by June Francis
‘But, Mam,’ cried George, clutching at her arm, ‘I don’t want to go to bed. I won’t be able to sleep.’
‘You heard your mother,’ put in Stephen. ‘Just do as you’re told.’
The boy glared at him. ‘It’s not fair for you to be telling me what to do. If Mam hadn’t been with you our Rosie would be here.’
‘That’s enough of that, lad,’ growled his grandfather, poking him with his pipe. ‘Your mother’s weary to the bone, and upset – don’t you go making matters worse.’
George’s mouth trembled. ‘She was my sister. I should have –’ He got no further, and dashing a hand across his eyes he rushed out of the room and up the stairs. Flora felt as if her heart was going to burst and she would have followed him, only her father held her back. ‘He’ll get it out of his system the better, girl, without you there. Leave him be.’ She stared at him, then nodded, and without another word began to busy herself making cocoa.
She took hers with Viv’s, upstairs, and the girl poured out the whole sorry story as she sat on the bed, painting such vivid pictures that it was as if it was happening before Flora’s eyes. She wanted to scream at the girl to stop, but guessed that this was Viv’s way of getting it out of her system.
When she went downstairs Stephen was still sitting there. ‘I wonder if you could take Father home?’ she said in a controlled polite voice. ‘I’d like to go to bed myself. It’s been a long day and it’ll probably be even longer tomorrow. So I must get some sleep.’
‘You don’t want me to come back after I’ve dropped your father off?’ he said in a low voice, trying to take her hand. She put it behind her.
‘No thank you.’
‘Tomorrow then?’ he insisted. ‘Uncle Sam’ll understand why you can’t come into work.’
‘Work? I won’t be able to go into work.’ She felt that spurt of anger again. ‘Surely you understand that I can’t leave the children?’
He stared at her, then said awkwardly, ‘Of course. I’ll come as soon as I can tomorrow.’
She wanted to say ‘Don’t’, but changed her mind. It wasn’t fair to blame him.
Flora saw them to the car, waving a hand as it drove off, before turning and slowly walking back inside the house. She stood with her back to the closed door, trying to think what to do next. Her mind seemed unable to work properly. Still in her imagination she could see Rosie – so still, so silent – and herself helpless to do anything to bring her back to life. If only she had come back home in time, she would have saved Rosie. But it was too late now. Horror gripped her and she buried her face in her hands. God, make it not be true, she prayed, even as she knew such a prayer was foolish – and that this evening had to be the worst of her life.
The days that followed seemed unreal to Flora. During the short June nights she lay, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, tortured by memories and thoughts. The hours when Rosie would have been at school were the easiest to get through because her not being there was normal. She forced herself to be active – washing, scrubbing, cleaning, walking. She must have walked miles without a thought to her destination. Her feet often led her to the Pier Head where her eyes would stare out over the river. Then, turning, she would gaze up at the Liver Buildings and remember how she had come here with Rosie on VE Day, and then her mind was not only filled with memories of Rosie but of Tom also.
The evenings were difficult because, on the face of it, most of her actions were everyday. Several times she automatically laid a place for Rosie, and Viv would remind her that she was not there. Somehow she managed to maintain her self-control.
When she saw Stephen her emotions were mixed. The sight of him increased her remorse and she found it difficult to feel anything when he took her in his arms. She did not rebuff him but she could not respond at all to his gentle kisses. Yet she listened to him and in a way was glad that he was there because he was dealing with all the arrangements for her.
It was Stephen who attended the inquest where a verdict of accidental death was declared. There was a report of the incident in the local paper, the Echo. He made all the funeral arrangements and had Rosie’s body brought home in a pale oak coffin, which was placed in the parlour the day before the funeral.
Going into the parlour and gazing on her daughter’s dead face increased Flora’s feeling of unreality. She felt as if she were two people – one living in the normal world, and the other dwelling in a shadowy world on the edge of the unknown. She had to believe that Rosie’s spirit did live on in Heaven, otherwise she could not have coped. It was now that thoughts of Tom being missing presumed dead started to haunt her once again. His voice seemed to speak in her head. Even in her dreams, when she managed to drift off the night before the funeral, he seemed to be calling her. Then she woke and realised that there was no Tom and no Rosie with her, and she wanted to cry but no tears would come.
Stephen arrived early the morning of the funeral and George opened the door to him. They gazed at each other assessingly. ‘I thought you’d be at school,’ muttered Stephen.
George’s eyes smouldered. ‘Viv’s gone. But she’s not as old as me – and besides Rosie was my sister. I should go to the funeral and I told Mam so.’ He squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin.
‘It won’t be fun, you know,’ said Stephen, frowning at him.
‘I’m not daft,’ said George, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘If you want to see Mam, she’s in the parlour.’ He led the way in. ‘It’s full of flowers. The street collected for her – and the school. And there’s flowers from people I don’t even know.’ Pausing in the doorway of the sunlit parlour he breathed in the fragrance of roses, carnations and lilies. He liked flowers but now they only made him feel slightly sick.
He watched Stephen go over and kiss his mam’s cheek and was irritated. She sat by the open coffin, looking thin and severe in a plain black frock. Suddenly he was remembering Rosie asking Mike whether he had any gum, chum, and a huge lump filled his throat. He turned and walked out.
Flora did not look at Stephen, only saying quietly, ‘I’ve just been combing her hair. She looks beautiful, don’t you think?’
‘Lovely. But I think it’s time you left her now.’
She glanced up at him and her smile was brittle. ‘Beautiful is a better word. Tom thinks her beautiful. He only saw her once, you know.’ Her voice wobbled and she swallowed several times, before adding, ‘You do believe that Tom’s dead, don’t you, Steve? You do, don’t you?’
Some of the colour ebbed from his face. ‘Of course. Do you doubt it?’
‘Missing presumed dead,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t help thinking of that now. They never found his body.’
He stared at her, and moistened his lips. ‘Why don’t you come and sit in the kitchen before the cars arrive? Have a glass of sherry. It’ll put a bit of strength in you.’
‘In a minute,’ she said vaguely, putting a hand in her pocket and bringing out an envelope which she placed in the coffin.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, startled.
‘A letter that Tom wrote to her. She treasured it.’ Her voice was unsteady as she gazed at Rosie’s face for the last time. She and Mrs Murphy had dressed her in the frock she had worn in the Rose Queen procession. Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks.
It was five more long minutes before she allowed Stephen to lead her from the room.
The vicar, who had christened Rosemary Flora Cooke and had known her all her life, gave a sermon that caused most to shed a tear in the church, but not Flora. She had herself determinedly in control now and knew that she had to keep it up until the whole thing was over. Even so she was glad of George’s arm to cling to as they followed the coffin out of the church and into a sunlit day.
The sky was a deep blue beyond the trees in the cemetery and in Flora’s head the hymn they had sung at the service was running over and over. ‘There’s a friend for little children above the bright blue sky.’ Her vision blurred and through a veil of tear
s she searched the vicar’s face as he said the words of committal. Did he really believe in what he said?
She tried to keep her mind concentrating on Rosie being in Heaven, but as she picked up a handful of red-brown earth, part of her mind was seeing and taking in what was before her eyes as she dropped the earth on the coffin. ‘Tarrah, Rosie,’ she whispered. Then icy shudders rippled through her and her head felt as if it was going to burst and her knees gave way.
The doctor gave Flora a sedative, which she had to take because he insisted on her doing so while he was there. If anything, everything seemed even more unreal as she floated between sleeping and waking.
The next morning she still felt terrible but determined to get up and see to George and Vivien, only to discover that her father had stayed the night, sleeping in George’s bed. He took one look at her and shook his head. ‘Back to bed for you, girl,’ he grunted, from his place in Tom’s chair. ‘George, make your mam a cup of tea. I’d better stay a few days till she’s feeling better.’
She wanted to say, ‘I’ll never feel better. Are you going to stay forever?’ but instead she thanked him. Such action was unprecedented and she was gratified.
Once back in bed her thoughts ran on and on until she could not bear them any longer and sought relief in taking one of the sedatives the doctor had left. She drifted into sleep.
That evening Stephen called. The door was opened by Flora’s father, with Vivien just behind him, her head peeping through his crooked arm. She smiled shyly up. ‘Hi, Uncle Steve.’
He nodded absently. ‘I’ve come to see Flora. Can I come in?’
‘She’s sleeping.’ Jack Preston cleared his throat. ‘And I won’t have you disturbing her. It’s a terrible shock she’s had.’
‘I know.’ Stephen forced a smile. ‘I want to look after her. I want to marry her.’
Jack stared at him. ‘Give her time. Come back tomorrow.’ He closed the door, and heaved himself up the stairs to Flora’s bedroom.
She was awake and dressed. ‘I was just on my way down. Was that Stephen at the door?’
‘Aye.’ He gazed at her from lowering brows. ‘Why didn’t you knock on the window? It would have saved me the climb up them stairs.’
‘I didn’t want to see him.’ She moved away from him and over to the window, gazing out. Some sparrows were squabbling over some crumbs in the gutter.
‘He wants to marry you.’
‘I can’t marry him,’ she said wearily. ‘Not the way I’m feeling. I’m too miserable to marry anyone. I just want to be left alone and to look after George and Viv like I should have taken care of Rosie. D’you know that I left her for the first time when she was four years old? She screamed after me and I had to close the door on her. I felt terrible doing that then and I feel even worse about it now.’
‘It’ll pass, girl.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t be reproaching yourself all the time. I felt the same when your mother died. I should have given up the sea – should have realised sooner how sick she was. You can never get the time back – you just have to accept that you can’t change anything. Remember when Tom was killed you almost went to pieces then? Don’t let yourself get into that state again. You marry Stephen. He’s got money and he’ll look after you.’
Flora said nothing. It would be so easy to do what he said – to let Stephen take the everyday cares from her shoulders. What did it matter if she didn’t love him? Love only brought pain. Her sister had been right saying that. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she murmured.
‘Okay, girl.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Come on down now and have a cuppa. You’ll feel much better after that.’
She went, smiling slightly because so many seemed to believe that a cup of tea was the cure for everything.
When Stephen called the next day she was sitting in the parlour in a patch of sunlight, her hands on the darning in her lap.
‘Hello, Floss.’ He sat down on the shiny horsehair sofa next to her. ‘You look miles away.’
‘I was thinking about Tom,’ she said in a dull voice.
‘Tom?’ His dark eyebrows rose and for a moment he looked annoyed. ‘Not Rosie?’ he asked with a little laugh. She gave him a look but said nothing, and he added, ‘I mean – Tom’s been dead for three years now. You should have been over him by now.’
‘I loved him.’ Her expression was vague. ‘You don’t ever forget people you love.’
‘I know that.’ He looked angry. ‘But three years, Floss. Time to put the past behind you and to look towards the future.’
‘I do try.’ There was a sudden sparkle in her eyes. ‘But the war’s not so far in the past, and Rosie’s death reminded me of Tom. She was a tom boy!’Her hands clenched in her lap. ‘Why do we say that? Tom boy? Why not tom girl?’ Her throat moved. ‘She was Tom’s girl,’ she said unsteadily. ‘And she was just as brave as he was.’
‘Still making him out a hero, are you?’ burst out Stephen. ‘He wasn’t, you know. You went on about him being missing presumed dead on the day of the funeral. Well, he went missing all right!’ He gulped. ‘He was a deserter, not a hero!’
The room was suddenly very still and silent but for the meter ticking in the gas cupboard. She gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Take that back,’ she cried hotly, jumping to her feet. ‘How dare you! I know you hate him.’
‘So I do.’ He stood, his face twisted with annoyance. ‘But I can’t take it back because it’s true. It’s true!’
Flora put a hand to her mouth. ‘This isn’t real,’ she said in a muffled voice.
‘It’s true, I tell you,’ he insisted.
‘Then – then Tom’s alive?’ The words came out in a whisper.
‘No, he’s not,’ he said slowly, his blue eyes dark. ‘He came back but did not know the password and was shot as an enemy.’
The room spun round her. She sat down hurriedly. ‘How? Why? How d’you know all this? Tom never mentioned you being in his company?’
He sat on the sofa, leaving a foot between them. ‘It was weeks after the D-Day landings. We lost a lot of men and so did the company he was with. They put us together. I was wounded in the explosion. He ran away just before it hit. I saw him, but was too confused to take it in,’ he said heavily, his hands clasped on his knees. ‘I only found out about him being dead months later.’
‘Why didn’t they tell me?’ Her voice was hard, her face set.
‘What was the use? You’d already been informed that he was presumed dead. Why hurt you further?’
‘Why indeed?’ A bitter laugh escaped her. ‘Instead, you’ve done it for them. How could you when you know the way I’ve been over Rosie?’
‘I’m sorry, Floss,’ he mumbled. ‘I would never have told you if you hadn’t have gone on about him being some great hero.’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,’ she said, suddenly exhausted. ‘I think you’d better go.’
‘Floss, please.’ The lines of his face were dragged down. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. Forgive me. I want to take care of you.’
She tilted her head. ‘I can take care of myself. I’ll see you out’ She moved over to the parlour door and opened it. He followed her slowly. ‘What about your job? You’ll be coming back?’ he said anxiously.
She lowered her eyes. ‘It’s the school holidays soon. I’ll be staying at home with the children.’
‘But how’ll you manage?’
‘That’s my problem.’ She forced a smile. ‘Please go, Steve. I’ve got things to do.’
He hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. He turned on his heel and left.
As the car drove off, she sagged against the door jamb, shivering uncontrollably.
‘Are you all right, Flo?’ Mrs Murphy’s voice pierced her frozen isolation.
Somehow Flora managed to focus on her broad features and to answer brightly, ‘Fine. Just taking a breath of fresh air. I’ll be going in. I’ve – got the tea to make.’ She closed the door, not wanting to talk. C
armel Murphy had an intuitive grasp of some things. Although she knew that it was stupid, Flora feared her neighbour being able to read her thoughts. There was no way she could talk to anyone about Tom being a deserter.
She made her trembling way back into the parlour, not yet able to face her father. She sank on to the sofa, dropping her head into her hands. Tom couldn’t be a coward! Not Tom! Not her Tom! Stephen was cruel, cruel! For a long time she stayed like that, forcing the words into her mind, but in the end they carried no conviction because suddenly she was remembering the last time with Tom. He had been nervous, jumpy. Anguish darted through her when she considered her words about him not having a nerve in his body. He had shut her up. Poor, poor Tom! He had been scared. But then who hadn’t been at some time during the war? She could understand fear but the Tom she had believed in had always been big and bold. How well had she really known him?
Her head lifted, she stared unseeingly at the far wall with its charcoal and chalk drawing of George as a toddler. Tom had had talent despite what Hilda had said about him messing about with art. But what about the other things she had said about him?
Flora shook her aching head vehemently, not wanting to think any more but desperately needing to be up and doing – something – anything! She went through the kitchen, ignoring her father and the two children who were listening to Dick Borton – Special Agent, and filled a bucket with water. Then she began to scrub the back yard as if her life depended on it; while all the time gripped by despair, thinking of Tom returning to his own lines only to be shot as an enemy. Dear God, why couldn’t you have looked after him better? What was the sense in hoping and praying? Why couldn’t you have looked after Rosie for me? Or is it really all down to us to take care of ourselves and each other? Is that what bearing each other’s burdens about? What if we fail?
For a second she stilled and rested her sweating forehead on the back of her wet hand. Then the cat startled her by leaping off the step and pit-pattering over the wet ground. Her eyes followed it to the bin, whence it clawed its way up to the yard wall. What a life, she thought. Cats never seemed to care about anything but their own comfort. It didn’t matter to it that one of its playmates had gone. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She rubbed them away and carried on working down the yard.