by Lizzie Lane
Frances had told him about seeing Miriam’s hair was cut close to her scalp and that whoever had cut her hair had not been gentle. He omitted mentioning the discussion he’d had with Bettina, his mind recoiling from the fact that it was probably her mother’s doing.
‘Have you heard from your grandmother?’ he asked her. Ada was totally different to her daughter, a free-thinking woman with a mind of her own.
Miriam looked sad. ‘No,’ she whispered softly. ‘I don’t think so.’
It was an odd answer but told him a great deal. If a card or message had come from Ada Perkins, Miriam’s mother would have thrown it in the fire before Miriam had chance to read it. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier living with your grandmother?’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh yes. I would love it, but my mother …’ The glow that had lit her face was soon extinguished.
Stan felt a surge of anger. ‘How old are you, Miriam?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Old enough to make up your own mind,’ he said sternly. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been called up to work in a factory or join the armed forces.’
Most likely a factory. She didn’t strike him as able enough to put on a uniform. ‘My mother told them I couldn’t go. She told them I was …’
Stan raised his eyebrows, dreading what he guessed she might say.
‘Spastic,’ she said. ‘That’s what she told them. But I’m not,’ she said frantically. ‘It’s just that since … but then … before that. She told them before that.’
Stan frowned. ‘Before what, Miriam?’
Her mouth clamped shut and she looked down at her shoes. Whatever she’d been about to say was swallowed.
‘You don’t need your mother’s permission to live somewhere else,’ he told her. ‘You’re old enough to make your own decisions.’
She didn’t look up. ‘I know, but my mother …’
‘Won’t let you.’
‘Unless I marry, but …’
Miriam Powell was a bundle of nervous indecision. She’d been downtrodden by her mother and there seemed precious chance of her ever escaping Gertrude Powell’s domination. There was little he could do about it, except give a moment’s solace. ‘Would you like to carry Charlie? He’s getting a bit too heavy for me.’
‘Can I?’ She sounded ecstatic, her eyes like great dark pools in her pale face.
‘If he’ll go to you.’
Stan half expected Charlie to kick up a fuss, after all, Miriam was not that familiar to his grandson, but to his great surprise he didn’t.
Charlie broke into chuckles holding out his arms and uttering half-formed words including the mmmm and mum ones, over and over again.
He handed Charlie into her arms, not liking the feeling of emptiness in his own. Charlie grinned at her, tugged her hair and patted her hat.
‘No,’ she said to him, pulling his hands away from her hat. She held him tightly and never once did her gaze leave his face.
‘He likes you,’ said Stan.
Miriam’s expression was like a burst of winter sunshine. ‘He thinks I’m his mother. I don’t mind him thinking that. Really I don’t. I really want him to call me mother, even though I’m not. Not really.’ She sounded quite delirious about the fact that he might.
Stan reconsidered his decision to let Miriam hold his grandson. He’d been overcome by seasonal goodwill, but now he suddenly found himself regretting it. Frances had heard singing then words like mum or mmmm when she’d found Charlie. It occurred to him that Miriam had been teaching Charlie to call her mum.
His fears were suddenly confirmed.
‘Mum,’ he heard Miriam say. ‘Mmmmm … um …’ She was beaming into Charlie’s face, wagging his little arm, rubbing his nose with hers.
He was suddenly panicked into demanding him back. ‘I’d better have him now,’ he said firmly once they were halfway up the hill. ‘Time for his dinner.’
‘Not yet!’ Her arms gripped Charlie more tightly. Her beaming expression was replaced by a startled look – worse than startled. ‘You can’t take him yet! I haven’t held him for long enough! He likes being with me. He needs me.’ Both her voice and expression verged on hysteria.
A warning bell sounded in Stan’s brain, though all the same, he wanted to treat her gently. ‘Miriam. It’s Charlie’s dinnertime. Mine too. It’s Christmas. Remember?’
He couldn’t help feeling that Miriam wasn’t quite with it. In fact he was half wondering whether her mother was telling the truth and she was just the slightest bit deranged. He didn’t want to believe it.
‘He’s not yours, Miriam. You’re not his mother. Come on, Charlie. Come to your old granddad.’
Miriam stared at Stan accusingly as if the child was hers, as if she were indeed Charlie’s mother. For a dreadful moment it seemed to Stan as though she wasn’t going to let go. Carefully he plied her arms from around his grandson. Finally she stood there, staring at her empty arms.
Wrapping his arms protectively around his grandson, Stan saw a figure in black standing at the door of Powell’s shop. He recognised Gertrude Powell, her face as white as the marble urn sitting on his wife’s grave.
‘Go home, Miriam,’ Stan said gently. ‘See? Your mother’s waiting for you.’
He didn’t much care for Miriam’s mother and couldn’t help blaming her for how Miriam had turned out. However, on this occasion he was extremely glad to see her.
‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Powell.’
He hadn’t called her Gertrude since they were children together. Anyway she wouldn’t thank him for being so personal. Since becoming an adult she kept friendship at a distance. Even arranging for Frances to be evacuated to the Forest of Dean with Ada Perkins had been done when Ada was visiting and had offered to take the girl. Funnily enough, Gertrude hadn’t seemed so hard then. He wondered what might have happened to change her. Perhaps she’d been ill, but then, if she had somebody would have said so.
Stan recalled the talk he and Bettina had had about Miriam. She had only gone away for a few days with her mother to the Forest of Dean. Unless …
He didn’t bother to speculate further. The girl needed to get away from Gertrude and if the factories or forces wouldn’t take her, the best place for her to be was with her grandmother.
Stan walked on, aware that Charlie was leaning over his shoulder waving goodbye. ‘Mmmmmm. Mum. Mmmmm.’
The door of the shop slammed shut on the two women. He didn’t tell anyone about his encounter until Christmas dinner was over, the dishes put away and the wireless turned off once the King’s speech was over. After he’d told them what had happened, he shuddered. ‘Never leave Charlie alone with her. She’s besotted.’
‘Just as she was with Charlie,’ Mary pointed out.
‘She scared the living daylights out of him,’ added Ruby with a laugh. ‘Do you remember when he used to hide from her?’
They all did. Stan didn’t laugh. Why were Miriam’s hands so dirty, he wondered? And why was she spending so much time in the churchyard?
‘She’s mad,’ added Frances. ‘I’ve seen her hanging around in the churchyard.’
‘And what were you doing there?’ asked Ruby.
A pink flush invaded Frances’s cheeks. ‘I went for a walk. I go for a walk there a lot. I like the trees.’ She didn’t mention Paul and that he’d finally kissed her. She’d known he wanted to, but had held him at a distance. And her family mustn’t know. She’d know they would say she was too young.
Ruby eyed her sidelong and not without misgivings. ‘With whom?’
‘None of your business! I can go for a walk there by myself or with any of my friends. I do have friends, you know.’
It was obvious to them all that Frances was getting more than a little bit hot under the collar. Ruby didn’t mention that she’d seen Frances hand in hand with Paul Martin. At least she thought it was Paul. There was a very wide choice of Martin brothers. It seemed that Mrs Martin had spent much of her life giving birth – most
ly to boys.
The fact that Frances was growing up wasn’t lost on Stan. The years kept rolling past and he often wished he could turn back the clock and they could be children again. He sighed at the prospect of getting old and his children getting older, contemplating that it wouldn’t be long before his daughters and Frances would flee the nest. Hopefully one would stay around until his grandson was grown – if not in this house, then close by.
‘So you’ve seen Miriam Powell in the churchyard.’ Stan directed the question at Frances. He had a suspicion of why Miriam’s fingernails and hands were so dirty.
‘I have,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve seen her there and heard her wailing as though she’s lost something. A bit like when she was with Charlie in the den. Singing and talking to somebody. There was nobody there though. I would have known if there was.’
‘Sounds like a mystery,’ offered Mike in his usual affable way. ‘Like a detective novel that you feel you have to solve before the detective actually does it.’
Mary laughed. ‘Mike, this is Oldland Common. Nothing happens here. Now help yourself to another piece of cake.’
‘I’ll burst.’
‘Take some.’
Gazing at Mary in abject adoration, he obediently took another slice of cake, took a bite, chewed and swallowed his thoughts on what to him still constituted a mystery. He saw no wrong in voicing those thoughts. ‘You’d think nothing happened in those places in the detective novels either, but they do – well, they do when that Hercule Poirot character is involved!’
Everyone laughed except for Stan Sweet. He was a straightforward man who didn’t like mysteries. If Miriam was deranged, and he didn’t think she was, something had to be done about it. He’d already decided to write to Ada Perkins, the only person who might do something helpful.
‘Where exactly in the churchyard did you see her?’
Ruby glanced up from cutting the last slice of Christmas cake before putting the remainder into the cake tin. Although her father sounded calm and casual, she wasn’t fooled. His probing was so gentle that Frances wouldn’t suspect a thing. Not that it mattered if she did. It was Miriam who had to be worried.
‘She was hiding,’ said Frances. ‘At least I think she was hiding. And singing. I heard her singing just like she was in the den.’
Stan frowned. ‘Is that so? A hymn I suppose.’
Now it was Frances who frowned as she fought to remember. ‘No. Not a hymn as such. I think it was a lullaby. I heard her singing the same one down in the Dingle – in our—’ She corrected herself. She was too old for childish pursuits. ‘The kids’ den.’
Her face brightened. ‘I can tell you what lullaby it was. It’s the one Mary sings to Charlie when he’s got a new tooth coming through. Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed. That one. The same one I heard her singing down in the den.’
Bettina Hicks who had remained silent up until now, cupped her cheeks with both hands, her finely arched eyebrows knitted in concentration.
Assuming she’d been about to say something about Miriam, Stan leaned forward, both elbows resting on the table – a practice he abhorred in others. His expression was intense. ‘Bettina? Are you all right,’ he said when no comment was expressed.
Bettina looked away, pushed her hands down on the chair arms and struggled to her feet. ‘I think it’s time I went home. It’s been a lovely day. Thank you for everything,’ she said, showering everyone with her beaming smile. She turned to Stan. ‘Do you think you could see me home? I’m feeling a little stiff after all this sitting down and rich food.’
Mike got up from his chair. ‘No need to trouble, Stan. I can go with you and come back for Mary,’ he offered.
She held up her hand like a policeman directing traffic. ‘No. I insist you stay. The night is young and so are you. Anyway, we have things to discuss. You don’t mind, do you, Stan?’
Stan didn’t hesitate. Ruby retrieved Bettina’s walking stick from the side of the fireplace while Stan fetched her hat, coat and knitted navy blue scarf that the cold evening called for.
Mary and Ruby exchanged worried glances. It was only just gone teatime and everyone had expected Bettina to stay longer. She didn’t usually tire easily, although of course she had been ill before Christmas with a severe cold.
After fetching his own coat and hat, Stan accompanied her to the door, and opened it, his arm arched protectively around her shoulders as he ushered her out.
The night sky was full of stars and a bright moon was turning everything silver. Chimneys and the tops of trees showed starkly black against the sky. The air was crisp and they could see their breath.
‘Another frost tomorrow,’ Stan proclaimed.
Bettina made no proper comment. In the blackout proper he wouldn’t have been able to see her expression, but thanks to the moon he could see her face clearly. He sensed her apprehension and guessed there was a specific reason she’d asked him to see her home.
‘So. What’s on your mind?’
She didn’t attempt to prevaricate, but then Bettina wasn’t the sort to do that. That was what he liked about her.
‘I can’t help but think of that conversation we had not long ago.’
Stan nodded. ‘Yes. It’s been on my mind too.’
‘You know that there were rumours about that young Methodist Minister, the one that shot off to join the army as a padre?’
Stan frowned. Bettina Hicks was one of the shrewdest women he’d ever known, just as shrewd as his Sarah had been. He should have known she’d jump to the same conclusion as he had.
‘So you think we were right: she might have had a baby and her mother might have pressured her to give it away?’
Bettina fell silent. ‘Or Gertrude could have done worse, I wouldn’t put it past her. And I wouldn’t mind betting that that poor girl has been punished beyond endurance. If there’s one thing her mother cannot cope with, it’s what she regards as the sins of others – especially the sins of the flesh.’
‘We know she’s a bit overzealous for the church. Hard to believe she’s Ada’s daughter.’
‘Humph,’ grunted Bettina. ‘She changed the minute she fell for Godfrey Powell. Sometimes I think that man thought he was God; Gertrude worshipped him, that’s for sure. The only thing Gertrude wanted from him was a child. It was the only time he gave into her wishes. I think he also thought it behove him as a Christian to be a family man. I believe once that was done, they never slept with each other ever again. That was when Ada left. She couldn’t stand her son-in-law and he never let her visit the child unless he was there.’
‘Stupid people.’
‘Nasty people.’
Stan tried to read the look on her face. ‘What is it you’re trying to say?’
Bettina folded both hands on to the top of her stick and breathed deeply, the cold air sharp in her chest. ‘I think you should take your spade to the graveyard.’
The ground stayed solidly frozen during those first weeks of 1942. When he went to St Anne’s to visit Sarah, he made a point of wading through the long grass and thistles to look at the spot where he’d seen Miriam.
Even though he visited Sarah’s grave at least once a week, he never saw Miriam once and wondered why. Perhaps she’d got over her loss – if indeed there had been a loss. He couldn’t know for sure.
There was no sign of any disturbance among the long grass, no sign of the earth being turned over and something – a baby – buried there. Stan concluded that in all probability Miriam had miscarried over in the forest, perhaps with her grandmother’s assistance. Yes, it was illegal to perform such operations, and he had no proof that she had done. But to his mind it was the obvious conclusion.
The only thing he did find were screwed up pieces of paper made crisp by the frost, the writing made illegible by virtue of those days when the temperature had risen above freezing and the ice had melted.
He reported his findings to Bettina in the cosiness of her living roo
m.
‘As long as you’re sure,’ she remarked as she passed him a cup of tea and a slice of what remained of the Christmas cake.
He nodded. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing buried there. I’m not saying there wasn’t a baby. There might very well have been, but …’ Brow furrowed with thought, he sipped his tea.
‘Ada,’ said Bettina.
Stan’s eyes met hers. ‘My feelings exactly. Ada is the only person who can help. After all, it is her granddaughter.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘JANUARY BRINGS THE snow, makes our feet and fingers glow. February brings the rain, thaws the frozen lake again … Not that you’d notice, eh, Charlie! Never mind. I’ll just have to walk faster. How about that?’
Charlie gurgled a happy response. Frances loved taking him for a walk even in February. The rain that was supposed to thaw the frozen lake hadn’t arrived. The wind was bitingly cold and a crisp layer of ice covered the ground.
Although Charlie could toddle along quite efficiently, he soon got tired so she still made a habit of bringing the pushchair with her. Just as she’d guessed, by the time they’d got to the bottom of Cherry Garden Hill he was asking to be picked up and placed in his pushchair.
‘You’ve only got short legs and they’ve got a long way to grow before you can walk everywhere you want.’
Frances sighed with satisfaction. She liked to think that Charlie loved her more than anyone else in the family. He certainly did when she took him out for walks and especially if she had enough money to treat him to a lollipop at Mrs Powell’s shop.
She’d bought one this morning though had peered between the chequered notices on the shop door beforehand checking that Miriam was serving behind the cramped counter before pushing open the door. Mrs Powell had forbidden her ever to cross her threshold again because she’d been cheeky. Frances had considered her cheekiness justified. Mrs Powell had made some pretty mean remarks about Charlie and his parents.
Miriam looked pleased to see her, especially with young Charlie hanging on to her hand, his little feet carefully negotiating the high sill that separated the inside of the shop from the street outside.