Holidays at Home Omnibus

by Wait Till Summer; Swingboats On the Sand; Waiting for Yesterday; Day Trippers; Unwise Promises; Street Parties (retail) (epub)

  Knowing Andy was dishonest wasn’t the reason either. He had told her his real name and admitted to some of his ‘deals’ as he euphemistically called them. She didn’t think getting hold of some china to sell at the market was terrible. And certainly didn’t consider taking a few unwanted goods from foolish women a serious crime. She had no evidence to suggest he did anything worse. He was what many called a spiv, a wideboy, out to earn a few shillings whenever he could. No, the reason he would never be more than a casual friend was simply that he wasn’t important enough. Regarding Freddy, she wouldn’t know how important he was to her, until they met again, and with the war going on endlessly that day was likely to be a long way off. Suddenly she had a strong, aching desire to see Freddy again.

  She was still thinking of Freddy as she prepared for bed and, as she relaxed into sleep, she decided that she would call and see Freddy’s parents on the following day. She visited them occasionally, mainly so she could share the little news they had, but she hadn’t been for a while. Her career meant she was increasingly in demand and her time was full of rehearsals and concerts beside the many other events she was invited to attend, like handing out prizes at churches and schools, or opening various exhibitions and even jumble sales. Being a local celebrity was very exciting but it took up a lot of her time even though it was time she didn’t begrudge.

  The Clements’s house was small and rather gloomy with curtains almost closed, and, whatever time of day she called, it never smelled of food cooking, or flowers, just polish and soap. Everything was neatly arranged and the semi darkness and excessive tidiness made her nervous. Remembering how particular Freddy had been about his clothes she imagined that the tending of them had been a joy to his mother, and guessed that his shoes had been given a regular polish by his equally orderly father. She sat on a high-backed dining chair and tucked her own, scruffy, shoes out of sight. This was not a home in which to relax, rather a place to expect frowns and criticism.

  Both parents had been quite old when Freddy was born. His father was now seventy-three and his mother just ten years younger. On that day she looked older, her face was puffy and there were rosy patches high on her cheeks giving her an artificially healthy appearance not borne out by the weariness in her eyes or the breathless heaving of her chest.

  She had been there a couple of minutes and politenesses had been dealt with, before Shirley suggested they had a cup of tea. She went into the kitchen but there was no food, not even a bottle of milk. All the cupboards had been scrubbed clean and it looked as though the occupants had moved away. She did find a few spoonfuls of tea and she made a potful and poured it, weak, warm and uninviting.

  Mrs Clements’s hands didn’t seem to work, her fingers unable to grip the cup. Shirley held it to her lips and coaxed the woman to take a few sips. Shirley noticed her eyes were glassy and she seemed to be lost in sad memories. ‘Have you heard from Freddy this week, Mrs Clements?’ she asked as she turned to place the cup on the corner of a highly polished table.

  ‘Not for more than two weeks. He’s dead, I know it.’

  Shirley spun round to stare at her. ‘What d’you mean?’ The expression on Mrs Clements’s face frightened her. Was this the cause of the woman’s depression? It was so easy to imagine the worst.

  ‘Of course Freddy isn’t dead.’ she almost shouted, her fears spiralling. ‘Look…’ She fumbled in her handbag and produced three letters. They were dated three weeks previously but she had to convince his mother he was all right. If they stopped believing he was safe, their fears would come true. ‘These came only last week,’ she lied.

  Mrs Clements said almost casually, ‘Freddy’s father is quite ill, you know.’

  ‘Ill? What is it? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in hospital. You can go and see him if you wish, but I should hurry if I were you. We’ve reached our time. It’s time for us to go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  Mrs Clements didn’t reply.

  ‘Of course I wish to see him! What’s the matter with him? Does Freddy know?’ She felt exasperated at the lack of information, angered by the woman’s strange attitude. Then as she looked at the woman she saw how depressed she was and at once her anger changed to sympathy. ‘If you’d told me I’d have come sooner,’ she said softly. ‘I’m Freddy’s friend and I want to help you if I can.’

  ‘We didn’t want to worry Freddy, not when he was out there in the fighting. And now of course, it’s too late, he’s dead, I know he’s dead.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t. Freddy will be fine.’

  Shirley didn’t know how to cope with this strange defeatist mood. Then a thought struck her. Perhaps it wasn’t a fancy. Perhaps she had received the dreaded telegram telling her Freddy had been killed. ‘You haven’t heard bad news, have you?’ A voice inside her pleaded with the fates for her to answer in the negative.

  ‘I’m a mother and I don’t need telling,’ she replied.

  ‘It isn’t true. You’re wrong. Freddy’s fine. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘His father’s always been chesty. His lungs are failing him,’ she went on. ‘A mother doesn’t want to outlive her child. The vicar has warned me that it’s time. God is calling us home.’

  Shirley gulped the unpleasant tea as though it were a life-giving elixir. She had been badly frightened both by the woman’s appearance and her conviction that Freddy was dead. After coaxing the sad woman to take a few more sips of tea, she placed the cup in front of her and looked around the neat, soulless room. She marvelled that Freddy hadn’t been subdued into a nervous wreck living in this house, or become so boring he could have faded into the furnishings, as unnoticeable as the wallpaper.

  Three times she tried to change the subject and persuade Freddy’s mother to talk about something else but the words always returned to the subject that her husband was dying and her son was already dead.

  Unable to decide how best to help and in the hope of a more encouraging conversation, Shirley went to the local hospital where she found Mr Clements being attended by nurses and a doctor. Before she could approach him, the curtains around the bed were closed and she was told to wait. Murmuring voices were heard but she was unable to glean any clue to what was happening. Three people stepped out but the curtains remained closed.

  Minutes passed and glances darted her way from a group of doctors and a nurse standing near the enclosed bed, and she knew she was being discussed, finally she demanded to know what was happening.

  ‘I’m a friend of his son and I’ve just left his mother feeling extremely depressed. Will you please tell me when I can see Mr Clements?’ After more murmured discussion, Shirley was told the man had died. She sat on one of the chairs and stared at them. What should she do? A few minutes later, as she sat there undecided whether she should leave or go back to Mrs Clements, or, wishful thinking, go home, two policemen arrived. There were more discussions held in low voices and more glances towards her. If only someone would tell her what she should do!

  A nurse smiled encouragement and eventually asked, ‘Would you be willing to go with the police to tell his wife?’ She shuffled a few pages of notes. ‘There doesn’t appear to be any relation apart from their soldier son, not even a particularly close friend we can ask.’ Shirley nodded sadly.

  She returned to the house accompanied by two constables. This was not going to be a pleasant task, Shirley thought to herself, but remembering it was Freddy’s mother, she determined to do her best. The policeman knocked on the door, then as there was no response, he pushed it open and they called to ask if anyone was home.

  ‘She has to be here, I was talking to her less than an hour ago.’

  They found her sitting in a chair, a cup of cold tea near her hand, empty tablet bottles in her lap, and she was quite dead. Shirley’s instinct was to put her arms around the woman, but the constable forbade it.

  While they waited for the doctor and extra police to arrive, Shirley’s hands shook as she thought about the almost empty k
itchen. She gave the police Freddy’s army number and most recent postal address and wondered whether the deaths of both parents would entitle him to some leave. She knew little about the couple, they having been very private people who discouraged regular visits. She told the police the few facts she remembered, then left them to their melancholy task.

  She wondered then, if the woman had already taken pills when she had visited. She thought of the weakness in her hands, and the strange listless state of her and the glassy look in her eyes. Her legs ached dreadfully as she set off home, she felt trembly and tearful, more for Freddy than for his parents. He was so far away and would have to be told yet be unable to do anything.

  She walked a little, sat on a bench and walked some more. A bus came and she got on, thankful not to face the walk back to Brook Lane.

  ‘If I’d realized, if I’d called a doctor,’ she said to Hetty when she told her and Bleddyn what had happened. ‘If only I’d known, recognized the symptoms, got help, I might have saved her.’

  ‘How could you have known, dear? It would take a doctor to recognize what had happened. Don’t start blaming yourself. There was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘If only I’d gone for help or—’

  ‘“If only” is a bad bedfellow. “If only” brings nightmares,’ her mother soothed.

  ‘Freddy can’t get home in time and there’s no one else, so I promised I’d see to the funerals,’ she said. Hetty and Bleddyn agreed to help.

  ‘Freddy would want me to do that for him,’ Shirley said. If he’s alive, her mind insisted on reminding her. If he’s not dead as well. His mother was so convinced when she said their time had come.

  In all the tragedies that had filled the newspapers, of death and wounding and capture, she had never once imagined Freddy in any of those scenarios. She had always believed he would come home and thinking of their reunion had been so often a part of her dreams both day and night, it had to come true.

  Her own doctor was called and he gave her a sedative and put her to bed. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was that Mrs Clements must surely be right, Freddy had been killed. She cried for Freddy and his parents and most of all for herself. Until Mrs Clements had uttered those words, she had hardly been aware of just how much she was looking forward to Freddy’s return.

  * * *

  Audrey worked at her new premises for most of each day. With Maude and Myrtle’s help she cleaned the place thoroughly and the painting and wallpapering soon transformed it from grubby and inhospitable to clean and welcoming. Keith Kent was there for most of the time, unwilling to leave the finer points of the decorating to the inexperienced boys. During the second week, when he was touching up the mirrors with some gold paint he had found in a builder’s yard, Audrey invited him to go back to Sidney Street with them for a meal.

  ‘Nothing special, mind,’ she warned. ‘Yesterday’s leftover vegetables fried up into a bubble and squeak with a bit of cold meat.’

  ‘It sounds all right to me,’ he said, thanking her. ‘I’d better go back to the lodgings and change.’

  ‘No need to bother, we won’t be dressing for dinner, Mr Kent,’ Myrtle said smiling in amusement.

  He was very quiet for the first part of the evening. He seemed uneasy in their company, on edge and jumpy. He missed the point of several remarks, his mind vague as though he were not interested, but waiting for something to happen. An excuse to leave, Myrtle thought curiously.

  Then he began to explain about the work he had to fit in during the following weeks, remarking on the variety of his days almost complainingly.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll show you what I mean,’ he said. He went into the hall and fished out something from his pocket. Audrey and the two girls took the opportunity to remove the dishes and stack them ready for washing. When they returned to the table he was smiling. ‘Look at this, a few of the things I’ve been asked to do in the past couple of weeks,’ he said, pointing to his notebook. ‘Washing and painting a ceiling, unblocking a drain, rescuing a cat from a tree, digging a vegetable patch ready for autumn planting, and, believe this or not, someone called and asked me to get a spare bed down from the loft when an auntie was coming to stay — and there’s me believing I’m a builder, painter and decorator.’

  ‘It’s the war, see,’ he went on. ‘There are so many households without the menfolk, I’m asked to do the few jobs women can’t manage.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Audrey said.

  ‘Go on with you,’ he said with a self-deprecatory shrug. ‘I’m glad to do what little I can.’

  From then on, he entertained them with stories of his varied jobs and difficult customers until half past ten. Apologizing for keeping them up so late, he left, joking that he wouldn’t make it an excuse to be late in the morning.

  ‘He’s nice,’ Maude said. Myrtle didn’t add any enthusiastic agreement. There was something a bit false about Mr Kent that worried her a little. He tried just a little too hard. His mood had changed so suddenly that she wondered whether his geniality and willingness to help was all an act.

  * * *

  Hearing about the deaths of Mr and Mrs Clements made Hannah Castle feel sad. She had very little contact with her own parents and the thought that a couple could die so suddenly made her want to try again to repair the rift.

  Hannah had been married to Laurie Wilcox, who was a violent man. She had suffered bruises and broken bones, yet when she left him, her mother refused to support her. Both parents insisted that a promise given in the sight of God was a promise for life. A marriage couldn’t be ended except by death. The fact that they had been warned that the death of their daughter was a strong possibility, didn’t alter their attitude.

  Hannah and her two girls, Josie and Marie, had been allowed to live in their house after the divorce, which they refused to recognize, but using the front room and the middle room with limited access to the kitchen had been a difficult period for them. There had been no financial help offered and Hannah had worked long into the nights on her sewing machine to earn enough to keep them all. When she had married Johnny Castle, Bleddyn’s son, everything had changed. She and the girls had been accepted as members of the Castle clan and for the first time in their lives, Josie and Marie, now seven and six years old, were a part of a close, loving family.

  They had a garden to play in and adults who loved to share their games. Hugs, once a rarity apart from those from their mother, were now a daily delight. There were books to read, stories told, people to talk to and always a loving smile whenever they met one of the family. Frowns and disapproval and demands to be quiet had been left behind.

  They couldn’t have been happier, but for Hannah there was always an underlying disappointment that she had never managed to persuade her parents to forgive her and understand.

  With the thought of Mr and Mrs Clements’s deaths fresh in her mind, and while the girls were at school, Hannah walked up to the house near the park and knocked on the door. Her mother opened the door a crack and as though she were a stranger, asked what she wanted.

  ‘Nothing, Mother. I just wondered how you are and whether there’s anything I can do for you.’

  ‘Unless you’re going to leave that man you think you’re married to and repent of your sins, there’s nothing I want from you.’

  ‘And Dad? Is he well?’ she asked, trying to ignore the repetition of the old, stupid hostility. ‘I haven’t see him for such a long time.’

  ‘And you won’t see him either. Living in sin is not something we want to be seen to be supporting.’

  ‘And Rosie and Marie? Are they to be punished as well?’

  ‘The children suffer because of what you chose to do.’

  The door closed and Hannah walked slowly away, hiding her tears from passers-by, bending down as though admiring the bedraggled and forlorn late roses and fuchsias in the park gardens.

  For a while she had thought her mother was going to relent and visit the children, but the mo
mentary mood of reconciliation had quickly ended. Her mother had retreated from the attempt, which she had described as a weakness, in shame and embarrassment, and respect for her rigid interpretation of the attitude of the church she attended. She had called at the shop where Hannah worked with Beth and Eirlys, and the girls — her granddaughters — had hardly remembered her, and she had walked away.

  Hannah went home and wrote to Johnny but said nothing about her latest attempt to coax her mother back into their lives. She had been so fortunate, loving Johnny and being loved in return. Why should the loss of her parents make her miserable? If she were honest, Bleddyn and his second wife, Hetty, plus Hetty’s daughter Shirley, more than compensated.

  It was just that children always stayed close to their parents, it was difficult to think of anyone else where this didn’t apply.

  Johnny’s response when she mentioned it was always to tell her that her parents were the losers, missing out on a daughter like Hannah and two delightful granddaughters. Sometimes it helped to think like that, but at other times it didn’t help at all.

  * * *

  Freddy was informed about the death of his parents and was told he could have ten days leave to go home and settle their affairs. He wrote to Shirley, but their letters crossed, hers telling him she would arrange the funeral and his asking her to do just that, but his never arrived. Shirley and Hetty dealt with everything they could, hoping Freddy would write and let her know what he wanted them to do, but there was no word. Shirley hid her fears, trying to forget his mother’s solemn conviction.