War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Yuk!’ He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the memory of those cold lips and skinny fingers. The memory refused to shift and because of that the whole idea of kissing Frances was no longer palatable. It wasn’t so much that his feet were cold, he was cold all over. He no longer wanted to kiss her or attempt any of the other things that kissing led to. He knew this from watching his sister when she and her boyfriend thought they were all alone. He was growing up and figured he had to attempt those things too; it was expected of him. And anyway, it excited him.

  He’d even been looking forward to those things beyond kissing, those things that you had to suggest after using sweet words. His sister went all soft and silly after Percy, the name of her latest boyfriend, whispered sweet nothings in her ear when he thought nobody was looking.

  It was no good. He’d initially wanted to try all those things, but didn’t now. The idea had excited him, but he no longer felt the urge to ask her to show him her knickers or unbutton her blouse, feel her chest to see if her boobies were beginning to grow. He’d learned all this stuff from the men he worked with, men in reserved occupations. They talked about ‘it’ all the time: how far they’d got, how they lied to girls, telling them they were off to war and might never come back. Anything to persuade them to do all the things he dreamed about at night that made his bed damp in the morning.

  When I’m called up, I can say things like that too, thought Paul. In the meantime he just wasn’t up to the job. He couldn’t stay.

  ‘You stay there, Charlie,’ he said. As if the baby was likely to go anywhere. He was strapped into his pushchair.

  A quick glance at the shop and he was gone.

  Charlie didn’t notice him go. Charlie was absorbed in chewing on his carrot. It wasn’t until he was lifted from his pushchair by a pair of strong arms that he became aware that something had changed. The new person smiled and he smiled back before his sharp little teeth bit once more into the carrot. As long as he had that he was quite happy.

  Inside the shop, Mrs Powell was heaving a big box up on to the counter. ‘It’s only just come. It came by van today. The district nurse couldn’t carry it all. I haven’t opened it yet. You’ll have to wait.’

  Mrs Powell delivered short sentences in a flat monotone. She never smiled and nothing she did was done gladly. It was almost as though customers were supposed to give her good service, speak to her politely without her having to treat them well at all. She wasn’t at all like her mother, Ada Perkins, a woman Frances had grown very fond of.

  ‘I need scissors to get this undone,’ Mrs Powell declared before disappearing into the back of the shop.

  Frances fidgeted. She was looking forward to seeing Paul’s piece of shrapnel and perhaps being alone with him for a time in his den. She wasn’t fooled by him suggesting he was going to show her a piece of shrapnel, in fact she was more than a little excited as to what he really had in mind. Charlie could come too, of course. The entrances to dens were kept small in order to keep adults out. Charlie would have no trouble crawling in – in fact he could probably walk right in – or toddle, at least.

  Growing more and more impatient, she tapped the countertop with her fingers, her gaze fixed on the door Mrs Powell had gone through. Surely it didn’t take that long to find a pair of scissors? In the end, she grew resigned to waiting. She turned slowly round until her back was against the counter and her elbows resting on it.

  The shop was small and dark, the only light courtesy of a bare bulb above her head. The shop windows were narrow and cluttered with items for sale so not much daylight was let in.

  The counter formed the bottom part of a letter ‘U’ at one end of the shop. A bacon slicer, a big red thing, stood on the left-hand side next to a wooden board on which sat half a truckle of Cheddar cheese and a cutting wire. To her right a few jars of sweets, possibly pre-war if their faded colour was anything to go by, jostled for space with cabbages, leeks, tins of Brasso, Colman’s mustard and Bird’s custard powder. There had most likely been more of everything before the war, but even now because the shop was so small it didn’t really notice.

  The handle of a silver-coloured tea shovel peeped out from a sack of loose-leaf tea. The whole area to her right was covered with chicken wire so no prying hands could steal the stock when Mrs Powell or her daughter weren’t looking.

  She noted there was no bacon in the slicer; there hadn’t been since before the war. Only the butcher could secure stocks of that and a queue formed when word got round that he had some. People even got excited when he had tins of corned beef from Argentina for sale or Spam – tinned sausage meat – from the United States.

  Frances turned back to face the counter, her fingers resuming their impatient tapping. Paul must be getting impatient too.

  Craning her neck, she looked over her shoulder and through the shop door. If the door hadn’t been covered with notices about ration books and other official notices, she might have seen Charlie and Paul too. As it was all she could see was the handle of the pushchair.

  Mrs Powell came out as though having a customer in the shop was the most inconvenient thing that could ever befall her. She was brandishing a pair of large kitchen scissors in her hand. Her expression was as severe as her hairstyle, brown hair streaked with grey pulled back into a bun. No jewellery. No colourful clothes. Mrs Powell always wore black.

  Frances tried smiling at her, and brought up the subject of Ada Perkins. ‘I really enjoyed staying over there. I didn’t think I would, but I did. The forest is really quite wonderful and I liked Ada – your mother – very much.’

  Mrs Powell looked at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses. ‘The forest is not a Christian place. In time my mother will see the error of her ways and return to the fold.’

  Frances presumed her reference to the fold meant Oldland Common. ‘It would be lovely having her back here.’

  Mrs Powell looked at her as though she had materialised from thin air. ‘Why?’

  Seeing nothing wrong in what she’d said, Frances maintained her wide smile even though it was hurting her cheeks to maintain it for so long. ‘She knows such a lot about the forest and everything. The forest is full of magic.’

  ‘Are you all there?’

  Frances was taken aback. ‘All there?’

  ‘All there. Are you a little touched in the head? People who smile all the time are sometimes a bit touched in the head. Head in the clouds. Not quite with it. The forest is not magical. It’s wicked. Evil.’

  ‘Rubbish! It’s full of birds and animals and plants. Ada uses the plants to heal people when they can’t afford to go to the doctor.’

  Mrs Powell’s eyes narrowed and glittered. ‘She’s like you. Not all there.’

  ‘I’m fine, and so is Ada. And I’d much appreciate you get on with giving me the cod liver oil for Charlie. The government says he has to have it. And while I’m here I might just as well take the orange juice he’s entitled to and the National Dried Milk. Two tins please!’

  Mrs Powell scowled. ‘That’s in other boxes. I haven’t unpacked them either.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should,’ Frances said tartly. ‘There’s no point leaving it in boxes is there, not with babies needing it.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be so many babies in need if people controlled their wicked urges,’ snarled Mrs Powell. Leaning forward so her scrawny breasts were resting halfway across the counter, her face loomed large in front of Frances. ‘The godless are taking over this world,’ she pronounced, her eyes round as tea plates, unblinking as their black-button brightness glittered into Frances’s face. ‘People having babies without bothering to get married. It’s a slight to God, it is. A sign of the evil encompassing the world. All children should be born in wedlock. Children not born in wedlock are imps of the devil. Imps of the devil, I tell you!’

  Frances felt her face growing hot. She was having none of it. ‘Our Charlie is not an imp of the devil! He’s a lovely little boy and his father was lovely to
o.’

  ‘Ah! But what about his mother? She was foreign.’

  ‘Austrian. She was from Austria!’ Frances didn’t care that her voice was getting louder. She would defend those she loved and those she had loved. They didn’t deserve such talk from this stupid woman.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ snarled Mrs Powell. ‘She was foreign with foreign ways. And I didn’t see her in church. Not any church.’

  ‘She was Jewish.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Powell exclaimed, her face tense with the bitterness of her own beliefs. ‘That explains everything. An evil woman from an evil race!’

  ‘That’s stupid. Jesus was Jewish!’

  ‘How dare you say such a thing?’

  Frances’s patience was at an end. ‘I said it because it’s true! Now can we get back to business? I’d like what’s due for Charlie please. Now!’

  Mrs Powell faltered on seeing the determined look on the face of the young girl in front of her. In the past, Frances had endured Mrs Powell’s ill-tempered comments. Up until now she’d kept her own counsel. Referring to Charlie and his kind as an imp of the devil was too much. There was no childish respect in her upturned face, no weak trembling of her jaw. On the contrary, she had every intention of telling Mrs Powell what she thought of her – once she had what she’d come for.

  Each box, the one containing the bottles of cod liver oil, the one containing concentrated orange juice, and lastly the one containing tins of National Dried Milk, were opened. Regretting she hadn’t thought to bring a bag, Frances wound her arms around the two bottles of cod liver oil, one bottle of orange juice and a two tins of National Dried Milk. She would just about be able to open the shop door, but first …

  Her stance was defiant as she stood in front of the door, her fingers shaking slightly on the door handle while clinging on to the supplies she’d come for with the other.

  ‘Jesus Christ was a Jew.’ She repeated as a parting shot.

  ‘Blasphemer!’

  The word hurtled through the air. Instead of arguing or telling Mrs Powell that she was talking rubbish, she began to laugh. This was so totally absurd.‘You stupid, stupid woman!’

  Mrs Powell gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, her elbows held at acute angles. She leaned forward, like a hawk about to land on a sparrow. ‘How dare you, you wicked girl! You’re as bad as the rest of your family. As bad as Bettina Hicks and that other child of the devil, the one she calls her nephew. But I know the truth. I know the God-given truth!’

  As her voice climbed from decibel to decibel, Mrs Powell’s face turned a deep shade of puce.

  Lingering in the doorway, Frances shouted back. ‘No wonder Ada doesn’t come to visit you too often. Even when she does, it’s only to see Miriam. Not you. I wouldn’t come either if I had a daughter like you. You’re a dreadful woman. A wicked, dreadful woman!’

  ‘Get out of my shop,’ shrieked Mrs Powell, her pointing finger quivering like a twig in the breeze. ‘Get out of my shop and never darken my door again!’

  Frances had grown up a lot of late. Besides that, little Charlie was the apple of her eye. She’d do anything for him and that included making sure he had his designated rations. He was a growing boy and would be denied nothing. She stood her ground, resolved not to be ordered out but clinging on to the door handle until she chose the moment to go.

  ‘I have to darken your door again, as you put it, Mrs Powell. You’re my family’s designated supplier of items our Charlie is entitled to. If you don’t supply us, then the Health Authority will want to know why and they’ll probably take your licence away.’ Her angry voice rang around the little shop, joining forces with the jangling of the rusty bell above the shop door as she dragged it open with a forceful yank.

  She opened the door just wide enough to escape, laughing quietly as she slid sidelong through the gap, her arms firmly holding the items against her chest. Feeling this triumphant she felt she could fly all the way home, pushchair and Charlie too.

  There would be room in the pushchair for the bottles and tins. She had it all planned and Paul would help her – only Paul wasn’t there.

  Neither was Charlie. His pushchair was empty except for a few carrot crumbs on his pillow. She whirled round, her whole body shaking with fear. Where had they gone?

  ‘Paul! Paul, where are you?’

  Court Road was empty, the only sound that of cattle lowing in the nearby fields which lined each side of the road. The only buildings were the cottages and houses at this end of the road where it swooped down towards the brook and the valley before the land sloped up again towards St Anne’s Church and California Road where there used to be a coal mine. It had been called California Pit, the owner hoping that by calling it that he’d become as rich as the men who’d flocked to the California Gold Rush.

  Unfortunately the coal mine referred to had flooded in 1902. Luckily none of the miners had been inside. It had never reopened. But the area could be treacherous. There were still tunnels beneath the surface, sinkholes into which a child could fall, never to be seen again. The pit the children referred to was the hollow amongst the trees where they built their den and lit camp fires.

  Paul hadn’t mentioned taking Charlie off anywhere. Was this some sort of game? If it was it angered her. She ran out into the middle of the road, looking up the street towards West Street and the High Street.

  ‘Paul! Come out wherever you are. This is silly.’

  Of course it was silly. It was also silly of her to think he would play such games. He was older now, almost a man, she reminded herself. And who played hide and seek with a baby in tow?

  Frances unburdened her arms of the bottles and tins, tipping them into the empty pushchair. All the while, her eyes searched up and down the road, turning on her heels this way and that just to make sure she hadn’t missed them. They had to be close by.

  She placed a restraining hand over her stomach. It felt as though the bottom had fallen out of it.

  She strained to hear the sound of Charlie crying; he would cry if he was taken by a stranger.

  A stranger! Surely not. Everyone knew everyone else in the village. Besides, she’d left Charlie with Paul. Nobody would take him and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  The most logical explanation she could think of was that Paul had taken Charlie to see the cows, but she could see nobody hanging over the fences on either side of the road.

  Leaving the pushchair where it was, she dashed up the road, diverting into a hedged lane, which dissected fields on the same side as the shop.

  The smell of damp grass and cow dung hung heavily in the air. A fine mist rolled knee high among the cows, making them look as though they had no legs.

  She turned and ran back down the lane out on to Court Road. Her own legs were shaking as she ran up and down the road, peering into the fields on both sides. Her heart was beating wildly, her hair growing damp in the mist and clinging in tendrils around her face.

  ‘Paul! Charlie!’

  Cud-chewing cows looked dolefully in her direction. She could hear and see nothing.

  Shaking her head in disbelief she asked herself what Paul would want with a baby – if he’d taken Charlie that is.

  ‘No. No,’ she kept repeating, kept shaking her head.

  It was silly to think Paul had gone off with the baby, but if he hadn’t, who had?

  She looked over her shoulder at the shop door. Should she go in and ask Mrs Powell whether she’d seen anything? She shook her head again. No. It was quite impossible. She’d left Charlie with Paul outside while she’d gone inside to get what she’d had to get. If Mrs Powell hadn’t taken her time unpacking the boxes and let her have what she wanted, she would have been heading home by now, or on her way to inspect Paul’s piece of shrapnel.

  It wasn’t easy to overcome the state of panic she was in, but she did her best to think straight. What would Mary do? What would Ruby do?

  She eyed the small frontage of the village shop. It might pr
obably be a waste of time, but she was going to do it anyway. She was going to go back into the shop and ask Mrs Powell whether she’d seen anything. It wasn’t at all likely, but at least it was a start until she’d calmed down, until she could think straight.

  ‘One, two, three.’ She counted the cracked flagstones that bordered the front of the shop. Counting to ten was calming, so she’d been told. ‘Four, five, six …’

  On spotting a familiar figure walking towards her along the lane that divided Stratham House from the adjoining field and Mrs Powell’s shop, she stopped counting.

  ‘Mrs Hicks! Mrs Hicks,’ she shouted.

  Bettina was dressed in her outdoor coat, a warm hat pulled down over her ears and stout boots on her feet. As usual, she was using a stick to walk because her hip gave her such pain. On seeing Frances she quickened her pace, a querulous look on her face.

  Much to Bettina’s surprise, Frances threw her arms around her.

  ‘There, there, my girl. You nearly hit me over. Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve lost Charlie,’ said Frances, and immediately burst into tears.

  ‘Now, now, child.’

  Bettina reached out and gently patted Frances’s shoulder. At the same time she thought how much she resembled her mother. Hopefully it would only ever be in looks. Bettina shuddered at the thought of her having the same reckless personality as Mildred Sweet.

  ‘Have you considered he might have climbed out of his pushchair and toddled off somewhere? He’s found his feet very quickly.’

  Bettina Hicks was a cool-headed woman in an emergency and her comments were reassuring. She also knew better than to tell a young girl like Frances to control herself and mop up her tears.

  ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Well, you should have,’ said Bettina forcing a smile. ‘He’s a very strong little boy. Though he can’t have got far.’

  ‘I didn’t think he could get out. His harness was fastened. I didn’t think he could undo buckles.’