“Mum?” said John after a moment. “Mum? Are you all right?”
She pulled herself together then and laughed. “Of course, silly. I’m just glad that Uncle Richard has come to see us.” And she put up her hand and quickly wiped at her cheek. “Now, Richard. Come inside and let me get you a cup of tea and something to eat.”
John followed us into the small front room and then as we carried on to the room at the back he squeezed past me to stand beside his mother.
“Are you a commando?” he asked after he had examined the flashes on my battle dress and taken notice of my new green beret. I nodded. I was surprised that he knew of this new force, but I shouldn’t have been. The children during the war knew everything about the military.
“Golly!” he said and gazed at me with renewed respect. His eyes lit upon the bayonet that I kept in a canvas sheath on my belt. “Could you use that?” he breathed, “as well as your rifle?”
I nodded and he let out a little whistle. He turned towards the back door. “Mum,” he said, “can I go and tell Colin next door about Uncle Richard? Can he come and have a look?”
She nodded and he darted out of the door, leaving us together in that small dark kitchen. I dropped my kitbag on the floor and took her properly in my arms and kissed her until my lips felt bruised. “Elizabeth,” I murmured, “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too,” she said and sought my mouth again.
“Now would this be Richard?” said a voice behind me and, alarmed, I dropped my arms and turned round. An old man stood there, leaning on a stick and grinning.
“Oh, Da,” said Elizabeth and when I looked back at her, I could see that she was blushing. “We didn’t hear you. Yes, this is Richard.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear that. How d’you do, young feller?”
I shook his hand. “I’m well, Mr Nugent, thank you.”
“Good,” he said. “Give him some tea, Lizzie and some for me, now. I’m parched from walking into town. Look in the bag and see what I’ve got you.”
I stood back and watched as Elizabeth took the canvas bag from him and delved inside it. “Da!” she cried joyfully, “butter! Wherever did you get it?”
“Don’t ask, darling, but would you ever put some on slice of bread and give this man a decent tea.”
No fuss, no questions from old Mr Nugent. He knew that I was Elizabeth’s man and that I made her and John happy. What else could matter?
Chapter 23
I’m tired, so very tired. My breath keeps catching in my chest and sometimes I haven’t enough to get to the end of a sentence. I don’t think I can carry on with this story. What’s the point anyway? Who wants to know about the pathetic comings and goings of a foolish man, most of which happened so long ago that the circumstances in which they occurred have been forgotten. It’s not as if I am an important person. I’ve never done anything that mattered to the world, unless you count that one thing. So why on earth should I bother to struggle with this any more? Better to leave the story where it was. Those three happy days with Elizabeth and John, the last I ever had.
Sharon has been irritated with me. “You’re no worse than you were before Christmas,” she said, “so why are you sitting in your chair and staring out of the window? It’s a waste of time. You said you wanted to tell this story and I’m writing it up. What is the problem?”
Of course, she doesn’t know. She can’t possibly imagine that I can barely bring myself to recount what happened next. How my heart was broken and left in jagged pieces that have never properly healed.
“Tell me,” Sharon said, “did John bring his friend to see you?
“Yes.”
“And…what did he say?”
Who cares? I don’t even want to think about it, I’d rather look out of the window. And what a sickening sight that is. Bare trees and rain-sodden fields. The hillside is covered in cloud so that I can’t even see halfway up. I hate January; it’s longer and gloomier than any other month of the year.
When we were young, we used to walk to school in the dark in January and come home likewise and I was always glad when spring began to burst through. I can remember Father taking lamps with him to the byre when he milked the cows. I had the chore of attending to those lamp wicks. I didn’t mind that so much. It was a job that was done indoors.
“Get up,” Mother used to shout in the early morning and we would roll out of bed reluctantly and trail across the landing to the new bathroom. When I was a baby, we had no lavatory inside and had to run out of the back door and across the garden to the privy. I don’t remember it, but Billy did and would tell me about sitting on the wooden seat, doing number twos with snow banked up against the door.
“How horrible,” I would shiver, glad that Father had installed a bathroom with a flushing lavatory, but Billy shrugged.
“I didn’t mind it. That sort of thing never bothered me. You’re just a sissy.”
Now this house has three bathrooms, two upstairs and one down. I converted the butler’s pantry, off the back corridor, into a room exclusively for me. Even Thomas doesn’t use it, although I would let him if he asked. I’ve seen him pee outside, against the laburnum tree, but that doesn’t matter. Herbert Lowe always peed on the vegetable patch. He said it was good for earth and he made a point of doing it on his own vegetable garden. It improved the growth, he said. I told Mother and Marian one day when they were shelling peas in the garden and eating some of them straight out of the shells
“Little liar,” said Marian hotly but nevertheless she shook the peas off her lap, where they’d been lying in the cradle of her apron and stood up. She was heading into the kitchen to wash her hands and probably swill out her mouth.
“He does,” I insisted. “I’ve seen him.”
“Oh!” wailed Marian as she flew in through the back door and after that whenever she had to pick vegetables, she made sure that her hands were thoroughly washed before she touched anything else. Mother didn’t make a fuss, she only smiled. In those days, Mother smiled a lot; it was later when we were grown up, that she forgot how to do it.
Before she died, the smile did come back. Her last few years were pleasant, I think. I certainly tried to make them so. It was only the two of us then at the farm and I made sure that Mother had two holidays every year. A summer week in Torquay, which is a place she loved and then another, Easter holiday, when I would take her to different places. She liked sightseeing and I would drive to York or Stratford-upon-Avon, places like that, so that she could buy a guidebook and follow in the footsteps of people from history.
She died a few weeks after one of those Easter holidays. We’d been to Edinburgh, quite a long drive, but she was keen to go and had re-read Scott’s Waverly novels all through the spring in preparation for a Scottish holiday. It was good weather while we were there, bright sunshine but cold, with a keen wind blowing off the Firth.
Mother was in her early seventies and fit from a life of hard work, but that week she did look bad. Her chest hurt, she said, after we’d climbed up to Arthur’s seat to get a panoramic view of the city.
“But it’s worth it,” she said, sinking onto a bench and gazing out. “So beautiful.”
When I took her home, I insisted that she see Dr Guthrie. He was really getting on then, called back into service during the war and still going ten years later.
“He’s just an old woman,” she said getting into the car when I went to collect her. “Makes too much fuss.” But she did take the pills he prescribed and took his advice to rest more.
She died in her sleep, heart attack, they said and a kind death. I was glad for her that she hadn’t suffered, but I was lonely afterwards.
“Richard!” It’s Sharon. I’d dropped off to sleep and here she is with my supper. Cheese on toast; one of my favourites.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks.
“Yes. I am.” I look at her out of the side of my eye. I feel guilty for being so bad-tempered earlier and wonder if s
he’s going to take offence. I needn’t worry. Sharon is her usual loving self with me. I’m so blessed, having her. God was smiling on me the day that Sharon and Thomas came into my life.
“Do you feel up to continuing the story now?” she asks after supper is finished and I have a cup of tea on the table beside me. I’m nodding and she fastens the microphone to my jumper.
“Did you stay in Liverpool with Elizabeth and John for your whole leave?” she prompts, taking me back to that late April when I found them again.
“No. I went home for a few days to see Mother and Billy.”
I didn’t want to go. In Liverpool, I could pretend that Elizabeth and I were man and wife, although John told all his friends that I was his uncle. Mr Nugent treated me most kindly and the first night that I was there, he took John with him to the Irish club so that Elizabeth and I could have some hours to ourselves.
She had been due to go on duty at the hospital, indeed she was on her way into the city just when I arrived, but she telephoned and got her hours changed.
Colin, John’s friend came round and gazed wide-eyed at the commando insignia on my battle dress. “Uncle Richard has been in fights with tribesmen who carry knives. He lives in India where there are tigers and elephants,” said John proudly, showing me off to his young pal.
“Have you really seen a tiger?” the lad asked.
I nodded. “Several times. And leopards and monkeys. The snakes are as big as this.” I demonstrated the length by stretching out my arms as far as possible.
“Golly!” said the boys, laughing and punching each other like our Billy and I did when we were excited.
“Its teatime now,” said Elizabeth. “Off you go, Colin; I expect your mother will be looking for you.”
“She won’t,” he said. “She’s taken on an extra shift at the munitions factory. But she’s left me some Spam sandwiches.”
“Jesus!” groaned old Mr Nugent. “For God’s sake, feed the boy here, Lizzie darlin’. We’ve got enough.”
There was barely enough. Hardly any meat in the stew and mostly carrots and potatoes to thicken out the gravy but it was tasty and we made up the shortfall with bread and butter. The two boys made short work of it.
After tea the children went out and Mr Nugent and I sat in front of the small fire in the front room while Elizabeth washed the dishes in the scullery.
“Are you going to see your brother?” the old man asked, tapping his thumb into the bowl of his pipe.
“Yes,” I said. “I must visit Mother. Besides, I thought I’d see for myself just what’s been going on.”
“Lizzie won’t talk about him, you know. I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I,” I said with a sigh and it was true.
Later, when he and John had gone to the Irish club, Elizabeth took me up to her bedroom. It was small and cold with brown lino on the floor with only room for the bed and clothes cupboard. It seemed that John slept downstairs on the sofa but he didn’t mind. I thought of the space and comfort of the farm house and realised that she hadn’t made the decision to leave lightly. But all of that came later after we had made love. It was quiet and gentle lovemaking performed by two people who were deeply in need of each other but exhausted by the circumstances that surrounded them. It didn’t make it any less wonderful.
Afterwards, we got up and went downstairs. John and her Father might be in at any minute. But we had time for talk.
“Tell me,” I said. “What made you leave? Was it because of Billy?”
She nodded, pushing a hand through her hair. It had grown again and she wore it tied into a knot at the base of her neck. Our lovemaking had loosened it so that curling strands fell over her thin shoulders.
“It was the work,” she said, “He couldn’t do it all. We’re milking too many cows and he’s planted up thirty acres of vegetables. With only Ernie, Mother and me, we couldn’t get round it all. It was all falling into a mess. We got a couple of men in from the village, but they were poor sorts, not keen to put their backs into anything and Billy blew his top and told them to clear off.”
She took a deep breath and when she continued, her voice sounded as though it was coming from far away. “He’s started talking to himself, all the time. Sometimes shouting and yelling at the top of his voice, so that John was afraid to go near him.”
“And you?” I asked, sickened by this story of my brother’s mental deterioration. “Did he shout at or harm you?”
“He hit me. The day before I left. I heard a shot and went into the yard to see what had happened and he was coming out of the stable with the shotgun in his hand. He had this terrible look on his face, cruel and desperate at the same time. ‘What is it?’ I asked, ‘What have you done?’
“‘I’ve got rid of Diamond,’ he said and then laughed. ‘That bloody horse was eating too much and doing nothing for it.’
“‘You’re mad,’ I shouted and tried to get past him to look in the stable to see if he was telling me the truth but he grabbed my arm to stop me going. ‘Stay out of the yard, you filthy slut,’ he snarled and fetched me a blow across my head that sent me spinning.
I was seeing stars and wanted to get into the house, quick but he levelled the shot-gun at me. ‘I’m not finished,’ he said as I scrambled to my feet, ‘I’m going to get rid of everything that doesn’t earn its keep or I can’t abide.’ His eyes were tiny and glittering and as he narrowed them to take aim, I believe I nearly died of fright. I knew then that he wanted to kill me. All those years of hating me had boiled up to this one minute and I really think he would have given me the other barrel if it wasn’t for Mother coming out of the house.
“‘William!’ she shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
“She’s the only one who can control him. She saved my life. ‘Go inside, Elizabeth,’ she said and as I hurried past her, she whispered, ‘Phone for Dr Guthrie.’
“He came straight away and gave Billy an injection, and he made a prescription for tranquillisers and pills that he must take every day. Mother says he’s calmer now, but I wasn’t going to take the chance. As soon as John came home from school, we left.”
It was a shocking story and I felt truly numb with despair. What a state of affairs and what condition could the farm possibly be in? I knew I would have to go and see. There must be something I could do.
“Will you go home?” I asked, knowing the answer even before she replied.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Despite what Mother says, I think he will try to kill me, some day. He’s been wanting to for years.”
“It’s my fault,” I groaned. “Getting you pregnant and you having John. You’d have been safe if it wasn’t for me. I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” she said. “It’s because I’m a woman who once showed him her naked body. He’ll never get over that.”
I stayed in Liverpool for another couple of days and then took the train home. “I’ll come back before my leave is up,” I said when Elizabeth waved me off at the station. “Then we can talk about our future.”
You see, then, we had a future. She had left our Billy and she had nothing to stop her getting a divorce and marrying me. We would be a family. After the war, I would leave the army and get a job in Liverpool, or anywhere else that she fancied. Our lives would begin anew.
The farm was a mess. It was the hedges that I noticed first as I walked up the lane, all overgrown and untidy. The yard was littered with bits of machinery and rubbish and even the cattle lowing restlessly by the gate, looked muddy and unkempt. The smell from the barns and pigsties was overpowering and I had to put my hand to my nose to save myself from the soured milk and ammonia-laden air. It wasn’t my brother’s usual way of farming. He’d learnt from Father and they were both tidy men.
I could see Elizabeth’s car in the machine shed. The wheels had been removed and the car was up on bricks. I don’t suppose they had the petrol for two vehicles, but Billy’s car was there
, parked askew beside the front of the house and filthy from mud and cowshit.
“Richard!” shouted Mother in a joyful voice when I walked into the kitchen. “Thank God!” She got up from the table where she had been sitting with the farm account books spread out in front of her and reached up to kiss me. “You’re like a blessing from heaven.”
This last surprised me, for Mother wasn’t a religious woman at all and never used expressions like that. I expect all the tribulations of the past few months had taken their toll on her normal good sense.
“I hear there’s been trouble,” I said when we’d exchanged the usual greetings and I’d explained about my few days’ leave. “I’ve been to see Elizabeth in Liverpool and she told me.”
Mother nodded, not questioning that visit. She knew where my heart lay, so simply got on with telling me what was going on. The war changed us all. We were becoming more open and honest about things that didn’t matter to anyone save the participants.
“William can’t manage, you see. He expanded so much before the war and now that there isn’t any labour, it’s all going to ruin. He’s not well either.” She lowered her voice even though we were the only people in the room. “He’s had a bit of a breakdown.”
“Where is he?” I asked, looking round. The cattle were bellowing in the yard but I could hear no humans about. “Gone into town?”
“No,” said Mother, “he’s upstairs, in bed. Having a sleep. He does that a lot these days. I think it’s the pills that the doctor gives him.”
It was worse than I thought. If Billy wasn’t running the farm, who was? Just the lad? And Mother?
“Have you got help?”
She shook her head and, to my great distress, began to cry. “No-one will come,” she sobbed, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes. “If I do find someone, he gets rid of them before they’ve been here a day. There’s only Ernie and me. We do the milking, I feed the chickens and he sees to the pigs, I think. But we’ve had to leave the fields.”
The Love of a Lifetime Page 31