A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘I amaze meself.’ Struggling to prop up the heavy washing line, Beata finally achieved this and turned, panting in triumph.

  ‘Can’t you give him less water, love?’

  Beata shook her head. ‘He needs it for his diabetes.’ She chuckled. ‘And to dilute the booze.’

  ‘You deserve a medal.’

  ‘I’d rather feel as if I were doing my bit towards the war.’ Margaret tapped her. ‘Why don’t you come with me to the WVS? It’d get you away from the place.’

  ‘I’d like to but I daren’t leave Old Man River. He’ll drown in his own piddle or drink himself to death. It seems a bit pointless me trying to keep his blood sugar stable when he’s hellbent on pickling himself.’

  ‘Shall I fetch you some wool from the centre then? You can knit a blanket.’

  ‘I could knit Uncle a balaclava with no face hole.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘Eh, Beata, you always manage to joke.’

  Beata did not know how, for she felt as anxious and nervous as her companion, wondering when the bombs were going to fall, concerned for her loved ones in the garrison city of York. But she said with a calm smile, ‘Well, you have to, don’t you? And being here does have its advantages. If I’m looking after an invalid I don’t have to join the Land Army or Munitions.’

  ‘At least you’d get paid, though!’

  ‘I couldn’t stand on a production line all day. My leg would explode. At least here I get chance to sit down – sometimes.’ She threw up her eyes with a cynical laugh. ‘Eh, I haven’t been able to get down and register for bacon and butter rationing with the grocer yet. Could you keep an eye on me laddo while I nip out?’

  Margaret obliging, Beata went off to enjoy half an hour of freedom. No more rides to town now; the car had long been gathering cobwebs in the garage.

  The folk in the outside world were wearing poppies. She bought one too, the remembrance of those who had fallen gaining new solemnity in these dangerous times.

  When she returned, Margaret had paused in her chores for a pot of tea and, fixing her bulging eyes upon the poppy, said, ‘You’re showing me up, I’ve forgotten to get one.’ After pouring another cup, she stared into space, shook her head and gave a despairing exclamation at how many more might die. ‘It’s just all so ridiculous, Beat,’ she complained. ‘You’ve got Russia siding with the Germans when they were our allies last time – the same with the Japs – and Turkey signing a pact with us when they shot us to bits in the Dardanelles! The world’s mad, politicians are mad – it’s them that gets us into it, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed the listener, cradling her cup of tea and remembering her father’s response to the invasion of Belgium, ‘but what else can you do against a megalomaniac?’

  An abusive yell emerged from Uncle Teddy’s room.

  ‘Speaking of megalomaniacs…’ Beata dealt her companion a stoical grin and limped off to tend to her uncle’s needs.

  When she came back, Margaret had made a decision and was putting on her coat, seemingly in a rush to go. ‘I’m sorry, Beat, I can’t stand his vile language any more. It’s getting me down. I shan’t be coming again. Sorry for lumbering you with extra work but…’

  Despite her heart sinking at the thought, Beata said evenly, ‘Not to worry. You do what you have to.’

  ‘Don’t forget to put your clock back next Saturday night, will you?’ Margaret sought to remind her as she mounted her bicycle and rode away.

  ‘I won’t.’ Beata waved her off, feeling that it would not matter if she remembered or not. For her, time stood still.

  * * *

  Luckily, hearing that she had been deserted, Mr Ellis was kind enough to step in and sit with Uncle Teddy whilst Beata did the shopping, which had become somewhat of a nightmare in itself with all the shortages.

  Having dubbed last Christmas the worst of her life, Beata prepared to eat her words as another December came upon them. It didn’t really matter that sugar supplies were very low; with her uncle’s diabetes they hardly ate any in this house and the only use she had for it was as currency when bartering with her neighbours for some other rare commodity. Unfortunately that did not apply to bacon, everyone clinging greedily to their ration. Conserving her own rashers as a treat for Sunday morning, she thought of it now as she prepared the evening repast, the imagined smell of it sizzling in the pan helping to get through the rest of the week.

  Tonight she and Teddy would be having fish paste sandwiches, the nearest she got to eating the real thing these days, fish being so dear. It probably wouldn’t matter to Teddy, whose palate had been numbed by countless bottles of whisky; he hardly knew what he was eating. Buttering the bread, she glanced at the clock, though it was an irrelevant gesture for, it having been a dingy afternoon, the curtains had been already drawn well before blackout time.

  Just as she was about to carry her uncle’s tray to his room, someone knocked at the door. Greatly aware of the risk of being fined, she turned the light off before answering and groped her way in the darkness.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Beat!’ The caller beamed at her.

  ‘Joe!’ She gasped in surprise and pleasure. Included in Gussie’s latest letter had been the information that all the troops of Northern Command had been granted seven days’ leave for Christmas and they would have Joe home, but, ‘I never thought you’d trail all the way over here!’

  ‘Well I have, and I come bearing gifts!’ The khaki-clad figure swept through the door, kissing his delighted sister in passing, and even before removing his greatcoat began to take parcels from his haversack: a knitted cardigan from Maddie, a cake from Gussie, several tins of food and a lump of ham. ‘And the best!’ He left the bottle of sherry till last, withdrawing it with a flourish.

  Beata could have wept with happiness at the sight of it all, but most of all to have her own flesh and blood here.

  Joe saw that she was speechless with emotion and said understandingly, ‘Well, it’s not much fun you being stuck down here on your own, is it? So I thought I’d have a couple of days with me favourite sister.’

  She chuckled. ‘You might regret it when you see what’s on offer.’ And she displayed the meagre plate of sandwiches.

  He curled an arm round her and squeezed. ‘Nay, it’s enough just to see you, Beat.’

  ‘And you,’ she told him, hugging him back, then examining the tins he had brought her. ‘Though these peaches are even more welcome.’ She reached for a tin opener, sharing the contents between two bowls and, with a twinkle in her eye, mimicking her late aunt. ‘Too sweet for Teddy.’

  ‘So how’s the old bugger been treating you?’ Joe took off his cap.

  ‘Abominably,’ said Beata. ‘Come on, get by the fire and sit down while I take him his tea.’

  ‘You sit down,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll take it, and I’ll give him a talking to whilst I’m at it.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if he hears you,’ she replied, but did as she was told anyway, relieved to take the weight off her leg.

  When Joe came back he was astounded at how bad their uncle’s drinking had become. ‘My God, it stinks like a distillery in there, and he’s out like a light. How much has he had?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t measure it now,’ said Beata lightly. ‘I just get the drayman to back his wagon up to the window and tip its contents straight down his throat. It saves on the bottles, what with all the shortages, you know.’

  Joe was glad to see that his sister could find amusement in an awful situation. But then a sense of humour was one thing common to all of Probyn’s offspring, and, as they tucked into tea, many more jokes were shared at Uncle Teddy’s expense.

  But on a sterner note Joe warned, ‘You mustn’t let him take advantage of you, though, Beat. It must be difficult, managing such a big chap on your own.’

  She dismissed this. ‘Oh, well, others have worse to deal with.’ Her allusion to the war brought more serious discussion, Joe lighting a cigarette and telling her as much as he kn
ew about the military goings-on; the seven-day leave must mean they were about to go abroad, though he did not know where.

  ‘Why did the silly old fools do nothing to stop it, Beat?’ he demanded, referring to the politicians and sounding very frustrated. ‘I was just looking forward to being on reserve and then I find meself back with a gun in me hand.’

  ‘I thought that was what you always wanted?’ Beata sipped her sherry.

  ‘To be a soldier, aye – but I didn’t know there was going to be another bloody war!’

  His theatrically outraged announcement brought more amusement from his sister, but she could tell underneath all the joking he was frightened. So was she. The laughter fading, she said, ‘Let’s pray it doesn’t last too long.’

  Joe took a long drag of his cigarette, nodding through the smoke. It was not so much the thought of dying but the knowledge that he would have to kill people, and at close quarters, that made him feel sick. He did not know if he would even be able to do it.

  Wanting to take that look off his face, Beata changed the subject. ‘So how’s our Mimsy? I’ll bet she’s getting round.’ Their sister was due to give birth next month.

  ‘Round? She’s like a bloody house end.’ Joe laughed, and this happier note was to continue for the rest of the evening.

  Later, glad that Uncle had not disturbed their lovely get-together, Beata made a bed up for the visitor on the sofa before retiring herself.

  And in the morning, awoken by Teddy’s shouts, Joe helped her strip off the old man’s wet sheets and replace them with dry ones, also lighting the boiler for her as she made breakfast, and asking, ‘Does he do this all the time?’

  Beata lied, not wanting him to worry about her. ‘No just now and then.’ She limped about the bungalow, making sure all the lights were turned off before opening the curtains to another grim morning.

  ‘You want some tape across that glass, Beat, in case it gets shattered. I’ll do it for you before I go.’ This Joe did, plus many other helpful things throughout that day before finally having to go for his evening train.

  However, during his stay he had been angered to hear all the cursing directed towards his sister and now went to wag a finger at the inebriated old man. ‘Now listen, Uncle Ted, stop all this bad language. Our Beata’s been good to you and I won’t have you upsetting her. Do you hear?’

  There were whining promises from Teddy to obey, his uncle slurring as he grasped Joe’s finger, ‘She’s a lovely girl, so good to me, so good…’

  Shouldering his haversack, Joe shared a last word with his sister. ‘I don’t know whether I’ve managed to fettle him or not, Beat, but if he doesn’t get any better, you leave. I’m telling you now, don’t be taking any truck.’

  ‘Nay, I can manage him no trouble,’ she said casually, then kissed her brother goodbye.

  It was such a wrench watching him go. She almost regretted that he had been here at all, for after he had gone the house seemed emptier than ever.

  * * *

  If there were any New Year celebrations then Beata did not hear them, though she was to receive glad tidings from Margaret, who happened to be cycling past when she was putting a bundle of old newspapers out for collection that frosty morning and stopped briefly to chat.

  ‘A bit of good news at last, Beat! Hitler’s got cancer, he’s only got eighteen months to live.’

  Beata had heard such rumours before and looked dubious.

  But Margaret assured her. ‘It’s right! I’ve just read it in the paper.’ Legs planted astride her bike, varicose veins bulging through her stockings, she asked if the other had registered yet for meat rationing, offering to sit with Teddy in order to enable her to do so, but Beata told her it was all in hand. ‘I’d better get on with the job then!’ She set her foot to the pedal and, with a patriotic gesture, cycled off.

  The rest of Beata’s day proceeded as normal. Whilst the washing was on the line she kneaded her bread and put it into the oven, then set about baking raisinless scones and other such stuff for the rest of the week. In the afternoon, seeing that the sheets were never going to fully dry in the cold atmosphere, she brought them in to hang over the fire, putting her feet up and listening to a play on the radio before starting her ironing. Providing her uncle’s tea to coincide with children’s hour, she sat down again to enjoy Out with Romany. But then on the six o’clock news she heard that the Allies were expecting a big German offensive in spring and everything came rushing in on her again.

  It was one bad thing after another. The Nazis had made their biggest air raid ever on the east coast. No bombs had been dropped and British fighters had driven them off, but still they were getting bolder. And in the same week three British submarines were lost. Encouraged by Hitler’s exploits, the IRA had started a terror campaign of its own, causing explosions in the capital, and though that did not affect Beata it was just one more thing to be gloomy about. It felt that everything was against them. Against her.

  * * *

  It was to be the most desperate winter she had ever known. Alongside the rationing of food there was little coal to go round either, certainly not enough to cope with the drastic fall in temperature that occurred at the end of January when the village was encased in icicles, frozen pipes bursting all over the place. Beata was fortunate in that hers had been lagged but it did not make the house any the warmer.

  It was so cold that she woke one morning to find her dentures embedded in a glass of ice and had perforce to do without them until she had time to boil a kettle. The idea of getting up to a cold grate set her shivering and the thought of getting Teddy’s sheets dry in this arctic climate was almost the last straw, but, being penniless, how could she afford to escape to York unless she walked? And that was just too far. Bracing herself, she rolled out of bed, slipped hurriedly into her clothes, shuddering at the coldness of them, then went to face her responsibilities.

  Not until she had lit the fire, boiled a kettle and managed to hack her teeth from the block of ice could she eat breakfast. This by no means the worst of her problems, she then launched into washing the bedding.

  Mr Ellis sympathized when he came in later to look after Uncle Teddy and found her trying to thaw the frozen sheets round the fire. ‘Maybe if you were to rouse him through the night,’ he suggested helpfully.

  Beata had already come to this conclusion and though it would mean she would be deprived of her own rest there seemed no other answer. Her fingers bright red and aching from being in contact with the frozen sheets, she breathed on them a few times then went to make Mr Ellis a cup of tea, before gathering all her ration cards and coupons and going shopping.

  The meat situation was deplorable. She had gone out for a joint but came home with something completely different. Opening the package she asked with a laugh, ‘How do you like our Sunday dinner, Mr Ellis?’

  The old man was not surprised by the two pork pies, groaning, ‘I know! I went round half a dozen greengrocers yesterday and they hadn’t a spud between them.’

  Thanking him for his help, Beata was glad when he agreed to while away a lonely hour by partaking in another pot of tea. Mr Ellis was the only friend she had, and even though he was less easy to laughter than before the war he persisted in bringing her little gifts, which she now thought about as she sipped her tea and smiled at him. How sad that it was not enough.

  * * *

  The white world was eventually to thaw and the food situation was alleviated somewhat by the coming of spring when everyone could once again return to planting out their gardens, but there was to be no lessening of the tension as the days crept ever nearer to the expected German offensive. Of course, others had been offensive for months and continued to be so. After another day of extreme nastiness from her uncle, Beata’s one recourse was to snuggle up in bed, to dream of her lost love and to think what might have been.

  Still thinking about Tommy when she opened her eyes the next morning, it was devastating not to find him there, just another lonel
y day stretching in front of her. She could have wept. Her leg was like a balloon and incredibly painful. Nevertheless, she was forced to get out of bed and tend her uncle. Thanks to her habit of rousing him through the night there were no wet sheets today, nor had there been any for the past month. Feeling more sympathetically disposed towards him, for, after all, he was old and would soon be dead at the rate he was drinking, she brought him a cup of tea, then set about washing and shaving him before giving him breakfast and leaving him to read the newspaper.

  There was not a peep out of him for hours. Worried about this she crept to his room, thinking that he might perhaps have expired but in fact he was only sleeping. The newspaper had slipped from his bed to the floor. Her mind still on Tommy, imagining herself in his arms, she limped in and bent to pick it up, but as she did a hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Crying out in pain, she said persuasively, ‘Uncle, let go!’

  But instead of doing so he gripped her hair even tighter and wrenched it so forcefully that she had to go with it to prevent him tearing it out by the roots. Ignoring her agonized protests he hauled her face down to his and planted a slobbering kiss on her lips.

  With a muffled shout of disgust she tried to lash out at him but it seemed to have no effect for the old drunkard just laughed gleefully and held her head with both hands now, pressing her lips to his so that she could hardly breathe. Continuing to struggle and writhe she screwed her mouth up in order to avoid his dribbling whisky-laden lips, but it was of no avail for he was just too strong and in the end it was only by accident that her flailing hand managed to come into contact with the hair at his temples and, giving it a vicious twist, she finally prised herself loose.

  Her uncle was yelling like a child and rubbing his temple at the agony she had inflicted but Beata did not care. He had destroyed all her dreams of ever being kissed romantically again. Never would she be able to rid herself of the taste of him. When he cursed and swore and tried to lash out at her she stepped out of his reach and made her escape, hurried from the room, pulling her apron over her mouth as she went, desperately trying to wipe it clean of his foul alcohol-laden spittle, but in vain. Reaching the bathroom sink she cupped her hand beneath the running tap and scooped it into her mouth, gulped it in, swilling it round and round, rinsing it out over and over but feeling that never again would it be clean.