Florence stood straight, put her back to Winifred, as if, by doing that she could protect her. ‘You’ll go for the doctor, Ethel.’ Her voice sounded strange, almost threatening to Winifred. ‘You’ll go for the doctor because I did the same for you, once. Remember?’
Except for the snuffling of the baby there was no sound in the room. Outside, the sparrows in the guttering above the bedroom window squabbled and chirruped. A horse slowly clomped past, metal wheels grated on the road. A man shouted. A whip cracked.
Winifred reached over her head and grasped the rail of the bed-head to pull herself upright, ignoring the stabs of pain between her legs and the hot blood that still trickled out of her. ‘Please, Mother.’
‘Ethel.’ Her grandmother’s tone warned. ‘The doctor.’
Craning around her grandmother, Winifred saw the rage on her mother’s face before she left the bedroom.
She looked down at the baby. Conal’s baby. And felt nothing.
Chapter 55
November 1912
‘I’m telling you I can’t manage in the shop by myself. I’m not your slave.’ Ethel lowered the flame on the gas mantle. The kitchen descended into the gloom of the winter’s afternoon but Winifred, still ironing, said nothing. She shifted around the table to make the most of the light and placed the cooling flat iron onto the range. Picking up the other iron she touched it lightly with her forefinger and blew on the surface to get rid of the specks of soot.
‘And I’m telling you. If you want me to carry on helping in the shop, I need help myself with the baby.’ Winifred wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Granny does what she can but she’s an old lady—’
‘Lady? Some lady.’ Ethel scoffed. ‘And, anyway, why do you need help? I’ve hardly ever seen you pick the brat up.’ She glanced towards the child lying on the blankets in the wooden apple box that Florence had fashioned into a crib. ‘She looks after it more than you do. There’s nothing to stop you being in the shop.’
‘Stop being so nasty, Mother.’
Winifred was tired. Tired of fighting with her mother. Tired of the outraged looks, the sly gossip every time she was serving in the shop, the sideways glances, the scorn. And yet she knew her mother was right; she only touched Tom when she needed to. Tom; she hadn’t even named him, leaving it to her grandmother to decide what to call the boy. There was something that stopped her feeling anything for the child. Conal’s child.
She folded the nightgown and put it on top of the pile of clothes already ironed and picked up another. ‘Why do you never have anything good to say?’
‘Perhaps it’s because I have a daughter who’s been acting like a woman of the streets.’ Ethel’s voice was cold. ‘You’ve brought disgrace on the family.’
Winifred banged the iron down onto the table. ‘What family, Mother?’ She was so far from everything she’d had only months ago, the first taste of freedom and the love of her father. ‘We’re not a family. If we were truly a family you wouldn’t care what anyone would think. I’m your daughter; you’d love me whatever happened. Whatever I’d done.’
Even as she spoke a stab of guilt jolted her, knowing how she was rejecting her son. Yet still she said again, ‘Whatever I’ve done, because I’m your daughter—’
‘But you’re not.’ It was as though the words had been waiting to burst out.
Winifred’s hand stilled on the iron. The flame in the mantle popped softly, the coal shifted in the grate, the baby in the cradle next to her sighed in his sleep.
Behind her the stair tread creaked. The rustle of clothes, the vague smell of mothballs, told Winifred her grandmother was with them, but she didn’t take her eyes off her mother.
‘Ethel.’ Florence’s voice was a whisper. Yet, in the quiet of the room, it was a harsh sound. ‘Enough.’
‘Why? What’s the point of her not knowing the truth? Especially now. Blood will out, isn’t that what they say?’
‘Who?’ Winifred was barely aware of the smell of the scorched cotton. Yet she automatically lifted the iron from the small nightgown. ‘Who says that? And what do you mean?’ She was aware that her grandmother was close to her, of the slow ticking of the clock echoed by the steady breathing of her mother.
Ethel’s face was impassive. When she spoke again there was no emotion. ‘I’m not your mother. You were a foundling; left on the doorstep like a piece of trash. Like the trash that probably gave birth to it.’ The poison spilled from Ethel’s lips as the angry tears fell from her eyes. ‘Well, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?’ She stabbed the air with her finger.
‘I said that’s enough.’ Florence spoke in a loud sharp voice. But it didn’t stop the woman.
Ethel swung round to face her. ‘You. And him, your precious son. You both foisted her on me. I didn’t want the girl.’
‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’ The question hung between them. After a moment Winifred moved her head slightly in Florence’s direction. They stood together in a group yet were so far apart. Winifred repeated, ‘What are you saying?’
This time so loud that the baby, startled in his sleep, jumped, his arms and legs stiffened instinctively. He whimpered. Winifred looked at him. The flames from the range sputtered, casting pale orange light and shadow over him. He was frowning, his mouth puckered. She didn’t move towards him. Instead she stared back at each of the two women who knew something about her she had never been aware of.
‘Granny?’
She might well as not been in the room.
‘You knew what you were doing, Ethel. You agreed—’
‘Because I was a fool. Because I loved him.’ Her mother’s arms were stiff by her side. ‘How was I to know I would never be able to have a child of my own?’
‘You knew.’
Ethel stared at them for a long moment, her lips pulled tight. Turning on her heel, she walked back into the shop.
Her knees buckling, Winifred dragged the nearest chair towards her and fell onto it. Everything she’d ever known was spiralling away from her. Leaning on the table, she covered her face with both hands.
‘Winnie?’
Her grandmother’s fingers were on her arm; hot, almost burning, on her cold skin.
The anger that rose shocked her. ‘You knew.’ She shook Florence’s hand off with a flick of her elbow, still covering her eyes. The darkness her palms made was a small comfort. She needed to think but her mind was in turmoil. The flashes of thoughts made no sense, the questions incoherent. Panic overwhelmed the anger, swilled around in her stomach. What would she do? What could she do? Who was she?
‘Winnie, listen to me. I know we – I – should have told you about this a long time ago. But as the years went on it didn’t seem to matter. I’ve loved you as my own flesh and blood. Your father loved you as his daughter.’
Winifred strained to hear her grandmother’s words. She felt she was at the far end of a tunnel.
‘It didn’t, doesn’t matter where you came from—’
‘But it does.’ Winifred slapped her palms on the table, her head lowered. ‘It does. It’s cruel to have lied to me all my life. I trusted you and you were lying. So, tell me. Tell me the truth of who I am. Now!’ Her whole body vibrated with the strain of staying calm. She twisted in the chair to stare at Florence. ‘She’s not going to, so you do it.’
Her grandmother held her gaze, the love visible in her eyes. ‘Winnie…’ She coughed, cleared her throat. It was as though her face had altered in a few short moments; pallid skin folding around her mouth, changing the shape. Becoming someone other than Granny Duffy. Which was quite right; the thought drummed persistently through Winifred’s head, because she was. The old woman was someone she didn’t know anymore.
‘Winnie, I’m sorry, we never found out.’
Pain coursed through Winifred but she gave a short angry laugh. ‘Really?’ She should believe it, yet it was wrong just to accept without more questions. ‘Did you even try? Did you go to the
police?’
Outside the wind rose to rattle the back door. Glancing towards the window she saw it was fully dark now. Making a sudden decision she stood and turned up both gas mantles. Better to see the old woman’s expression; she would be able to see if she was being honest in her answers. Before spinning on her heels to confront her grandmother again she held her fingers over her eyes, holding back the tears.
‘Well? Is that it? Is that all you can say.’
‘That’s all there is.’ Florence’s words were measured, quiet. ‘Your father found you. You were on the doorstep of the shop.’ Her shoulders half lifted as though to shrug but stopped. ‘He said you were only in a thin blanket and blue with cold.’ She stopped, her face softened. ‘Too tiny, too underfed, even to cry. He wrapped you in a thicker blanket and brought you to me.’ She looked away towards the door that led into the shop. ‘They’d given up hope for a child – at least he had. Ethel hadn’t, even though she’d had two miscarriages since…’
‘Since?’ Winifred demanded, her voice fierce, struggling to bring a memory back. ‘Since when?’ Comprehension widened her eyes. ‘I remember. I remember something you said, the day Tom was born. It was when you told Mother to get the doctor. I’d been pleading with her but she’d refused. Then you said something.’ Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. ‘Something about you doing the same for her once.’ Winifred moved forward, put her hands flat on the table and leaned towards Florence. ‘What did you mean?’
Florence pushed her chair back, the legs scraped on the linoleum. Slowly, stiffly she crossed the kitchen and closed the door to the shop.
‘Your mother was pregnant. Before they were wed.’
‘Dad’s?’
‘No.’ She stopped. ‘He didn’t know about it.’ She stood still, her hand to her chest, her breath rattled in her throat.
Alarmed, Winifred went to her. Whatever had been said she couldn’t stop loving the old woman. Her arm around her grandmother’s waist, she led her back to the chair and lowered her into it. ‘All right now?’
Florence gave a glimmer of a smile, acknowledging the gentleness in Winifred’s voice.
‘Just tell me, Granny.’
‘Ethel had gone to a woman; someone who dealt with those kind of things’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Girls who got into trouble. Women who helped put things… right for them.’
‘You mean she had an—’
‘Yes.’ Florence put up her hand to stop Winifred uttering the words. ‘It was a bodged job, the woman made a right mess of Ethel’s insides. I had a bit of money put to one side, so I paid for a doctor to sort her out as best he could. But there was no chance of her ever having a child of her own after that. I was the only one who knew about it. That’s why your mother resents me. That’s why she didn’t want me here. It was our secret. A secret she’s always wished we didn’t have between us. What she has never understood is that I would have kept it to my grave; I would never have told your father. I wouldn’t have hurt him like that. He never found out she’d been with someone else while they were engaged. I did once tell him she wasn’t good enough for him. I couldn’t tell him why, though it caused the one and only quarrel we ever had.’ A shadow flitted across her face. ‘I lied to him.’
‘As you’ve lied to me,’ Winifred whispered. ‘You lied to protect him, didn’t you?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an understanding. ‘And that’s why you lied to me.’
‘And why it was so easy to persuade her to keep you.’ Florence closed her eyes, shook her head. ‘Was I so wrong, Winnie?’ She let her hand rest on the table.
Winifred covered it with her own. ‘No, Granny.’
‘Good. I’m glad, ducks.’ A short breath quivered her lips. ‘I think I’ll go for a lie down if you don’t mind. I’m tired.’
Left alone, Winifred was filled with a strange feeling of not knowing herself, who she was. The truth that had emerged over the last few hours meant that she had no blood relative that she knew of.
The soft sound startled her. She looked down at the crib. Her son was chuckling, his dark eyes fixed on her. Winifred put the iron on the stand and stared at him. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh. It made his whole body shake. Then he reached out with his arms to her.
She picked him up and held him close to her. He patted her cheek. The sensation that grew and engulfed her stunned her. This baby had been her shame, the burden she’d had to carry for her sins. Now she realised he would be the one light in her life. She held on to the small kernel of happiness, and hope. Her son. Her family.
PART TWO
Chapter 56
4th August 1914
Winifred’s voice shook as she read from the paper. ‘“The following statement was issued from the Foreign Office last night: Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by His Majesty’s Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium would be respected, His Majesty’s Ambassador in Berlin has received his passport, and His Majesty’s Government has declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as of 11p.m. on August 4.”’
Florence rocked Tom, his head nestled into her neck. He was wrapped into a towel after his bath. ‘Well, we’ve seen it coming since June, Winnie. There’s been trouble since that chap, Franz Ferdinand, and his wife were murdered. It’s been nothing else in the papers. What a world we live in.’ She absently rubbed the toddler’s back. When she looked up towards Winifred her eyes were bleak. ‘It’s all a mess.’
‘There’s a note at the end of it,’ Winifred said, peering closer. ‘It says, “British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey tried to organise an international peace conference to prevent further escalation. France accepted his proposals but Germany refused and on the 29th July, Germany requested British neutrality in the event of a European war. Britain refused because German victory in Western Europe would mean they would be close to the Channel coast and pose a threat to Britain’s security and trade. So at the beginning of August, the British mobilised the Navy to protect the French coast from German aggression through the Channel. On 2 August, the Cabinet agreed to support Belgium if there was a substantial violation of its neutrality.”’
‘So, is it because the German’s did invade Belgium and wouldn’t leave?’
‘I suppose so. When I was helping in the shop the other day—’
Ethel grunted. ‘Help, she says…’ her tone acerbic. ‘Fat lot of use – getting in the way, more like it.’
Neither woman looked in her direction.
‘When I was in the shop the other day,’ Florence continued, ‘Mr Watson was in with his wife. He said it was because Germany wouldn’t leave Belgium so Britain had no choice. Germany was getting too big for its boots. He said it was up to Britain to show Germany they can’t bully and get away with it. He said it was the moral right for Britain to stick up for little countries.’
‘So, it’s going to be a big war…’ All at once Winifred was afraid of the unknown. ‘What will it mean, Granny?’
‘Lots of changes, ducks. Lots of awful things happening. Lots of young men losing their lives, I should think.’ She sighed. ‘Word is, many of them want to fight, that’ll it be over by Christmas and they want to get over there and kill a few Germans.’
Winifred shivered at the thought of killing another human being. ‘Not all, surely?’ For the first time in many months, she thought about Conal. Usually she tried to dismiss the image of his face; his eyes, soft and loving, locked onto hers as they made love. His hands on her body. It was too painful to remember when she’d been so happy. Her time with Conal had been so brief. And yet it was a lifetime.
Where was he? She smoothed the paper on her knee to cover up her thoughts before saying, ‘But they can’t be made to fight, can they?’ If she knew anything about Conal he wasn’t violent. He wouldn’t, couldn’t kill another person. But he could hurt people in other ways. He’d left her.
‘Well, no…’ Florence lifted Tom to her shoulder. ‘They can’t, they can’t make the lads join up, I don’t think. But you know as well as me there’s enough of them out there that can’t wait to be enlisted.’ She leaned Tom away from her. ‘I think he’s gone off?’
Winifred peered round at her son’s face. ‘He has.’ She smiled. He looked so content. She couldn’t prevent her next thoughts: so much like Conal sometimes with his thick black hair, little straight nose and determined chin.
But when he was awake his long-lashed dark eyes fixed on hers for constant approval. It was the one thing that worried her, his timidity. Living with her mother it was understandable. The wad of anger in Winifred was always there, ready to defend her son against Ethel’s tongue.
‘Isn’t it time he went to bed?’ Ethel’s face showed no emotion. The news of the start of a war that was going to alter the lives of so many had obviously not registered with her mother. Ethel folded her arms under her loose bosom; she’d long stopped wearing a corset when she wasn’t in the shop. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I did.’ Winifred didn’t look at her mother. She folded the paper and dropped it onto the arm of the chair. ‘I’ll empty the bath.’
She opened the back door and dragging the tin bath across the kitchen, tipped it up. The water flowed across the yard to the grid. When the bath was empty she heaved it up to the long nail on the wall and hooked it over. It swung rhythmically from side to side, the metal edges catching the stone of the wall in decreasing soft notes. Winifred put her hands to the small of her back and arched, her eyes searching the clear sky. It was warm, the sun only just a little lower than an hour ago. Over the roof of the house, she could hear children still playing on the street. Their shouts and laughter made her feel sad, somehow. What was facing them? What faced Tom in the future? The thought made her heart tighten and she turned back into the kitchen.
She left the door open. Somehow she didn’t feel as trapped in her life when the windows and doors let the outside world into the house. Unrolling her sleeves and buttoning the cuffs she saw Ethel watching her, eyes narrowed.
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