Mary placed a slice of bread on the toasting fork, just as a cry came from upstairs.
‘Mammy, mammy, Father Christmas has been.’
‘Oh-oh, I knew our Jacqueline would be the first,’ Jack said.
Marjory recovered from her weeping. By this time Alan and Una were also awake.
‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘no point in making the children miserable. We’d better go up – we don’t want to miss the fun.’
‘If that’s what I think it is,’ Jack said, looking at the covered basket and correctly interpreting the stream of liquid which was flowing from between the wickerwork, ‘we’d better leave it downstairs.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Mary. ‘I can’t wait to see our Jacqueline’s face when she sees Uncle Harry’s present.’ And the four of them trooped upstairs to join the children, Mary carrying the basket just like one of the wise men, on the very first Christmas of all.
The desk and chair caused a stir for the first few minutes, along with the black doll beautifully dressed in a red knitted outfit by Gladys, but when Mary produced Uncle Harry’s present all else was forgotten.
Jacqueline removed the cardboard box to reveal a shivering brown and white cocker spaniel puppy, and from that moment a lifelong relationship was formed.
Alan didn’t care about anything but his train set, a clockwork, wind-up affair, with a home-made bridge and platform on which a set of lead soldiers and farm animals were already being arranged.
The bedroom reeked of June perfume which Una had received in a box which also contained talcum powder and a large fluffy powder puff. The bed was piled high with books, coloured pencils, gloves and board games. Una was flaunting her new charm bracelet, but Jacqueline, oblivious of everything but her new pet, was already skipping downstairs in search of a dish in which to give her pup something to drink.
Mary and Jack followed their daughter and Jack disappeared into the front room, returning with a huge parcel which he placed on the kitchen table. ‘Merry Christmas, love.’ He drew Mary towards him and kissed her tenderly.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Open it and see,’ he said, smiling.
Mary undid the mass of brown paper, to reveal a gleaming black and gold sewing machine. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wanted one. All my life I’ve wanted a sewing machine. Oh, Jack, thank you.’ She kissed him and began examining the workings of shuttle and cotton holders, before she suddenly remembered. ‘I’ve got something for you too, but it looks so paltry compared to this.’
She opened the cupboard in the recess by the fire and climbed up on to the chair-arm so she could reach the third shelf. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘It’s not much,’ Jack tore at the wrappings as Mary continued, ‘And it’s only second hand.’
Jack lifted the plane out of the paper and grinned. ‘Well, it looks like new to me. Thanks, love.’
Mary had been on the look-out for a plane for months, knowing of Jack’s love of working with wood. He had made a perfect job of Jacqueline’s desk, but a plane would have saved him a lot of time.
Jacqueline was examining the puppy’s long floppy ears with wonderment. ‘Isn’t he the bestest dog you’ve ever seen? Why isn’t Uncle Harry here? He said he’d be here this morning.’
Jack looked for guidance to Mary, wondering whether to tell the child the truth and risk upsetting her.
‘Uncle Harry’s not very well,’ Mary said, knowing her daughter was perceptive enough to see through any excuses. ‘He’s had to go to hospital, but he will come as soon as he’s better.’
‘I knew he wouldn’t be well. I didn’t want him to go out. I told him, and Caroline knew too, but he wouldn’t take any notice.’
Mary suddenly felt a shiver down her spine. It was true: her daughter had known. She had begged her uncle to stay but to no avail. And the look in her eyes had reminded Mary of the day Tom had left her for the last time. She realised at that moment how wrong she had been to dismiss Caroline as a figment of her daughter’s imagination. It had never occurred to her that her grandmother’s gift of seeing the future had emerged once again. Mary hoped that history wouldn’t repeat itself, and that it had not been the last time Jacqueline would see her uncle alive.
‘I’m going to call him Little Harry,’ the girl suddenly announced. ‘That’s Caroline’s favourite name.’
Alan padded downstairs in his bare feet, his face and pyjamas covered in chocolate, a half-eaten apple in his hand.
‘You are going to be sick,’ Mary scolded her son half-heartedly. After all it was Christmas morning.
Bill trundled downstairs with Una’s pillow case, followed by his wife and daughter, and Mary buttered the toast and poured the tea.
‘Little Harry’s hungry,’ Jacqueline declared.
Jack set about putting together some bread soaked in milk for the new arrival. If only Harry had warned him they would have been better prepared, but then his brother always was one to do things on impulse. He hoped his wounds would prove less serious than they looked, for though he and his brother were very different they loved each other dearly.
‘I love Tittle Harry,’ said Alan, intent on feeding the puppy a chocolate penny.
‘So do I,’ said Jacqueline, ‘and so does Caroline.’
Chapter Eighteen
The month of January 1947 was an eventful one for the Holmeses, to say the least. Most important was that Harry began his slow painful progress on the road to recovery. His broken nose, when it began to heal slightly out of shape only seemed to add to his handsome looks, but an operation was necessary to remove a splinter from his fractured ribs, which had punctured a lung. Sally, a constant visitor, was the inspiration he needed, strengthening his will to regain his health.
Jack told him on one of his frequent visits that the house had been taken over by Tittle Harry, with whom Alan’s mispronounced name had stayed, and Mary’s sewing machine, which was never still from morning till night.
One consolation for Mrs Holmes throughout the long worrying period was that Margaret seemed to have settled down again, had ceased staying out until all hours and seemed content to spend more time at home. Lizzie thought it was Harry’s accident which had brought her to her senses, and couldn’t help feeling relieved, despite her daughter’s prolonged silences and subdued attitude. If she had but known, the heartbreak her daughter was living through had nothing at all to do with Harry, but was due to the departure of dark-haired, brown-eyed Adam, the most gentle man Margaret had ever met; Adam also happened to be Polish.
It had all begun innocently enough when Margaret had agreed to make up a foursome to go dancing. It had taken no more than one waltz for Margaret and Adam to fall passionately and completely in love. They had known the affair was doomed from the beginning. It was only a matter of time before he must leave, and leave he did. To be back in Poland in time for Christmas, where his wife and two beautiful children were waiting.
They had agreed there was no alternative, and parted bravely, both hiding their heartache and desolation.
‘Don’t write,’ Margaret told him. ‘Your future is with your family. Besides, I need to forget you.’
But they both knew they would never forget. A love like theirs was a rare and wondrous thing, and without each other life would never be the same again. Besides, Margaret knew she would strive to remember every touch, the way he walked, the mispronounced words which made her laugh. But she had no regrets, for she had known love, and no one could take that away.
Another major event was Jacqueline’s starting school, after the first day of which she announced she wouldn’t be going any more as she didn’t think much to it.
On that first morning she had walked hand in hand with Una, full of anticipation as to what new delights she would find. By the first playtime break she already knew the horrors of a detestable teacher and the claustrophobic atmosphere of a room filled with forty-three other children. Her hatred of Miss Robinson, the middle-aged teacher, was sealed when th
e woman refused to set a place at the table for Caroline. Her requests for a chalk and slate for Caroline were met at first with an embarrassed silence and, later, by anger and the threat of a rap over the knuckles with a ruler if the name was mentioned again.
Jacqueline didn’t mention Caroline again. Instead she worked diligently, repeating her letters parrot fashion along with her classmates: A for apple, B for ball, C for cat and so on, becoming bored after a while doing things she had already been taught over a year ago.
After lunch she enjoyed crayoning a pattern on a square of paper, and was pleased when Miss Robinson chose it to hang on the wall, but the woman’s stern looks still made her nervous and she decided school wasn’t at all what she had expected.
She was shocked on the second day to discover that school wasn’t voluntary and everybody had to go, like it or not. The only good thing she could think of was that she had acquired a new friend, whom everyone except Miss Robinson called Pam, short for Pamela. Pam was a freckle-faced girl with straight ginger hair held out of her eyes by a slide which Jacqueline had to replace every couple of hours, due to the slippery straightness of Pam’s hair. Jacqueline saw this as a means of repayment for Pam’s offer to eat all the grey, mashed, lumpy potatoes off Jacqueline’s plate at lunchtime. At home time the two friends realised they lived no more than two streets apart and walked home with arms wound firmly round each other’s waist, and Jacqueline promising to call for her new pal at quarter to nine in the morning. From that day on Jacqueline and Pam were inseparable, and woe betide anyone who attempted to separate them. Jacqueline even shared Caroline with her new friend, and if Pam offered a stick of liquorice root or a bag of lemon crystals to Jacqueline, she always asked if Caroline would like one too. Jacqueline on the other hand was the first person ever to admire Pam’s freckles and wish she had ginger hair, for which the little girl would be eternally grateful.
After a few weeks, in which Miss Robinson realised the little Holmes girl’s potential, it was decided that all the girls would knit a dishcloth and the boys make objects with cardboard and glue. Most of the girls, after being shown how to cast on the stitches by winding the thick cotton yarn round their thumbs, soon got the hang of it, and were knitting away after one or two lessons. Unfortunately knitting to Jacqueline was a nightmare, owing mainly to the fact that she was left-handed. Pam, seeing her friend attempt the task, decided to help whilst Miss Robinson’s attention was elsewhere, and soon the wool was in a hopeless tangle.
Jacqueline became more and more panic-stricken as the dishcloth, nothing more than a mass of dropped stitches and knots, became impossible to untangle, and at the end of the lesson she smuggled the whole miserable mess into her shoulder bag, which normally contained nothing except a clean hanky and her dinner money on a Monday morning. She whispered to Pam that her mammy would make it right, but Pam began to wish her friend had let Miss Robinson sort out the mess. Miss Robinson would have had to be blind not to have noticed the two pairs of huge wooden needles protruding from the shoulder bag.
‘Jacqueline Holmes, come back here,’ she roared, as the two girls sneaked guiltily past her desk. The whole class came back, inquisitive to find out if cleverdick Jacqueline had at last done something wrong.
‘Open your bag,’ Miss Robinson snapped, and Jacqueline felt the blood rush to her face.
‘Please Miss,’ she stammered, ‘I want to leave the room.’ It was the expression everyone used for going to the lavatory.
‘You’ll go when I say so.’ Miss Robinson came down from her desk, looming like a menacing monster over the scared little girl. Pam clung tighter to her friend’s hand.
‘Please Miss,’ she volunteered, ‘our knitting’s all tangled up.’
‘You speak when you’re spoken to. Give me the dishcloth,’ she demanded. Jacqueline handed over the knitting to the woman, the work slipping from the needles as she did so.
‘And what, may I ask, do you call this, girl?’ Miss Robinson’s eyes blazed with anger and Jacqueline could see a mass of pimples and a few black hairs on the woman’s chin as the face came closer. She began to cry and suddenly a warm stream of urine began to seep from her navy blue knickers and run down her legs to the floor.
‘I couldn’t help it. I told you I wanted to leave the room,’ she sobbed. ‘Besides, I was only taking our knitting home for my mammy to mend.’
A small boy in the watching crowd suddenly said in a whisper loud enough for the whole class to hear, ‘Jacqueline Holmes has peed her knickers.’
Miss Robinson, exasperated now beyond all reason, screamed, ‘Get out the lot of you this minute.’
Pam began to cry too, and then tried to explain. ‘She can’t help it. It’s not her fault her hands are back to front.’
Miss Robinson suddenly saw the funny side of the child’s remark. She pursed her lips in an effort to stifle the laughter which was threatening to crack her normally dour countenance, then said, ‘Go home, both of you. I’ll begin a new dishcloth for you, Pamela, in the next handicraft lesson, and you, Jacqueline, if you find the knitting too difficult, may join the boys with their modelling.’
Jacqueline felt a wave of relief wash over her and stared open mouthed.
‘Well, go home then, child, and don’t wait until the last minute in future before asking to leave the room.’
The two girls scurried out and rushed to the cloakroom before the woman changed her mind and brought out the ruler, or worse still the cane from behind her desk.
Miss Robinson found a cloth to remove all traces of the accident and suddenly admitted to herself that she would have objected to the child’s being excused anyway, so close to home time. She really must try to be more tolerant, especially of the little Holmes girl who had the makings of a scholar, while her friend seemed to have the makings of a comedienne. She chuckled to herself and popped the hopelessly tangled knitting in the waste-paper basket, guessing the cleaning woman would probably retrieve it, being blessed no doubt with enough patience to unwind and reuse the yarn. That was unless the woman was unfortunate enough to have hands which were back to front.
The headmistress was passing Miss Robinson’s room on the way from her office when she heard a sound she had never heard before. She came back, unable to believe her ears. It was true. Miss Robinson was actually laughing.
Mary decided it was time to discuss Caroline with her daughter and did so the next time Jacqueline asked Caroline which bedtime story she would like.
‘Jacqueline, I know Caroline has chosen you for her very best friend and you can see her. That’s because you’re a very special little girl, but no one else can see her. You might see more people like Caroline one day. I’ve seen some myself. But as it’s a special thing it’s nice to keep it just between the two of you and not share her with anybody else. They might think it’s strange if you’re speaking to someone they can’t see.’
‘All right. She gets me in trouble with Miss Robinson anyway. You can go away, Caroline, if you like. I’ve got Pam for a friend now.’
Mary smiled. ‘Don’t forget, only special people have friends no one else can see.’ She sighed with relief. She didn’t expect Caroline to be banished immediately, but it was a start. Jacqueline yawned and closed her eyes, bedtime story forgotten.
Chapter Nineteen
Ada Banwell inspected her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. The bruise on her cheekbone had faded from an angry reddish purple to a jaundiced yellow, and her lip was almost down to its normal size. Considering the injuries her husband had inflicted on Harry Holmes she knew she was fortunate to have escaped so lightly.
She was growing her hair back to its original colour and at present it was an assortment of shades, ranging from grey at the temples to brown roots and blonde ends. No wonder Harry had found himself a new girl, twenty years younger than herself. He deserved the chance of a good marriage and Ada had no regrets. The affair had been sensational while it lasted, and besides, he had given her the child she had longed
for throughout her marriage.
After her husband’s drunken attack on her, Ada had managed to lure the sailor back into her bed, and all that remained to be done now was to post off a letter containing news of the forthcoming event, to the man whose already inflated ego would no doubt swell to bursting point as he boasted of his wife’s condition. Ada herself was elated. After all the years of hoping, and suffering the accusations of being the barren one, she now knew it was her husband’s fault that their dreams of a child had for so long been unfulfilled. Not that he would ever know. It was a secret only she and Harry Holmes would share, and though rumours would no doubt spread, and the gossips would have a field day, no one would ever be able to prove that the child was not a premature result of the Christmas leave.
Ada was content at last. No more brash clothing or frequenting the Sun – from now on she was a respectable married mother-to-be, and the years of loneliness as a regular marine’s wife were almost at an end. She patted her bloated stomach. All the gossipmongers in the world weren’t going to be allowed to destroy the joy her child would bring. She smiled as she slipped into her nightie. Ada had been a perfect lover over the years; now she was about to become a perfect mother.
St George’s Road boasted only three shops, the fish shop, the off-licence and Baraclough’s, which was supposed to be a butcher’s and grocer’s, but sold almost everything under the sun. Mr Baraclough was his own perfect advert, having at least three chins and a rosy full-moon face. His blue and white butcher’s smock was clean on each morning, and the bench in the corner where he cut the meat was scrubbed every evening so the wood was almost white.
Mr Baraclough could change character at the drop of a hat, or the swing of a cleaver to be more precise, adopting a posh accent for customers such as Mrs Davenport or Dr Sellers, dropping everything to give them his full attention so they were made to feel like VIPs. They were always served the crustiest loaf of bread or the tenderest joint and so charming was his manner that they never noticed the knack he had of throwing the merchandise on to the scale with enough force to weigh it down to the bottom, lifting it off, and wrapping it all in one action. It would often be a couple of ounces light, but his rich customers never questioned the jovial shopkeeper.
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