War Widow

by June Francis

  In the Works the atmosphere changed, not quite overnight but within weeks. All the men received a rise but were told to speed things up. The more the firm prospered the more money there would be for all. Everybody saw the sense in that and knuckled down under Stephen’s authority. Sometimes he came to watch Flora, standing behind her so that for several seconds her fingers lost all rhythm and she would stop and say, ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘Fine.’ He would smile before moving on.

  One afternoon he paused longer, and added, ‘What about me coming round this evening and we could go for a walk?’

  She was taken by surprise. ‘I don’t know if that’s on. I’ve got the girls.’

  He hesitated. ‘I suppose they could come with us.’

  ‘Okay then,’ she said cheerfully, considering it would be quite pleasant to have a man’s company.

  He came earlier than she expected and she was scrubbing the front step. ‘Why did you have to be doing that now?’ he asked with a touch of impatience.

  ‘Because it has to be done – and I didn’t think you’d arrive so soon.’ She paused to glance at him. He looked tidy and cool and she was instantly aware of feeling sweaty, and dirty from the water dripping down her arm from the scrubbing brush.

  ‘It could have been done some other time.’

  ‘When?’ she asked bluntly, dropping the brush into the bucket and getting up from her knees. ‘I’m at work all day, and I don’t have a char at home to do it for me.’ Her hazel eyes challenged him.

  He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I’ll wait.’

  ‘Good.’ She picked up the bucket and called the girls who were playing ball, and went inside the house.

  Stephen whistled when she reappeared and she was glad that he had come. It seemed a long time since she had dressed in a pretty frock for a man. Not since Mike … A slight crease appeared between her brows. She fluffed the skimpy skirts of the yellow and white frock, wishing that she could afford the New Look with its petticoats and yards of material. The style had not reached their shops at all. Still one day, maybe.

  The girls ran on ahead and she and Stephen talked about work and the weather, the Government’s introduction of whale meat and the forthcoming wedding of Princess Elizabeth and the Philip Mountbatten.

  It was pleasant in the park. There were flowers and the branching trees showed burgeoning leaves. They lingered by the bandstand on the way back, Flora’s foot tapping to the rhythm of the brass band.

  She continued to see Stephen outside working hours. Often they had to take the girls with them and she wondered how fair she was being to him. Sometimes she worried about leaving George out of things and insisted on his going with them too.

  On one such outing they went by tram to Kirkby wood. It was pleasant and green, and a relief to be away from the clatter of machines and the smoky atmosphere of the city. The girls picked bluebells while George dug up an ant hill, climbed trees and fished for tiddlers, wading in the brook in his wellies.

  All seemed well but on the way home, George, with a glint in his eye, kicked off his wellies in the girls’ direction, and said, ‘They’re snowing with ants!’

  Vivien screamed and both girls quickly removed themselves as several insects scurried out. George laughed, hanging over the back of the seat. ‘Scaredy pusses!’

  ‘That’s enough,’ snapped Stephen, getting up and going over to him. ‘Get those wellies on and sit down. You’re making a show of us.’ He seized him by the shoulders and forced him down.

  George scowled at him. ‘You’re not my dad. You’ve got no right to tell me what to do!’

  ‘That’s enough, George,’ said Flora sternly, although she had found the incident amusing.

  Most outings with George were only a qualified success. They went by train to Waterloo, a few miles along the coast from Liverpool, and he got stuck in black treacly sand. Flora, fearing it was quicksand, had to be forcibly prevented from going in after him. Instead Stephen went to get him out and clipped him over the earhole. ‘That’s for being stupid.’

  George resented his action, sulked, and was missing when they were ready for the next outing on a crowded ferry to New Brighton.

  ‘This is more like it,’ said Stephen, lying next to Flora on a packed beach, stroking her bare arm with the tips of his fingers while she watched the girls paddling. She had to admit that it was much more peaceful without George although she felt disloyal saying so.

  They were seldom alone and in a way Flora was glad of that. Only once did her father stay with the children while they went to see Pirates of Penzance. On the way home Stephen drew her into a doorway and kissed her. No bells rang but it was pleasant enough and she did not pull away. ‘If only we could be alone like this more often,’ he muttered, before he kissed her again, a bit more passionately this time. And again. This time his fingers began to explore the roundness of her breasts.

  After a couple of seconds she removed his hand, slightly disturbed. ‘It’s time I was getting home,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Father will be wanting to leave.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said resignedly. ‘If it’s not the kids, it’s your father coming between us.’

  ‘You wish they weren’t around.’ Her voice was controlled.

  ‘Don’t you, at times?’ He smiled.

  She could not say no, so instead murmured, ‘That’s not a question to ask a mother. I’m responsible for them.’ He pulled her arm through his.

  ‘I know and hear. I can’t have you without them.’

  She stilled. ‘What d’you mean – have me?’

  ‘I mean our future together. You and me.’ He sighed, then nibbled her ear. ‘It could work, Floss.’

  ‘Could it?’ A nerve twitched in her cheek. ‘I don’t know, there’s the kids.’ Meaning George because the girls liked Stephen. ‘And I’m somebody who still has her dead husband haunting her,’ she added.

  He lifted his head and looked into her face. ‘He haunts me as well,’ he said seriously. ‘Perhaps together we can lay his ghost.’

  ‘Why should he haunt you?’ she asked with a puzzled expression.

  He glanced away from her. ‘Probably it’s because me and him never got on, and you were married to him. But we could try it and see.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said unhappily, a shadow in her eyes. ‘Saying things and doing them are very different. I promised myself that I would never marry again. I would feel unfaithful to his memory – that’s something you can’t understand.’

  ‘I can! I’ve always been fond of you, Floss. Now I’m in love with you. But perhaps you don’t want to hear that kind of declaration from me?’ he said humbly.

  She felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘Don’t I? I’d be a funny woman if I didn’t want to be told that I was loved. Life can be very lonely without a companion. I’m fond of you and I’ve enjoyed going out with you, Stephen. But I can’t tell you that I love you.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Not yet you can’t. But in time you might. Shall we give it more time?’

  She could not refuse him. ‘All right.’

  Gently he kissed her and she hated herself for suddenly thinking of Mike and passion. Then they walked the rest of the way home, hand in hand.

  The summer blazed in. One day at work Flora was standing, fanning herself with a sheet of paper, waiting for the kettle to boil. At this time of year business went slack so that the men were glad of other jobs to do. Some were painting the walls downstairs in the lobby and Stephen was in the yard with Bill. The kettle boiled and she made the tea and took it downstairs to the men.

  The sun dazzled on the newly white-washed wall, causing Flora to blink. ‘Tea up!’

  Stephen, in shorts and vest, put down his brush and came over to her. ‘I’ll have finished here soon,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and as there’s not much work and the Old Man’s left me in charge, we’ll pack up early and go and enjoy the sun.’

  She smiled. ‘For how long? The children –’

  He pul
led a face. ‘The girls won’t be home for a while yet – and – anyway George’ll keep an eye on them if we’re back a little bit late. But isn’t it the evening they go to your father’s?’

  She nodded. ‘All right. Where will we go?’

  ‘We’ll decide that on the way.’ He smiled. ‘Wash the cups then spruce yourself up.’

  They went to Southport, which Flora did not expect. ‘We won’t be able to stay long,’ she said, as they walked along Lord Street, looking in the shop windows.

  ‘Stop worrying about your kids all the time.’ He screwed up his craggy face. ‘You’re like a mother hen, Floss, the way you go on. Let’s go and have tea.’ He pulled her hand and she had no choice but to go with him.

  The cafe was busy and they were kept waiting for their order. Eventually it came and Flora ate just one cake and gulped her tea down. Stephen took his time.

  She was on flinders all the way home, worrying about George. He had been awkward lately, wandering off without letting her know where he had been, and sometimes staying out way past his bedtime.

  They called in on her father who was in a grumpy mood. ‘The kids didn’t turn up,’ he growled, biting on his pipe. ‘I could have been in the park watching the bowls instead of waiting in.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’ She aimed a kiss at his cheek and left hurriedly, concerned about the children not being at his house, but not over-anxious. The weather was lovely but hot, and it could be that they might have felt too lazy to walk to their grandfather’s.

  As they drove down her street Flora noticed that it was not as busy with children playing street games as usual. But it was not until she saw the crowd gathered at the bottom of the step that her nerves tensed.

  Stephen exchanged glances with her. ‘Don’t start working yourself up – it could just be a cut knee, another broken window.’

  Flora said nothing. Her heart was pounding and she had the car door open as soon as it stopped. She slammed the door shut with hands that shook, and the hubbub of sound that assailed her ears hushed as she became the focus of all eyes. ‘What’s happened? George! Is it George?’ she demanded in a rising voice.

  ‘Not the lad, luv,’ called Mrs Murphy out of the crowd. ‘It’s Rosie! It’s bad, girl.’

  For a moment Flora could not move, then her feet seemed to fly up the step of their own volition as a babble of sound broke out behind her, hushing briefly as Stephen elbowed his way through to follow her inside the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  A policeman turned as Flora entered the kitchen, his helmet under his arm.

  ‘What happened?’ Her fingers shook on the door panel as her eyes went beyond him to George. His clothes were wet and his fair hair dripped moisture down his face and neck. For a second he did not move or speak.

  ‘It was awful, Mam. I thought I could save her – but she was under by the time I got there,’ he stammered. ‘I caught her by her knicker elastic but she was too heavy in the water – she slipped out of my hand.’ His eyes brimmed with tears and he hung his head, his whole body trembling. ‘I went in then but I still couldn’t lift her out.’

  Flora stared at him wide-eyed, unable to take in what he was trying to tell her. ‘George! What are you saying exactly? I – tell me that Rosie’s all right!’ she pleaded, moving towards him to wrap her arms about him. A sob burst from him and he buried his head against her shoulder. ‘She’s drowned, Mam! Our Rosie’s drowned!’

  ‘Oh God!’ A feeling of cold dread seized her stomach. She felt as if she had been hit. She clutched her son convulsively, unable to believe what he was saying. ‘She can’t be dead.’ Her eyes met the policeman’s over George’s head.

  ‘I’m sorry, luv.’ His voice was almost flat. ‘I presume you are the mother?’

  ‘Dammit! Of course she’s the mother,’ said Stephen, coming further into the room. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  The policeman, a man of middle years, gazed stolidly at him. ‘I’m just establishing the facts, sir. And who might you be?’ He flicked over a page of a notebook.

  ‘I’m Mrs Cooke’s employer,’ answered Stephen harshly, ramming his hands in his pockets.’We finished early so I took her to Southport.’

  ‘Where’s Rosie?’ Flora’s quivering voice drew both their attention.

  The policeman’s tone softened. ‘The ambulance took her away. We tried our best to save her.’

  She swallowed. ‘How could she drown?’ Her voice seemed to be coming from a distance. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘In an E.W.S. tank. Used an old iron bedhead like a ladder. Some of the lads had been sailing wooden boats and sticks in the water. The other little girl told me that your daughter went up after they came down. It was her that found me up the lane in time to pull your lad out.’

  ‘Viv did! Where is she?’ She gazed wildly about her.

  ‘I’m here, Aunty Flo.’ Vivien got up from under the table, bringing the cat she was nursing with her. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffed. ‘I told our Rosie not to go up, but she wouldn’t take any notice of me. Then I saw her topple over and I was frightened and screamed and I ran –’

  ‘She came for me, Mam,’ interrupted George, pulling a little away from Flora and staring up at her. ‘I sent her to the Works, thinking you must still be there.’ His eyes brimmed again. ‘Why did you have to go to Southport, Mam?’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘It was such a nice day.’ She stared blankly at Stephen, who moved forward quickly with a chair and lowered her on to it. George fell at her feet and Vivien came to lean against her knee.

  The policeman cleared his throat. His voice was husky when he spoke. ‘Maybe a cup of tea – sweet and hot – might help, sir?’

  It was several moments before Stephen moved to put a match to the neatly laid fire in the grate.

  ‘You’ll want to see her,’ said the policeman to Flora.

  ‘Yes. Where is she?’ Her eyes focussed painfully on his face. He told her which hospital and she nodded.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ said Stephen, and she nodded again. The policeman said something else but she could not take it in, and just went on nodding. The policeman stopped talking to her and instead spoke to Stephen, then he went out. Vivien whispered something to George that she could not catch and he got up and left the kitchen. When he came back he was dressed in dry clothes. The kettle whistled and what seemed an age later Stephen placed a cup of tea in her hand. She sipped obediently. Then he spoke to her of the hospital and the car – of Mrs Murphy keeping her eye on George and Viv – and then he led her out.

  They did not speak as Stephen drove her through the streets. He kept glancing at her, his expression anxious. She wanted to reassure him that she was perfectly all right; that she wasn’t going to break down. They came to the hospital.

  The nurse led them through what seemed miles of corridors until they entered the room where Rosie lay. Stephen’s hand tightened about Flora’s but she pulled it loose and went to stand alone by her daughter. ‘Her hair’s still wet,’ she said through trembling lips, touching the rats’ tails that hung about her daughter’s blank face. ‘She’ll catch her death if it’s not dried. Can I have a towel?’

  The doctor exchanged glances with Stephen. ‘We’ll see to it, Mrs Cooke,’ he said gently. ‘Got other children at home, I hear. Perhaps it would be best if you saw to them first.’

  Flora tried to swallow the tightness in her throat. She was having trouble breathing properly. ‘But she’s my daughter. Why should you see to her? I know – what you’re thinking – but I know that – that –’ A long shiver shuddered through her body, strangling her voice. Stephen moved forward and put his arm around her.

  ‘Come on, Floss. You can’t do anything here.’

  ‘I want to stay a little while.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she put a hand to her mouth, biting hard on her knuckles.

  Stephen stayed with her until the doctor nodded to him and he made to lead her away. She refused to move, clutching at him
with her other hand and still staring down at Rosie. Gaining control of her voice, she said, ‘I want – Rosie brought home. It’s only right that my daughter should be laid out – in the front parlour.’

  ‘I’ll see that it’s done, Floss.’ Stephen squeezed her shoulder, and this time, although her feet dragged, she went with him.

  They did not speak all the way home but Stephen held one of her limp hands tightly most of the journey. Flora felt numb and wondered how she was going to cope. The image of Rosie, unbelievably still and silent, refused to be torn from her mind.

  When they arrived at Flora’s house her father was waiting there with Viv, Kathleen and George, who had escaped Mrs Murphy’s to go and inform his grandad about what had happened. ‘Well, girl, this is a sad day for us all.’ His fierce blue eyes showed compassion. ‘No one’s to blame. These things happen and Rosie was always a tomboy.’

  ‘It was my fault, Father.’ Her voice was almost inaudible as she sat in a straight-backed dining chair. ‘I should have been here with her.’

  Stephen went to speak but her father was before him. ‘You can’t be in two places, girl.’

  ‘I could have been here at that time – if –’ She looked at Stephen and there was a huge angry hurt inside her.

  ‘We weren’t to know!’ Stephen’s voice was rough.

  Tears filled her eyes and she lowered her head, shaking it. George came and stood at her shoulder, resting his head against hers, while Vivien sat against her legs. ‘She wouldn’t listen,’ the little girl said sadly. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Aunty Flo.’

  George glanced down at her, and was angry. ‘Mam’s right! If she’d have been here, Rosie would have listened to her! Why should she listen to you? You’re younger!’

  Vivien reddened and her mouth trembled. ‘If you hadn’t have gone up that bedstead, Rosie wouldn’t have gone up.’

  The boy paled. ‘I told her not to be following me all the time. You know I did.’

  ‘Stop it!’ rasped Flora. ‘You heard your grandad – nobody’s to blame.’ She wiped a hand across her damp face. ‘Viv, it’s time you were in bed. George, it wouldn’t do you any harm to go either. You’ve both had a shock. I’ll make you a drink and you can have it upstairs.’