts, robbing Maxine of her precious feed. She was sprawled out, paralysed and astounded, giving little cries of pleasure and shock as he kissed her belly, then, unbelievably, between her thighs. She remembered calling Ben’s name again and again when his body finally, thankfully, entered hers with such piercing sweetness.
It did not matter that Stanley couldn’t see her again after this. Indeed, she had no wish to see him; not for a long time. She was thankful he was going away so soon. To meet again would be an enormous embarrassment. What had happened would never be repeated. She was not in love with Stanley, she had merely exploited his unexpected appearance; used him like a salve on inflamed skin for the relief he could bring. No doubt he’d used her in a similar way.
Of course it crossed her mind that she might be pregnant. But with everything else to worry about, she was not going to dwell on that. If she were, somehow she would get rid of it. She would have to get rid of it.
At last, having weighed up the sinfulness against the pleasure, on balance she felt better for her unforeseen adventure. With Ben away, she knew, the guilty feelings would wane and she would be able to face him normally when he returned. But it had released many of the tensions stifled inside her for so long and, already she could see her way ahead, still alone except for her children perhaps, but with a clarity of mind now and a ready acceptance of her situation. At least Stanley had still found her desirable after all this time. That in itself was gratifying. So she turned over in her bed and even allowed herself a smile, before she drifted off into a deep sleep filled with pleasant dreams.
Chapter 14
In January 1916 Parliament voted overwhelmingly for the introduction of conscription. There were, it was reported, half a million single men fit for service who so far had not volunteered, and about the same number of married men waiting, willing to do so. Miners’ unions, however, voted against it, and so did the Labour Party Conference.
During the third week of that month Lizzie knew for sure that she was not pregnant, and offered an informal prayer of thanks to her Maker. Daisy Foster visited her on the Friday evening, bringing two bottles of stout with her. They brought each other up to date on their lives, and Lizzie was sad to hear that Daisy had called it off with Jimmy Powell. He would never marry her, she said. He was still doing his bit at Holcroft’s, but was also busy keeping at least two deprived young wives happy and content while their husbands were soldiering in France.
Half way through February, Lizzie received a letter in the familiar green envelope issued by the army to those men on trust, whose outgoing mail was not censored by superior officers. She did not recognise the handwriting it bore, and since she’d received no mail from Ben for three days, she thought that
it must contain bad news. As she opened it, trembling, she sat down, and braced herself for the worst. It read:
My dearest Lizzie,
At last I find myself in northern France. Ironic, don’t you think, that in all my years in the army this should be the first time? Whatever Ben has told you about this place can only be half the truth, because words cannot adequately describe conditions here.
There are tens of thousands of our chaps here, so the possibility of me encountering him must be pretty remote, as I’m sure you’ll realise. Should I bump into him, though, I’ll naturally tell him how much you miss him! The truth is, though, I hope I don’t.
Lizzie, since our time together on Christmas night my mind has been filled with very deep regrets. Regrets that I didn’t stay till morning, and even for the whole of the next day. We parted fairly impassively, I know, never expecting to meet again in quite the same way, and I hope you won’t mind me saying it. But since that night you have been in my thoughts a great deal, reminding me of the adolescent dreams I had about you all those years ago. Of course, I wish Ben no harm, as I’m sure you know. His fine children need a father, but if he were never to return to you, I would like to think you might consider allowing me to fill the void he would leave in your life, and in theirs.
I’ll say no more. I hope it is enough to leave you in no doubt as to my feelings. It would be an honour if you were to reply to this letter.
All my love,
Stanley.
Lizzie read the letter through twice more, feeling even hotter than when she opened it, her heart still pounding. Guiltily she folded it up, put it back in the envelope and hid it behind the clock on the mantelpiece. She sighed in confusion. Why did he have to write something like that? It was just something more to prey on her mind. She knew, and so must he, that she was susceptible to other people’s feelings and desires. She was especially susceptible to him. Now thoughts of him were rekindled when that lovely night was just beginning to fade from her mind. Was he deliberately teasing her now, having taken advantage of her then? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. He was still single; he could do as he wished; he could write to as many women as he wished, saying the same thing. In all probability he was. Now he wanted her to write to him.
She let Stanley’s letter lie where she left it for a couple of days, while she pondered whether to reply or not. She was sorely tempted. But those couple of days enabled her to see it with a clearer mind. She’d been lucky that night; nobody had seen or heard Stanley come and go; the door had been left unlocked so that anybody could have walked in. But nobody did; and she had breathed a word to nobody about it. Not a soul knew. So what would be the sense in starting a romantic correspondence with yet another man who was away in the army for God knows how long? What was the sense, when the one she was already writing to was breaking her heart by not being home? Could she really be so stupid as to fall for that? That would really be pushing her luck. So she screwed the letter up, and its envelope, threw it in the fire and watched it burn.
*
On July 3rd the Somme campaign opened. It was the biggest army Britain had ever sent into battle – twenty-six divisions of volunteers, comprehensively equipped. The following day there was a truce while the dead and wounded were brought in from the area known as No Man’s Land. It took three days to collect the sixty thousand British casualties. In December, David Lloyd George was appointed to succeed as Prime Minister after a smear campaign in the media, aimed at Herbert Asquith, achieved its aims. In March 1917, Czar Nicholas II of Russia abdicated and, in April, the Americans joined the war on the side of the Allies. By November the Russian Provisional Government had been ousted by a Bolshevik coup, and the Allies knew that Russia would pull out of the war in consequence.
During all this time Lizzie Kite paid less attention to the alarming news she read in the papers, and more to the survival of herself and her children. Every week she went to the post office to have her Ring Sheet stamped to draw the twenty-five shillings allowance to which she was entitled for Ben’s service. There were promises of more from the government, and a good thing too, since trying to make ends meet was almost a full time job. Reluctantly, she pawned some jewellery and a good pair of shoes that belonged to her mother, together with Ben’s wedding suit, and the gold fob-watch that had been her father’s. In desperation she sought work at the bottling stores in Caroline Street, and was offered three hours each afternoon, Monday to Friday, which she was glad to accept.
May kindly agreed to look after the children, along with Emmie, while Lizzie was at work. But Lizzie needed money immediately to buy coal, and mentioned to May that she would have to pawn her mother’s Coalport China tea service, which Tom Dando had given her as a wedding present all those years ago. She was utterly surprised when May claimed that Eve had promised her the tea service. Lizzie, of course, considered it her own, and knew May to be lying, but since the need for May’s help in looking after her children outweighed the more immediate fiscal need she thought better of seriously challenging it.
‘When did Mother tell you as you could have that?’ Lizzie asked, very curious.
‘When Henzey was born. She said I could have it for what I did helping when you were confined.’
Lizzie wanted to call her a liar and, that in any case, she hadn’t done a fat lot to earn it. ‘If Mother said that, then you’d best have it,’ she conceded, bitterly disappointed in May. ‘But she never told me any such thing.’
Before that moment Lizzie had only ever considered May to be a kindred spirit, good and kind, completely reliable and a true friend. Now she vowed she would never trust her again. From that moment she saw her in a different light. Lizzie pondered her own daughter’s reluctance lately to go anywhere near May. Children were often more perceptive than adults, she was aware, and it set her wondering whether May had been at all unkind to Henzey. She would keep a weather eye on May Bishop, especially where her children were concerned. If ever she hurt one of them while they were in her care there would be hell to pay.
So Lizzie handed over the cherished tea service, said nothing, and simply watched for any signs. She knew it was futile falling out over children. As May’s child grew, and her mental deficiency became more evident, there was no discrimination by Lizzie’s brood. They spent hours playing happily with their cousin Emmie. In their eyes she was no different to them, and she tried to emulate them as best she could. May watched Henzey mothering the child, protecting her, as if she instinctively knew that she needed extra care. As the weeks and months passed May felt ever more guilty that she’d been so hostile towards her niece. She finally realised it was not her niece’s fault that nature had dictated the way things were to be.
*
Early in April 1918, Lizzie received a letter from Ben. It was dated 30th March, and it read:
My darling Lizzie,
Nobody will be more pleased than me when this lot is over. I’ve seen enough of human nature and human suffering to last me a lifetime. Yesterday we went forward. There were enough dead lying about to carpet the Albion ground – our own men, and Jerries. Some of them had been there so long they were yellow. Just the smell made me feel sick. We could see Jerries’ front line, only about as far as from our house to the Junction. Our lads moved in later, but the trenches were empty, except for one young German soldier who come out with his hands up. He looked scared to death and I felt really sorry for the poor lad. Then some swine rushed him and stuck his bayonet in him. I’ve never seen anything so cowardly in all my life. It was nothing less than cold blooded murder, and I felt ashamed that our chaps should be that wicked. I know the Jerries sunk the Lusitania and that hundreds drowned, but that poor mother’s son didn’t do it. Two minutes after that a batch of German prisoners guarded by some of our blokes came over the same spot. If that one poor devil had waited before he came out he’d have been all right. Fate, eh? Then suddenly, shrapnel shells burst all around us. There was no time to duck, nor nothing. It copped a dozen of
our lot. The Captain had a big hole through his thigh, so the Sergeant took a pair of scissors from one of the first aid men lying dead, and cut through his clothes. He tied it up with bandage, then carried him back to the trenches. When the Sergeant came back he said the trenches were full of wounded blokes. Blow me, if he hadn’t been back two minutes when a bullet caught him and sent him reeling backwards. He was a goner as well.
I tell you, Lizzie, this place is hell. If you can imagine anywhere fifty times worse than the marl hole at the Coneygree on a wet day, or the brick works with all the mud and filth around, and an army of maniacs all trying to blow your head off, then that’s what it’s like here.
When I think of them barmy buggers on the Clyde who went on strike and stopped production of the guns we need, I feel like going along and playing hell up. When this lot’s over I probably shall. They should be ashamed of themselves – putting the lives of everybody at risk. It would do the buggers good to come and get amongst this lot. Then they would know what a soft time they’ve got of it.
Don’t worry about me, Lizzie, because no Hun’s going to get me after I’ve come this far. My thoughts are always about you and the kids, and they keep me going. I hope little Maxine’s still coming on all right. I can’t wait to see her. Is she as pretty as our Henzey? If so, I shall have my work cut out keeping them chaste when they grow up.
Sorry, my sweetheart, but I shall have to pack up now. We’ve just had the order to move back. Sounds like we’re retreating. I’ll write tomorrow if I get the chance.
Love to you and the children,
Ben.
But Ben did not write the next day. The Germans were employing new tactics, and their army in France had been swelled by troops no longer required on the Russian Front. The British line in the Arras sector, where he was fighting, was shattered.
Having received no word from Ben for more than a week, Lizzie put her hands to her face in horror when she answered the door to the telegraph boy. She cast an anxious glance at him, and began to tremble as he handed her a telegram from the War Office. When she’d closed the door behind him her legs felt like jelly, and she thought she was going to faint. It could only contain bad news. They didn’t send you telegrams to say your husband was better after a bout of flu; nor to say he’d been promoted. As she looked at it, with dread and unutterable disappointment, she felt tears burn her eyes. Gingerly, she fingered the unopened document. Her heart was thumping hard, she felt hot with perplexity. In her hand were tidings of widowhood; the prospect, after all, of a life devoid of the man she loved; of endless poverty with four children to bring up, in a world that cared nothing for those who had nothing. Everything she’d feared most had come to pass.