Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  ‘Shopping.’ He caught her wrist. ‘She’d only just gone,’ he said suggestively. ‘We could go upstairs together.’

  Lillian tugged at her arm, but he held on. ‘Gordon, I’m tired,’ she said firmly. ‘Monty and I have been on the road for hours. Besides, Flora will be home from school soon.’

  ‘I’m your husband,’ he said crossly.

  Lillian snatched her arm away from him. ‘Oh, grow up, Gordon. You’re drunk.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Maud Abbott had been staring at the envelope for most of the morning. The solicitor’s name on the left-hand corner intrigued her – Peak, Hall & Ellis. Why were they writing to Marion again? Well over a year had passed since that first letter came with her mother-in-law’s strange bequest. The solicitor had given Marion no clue as to how much she might get from the estate had Philippa agreed to pretend they were reconciled, but Maud had a shrewd idea it wouldn’t be a large amount. Darcy Abbott wasn’t rich, but she wasn’t a pauper either. The twins had been given a year to resolve their differences or their inheritance would go to another. That time was long gone, so why write a second letter?

  Marion was at work. She’d done quite well for herself. She was only a secretary, but working for Sir Keith Samson was certainly a feather in her cap. He respected her, probably realizing that her appearance would curtail any office flirting. There had been one man who had shown more than a casual interest in her daughter. Richard Lynch didn’t seem to mind how she looked. There had been invitations to the theatre, concerts and even a candlelit dinner, but when Marion brought him home to meet her, Maud had soon put a stop to it. She didn’t have to say much. A veiled hint that although Marion was a perfect daughter, she would never be a mother and poor Maud would miss having grandchildren was enough. It wasn’t true, of course, but it certainly helped Richard to turn his attentions elsewhere. Afterwards, she’d felt a little guilty about it, but they were happy as they were, and if she was brutally honest, who would look after her in her old age?

  Maud took the envelope down from the mantelpiece and steamed it open. She lowered herself into a chair as she read it. Mr Ellis, the solicitor, had written to say the benefactor of her mother-in-law’s will had enclosed the following cheque as a gift. There was no indication as to who the unknown person was, but Maud was in no doubt as to his identity: Stanley Abbott, her husband. She unfolded the cheque and gasped. Five hundred pounds! Her hand trembled. Now she was faced with a dilemma. Her instinct had been to tear it up, but five hundred pounds would make such a difference to their lives. Should she give it to Marion and pretend she had opened the letter by mistake? She couldn’t do that either. As far as Marion was concerned, her father was dead. How could she confess after all this time that she’d faked his demise to stop the twins from asking questions? She’d been apprehensive enough when they’d met Philippa in case she knew Stanley was still alive.

  She laid the cheque on the kitchen table and looked at it carefully. It was made out to ‘Miss M. E. Abbott’. With some careful pen-work, she could change the name. If she added a small loop over the ‘i’ in ‘Miss’ and joined it into the first ‘s’, she could make it look like a capital ‘R’ – MRS. Her first initial and Marion’s were the same. What luck that Stanley hadn’t written her name in full. That ‘E’ could easily be changed into her second initial, ‘B’ for Beatrice. Maud felt a tingle of excitement. It wouldn’t be like stealing, would it? After all, if her mother-in-law had simply given her granddaughters the money when she died, without all this ‘let’s make up and be friends’ rigmarole, she would have looked after the money anyway. She would have had to. The twins had been seventeen and still minors in the eyes of the law, so where was the difference if she looked after Marion’s share of the money now? Maud placed the cheque back in the envelope and put it into her handbag. All she needed was some ink in the same colour and a little practice. She was only taking what she deserved, and Marion would get it when she passed on, so where was the harm?

  Pip and Stella were surprised that Lillian hadn’t bothered to mention that Gordon was home before.

  ‘How marvellous!’ Stella cried. ‘How is he?’

  Lillian shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose.’

  They had arranged a get-together at Pip’s place for a cup of tea and a catch-up. Pip and Lillian had both brought a present for the baby. Pip had made a beautifully smocked romper suit in blue, while Lillian had brought Stella all Flora’s old baby nappies.

  ‘They’ve been in the loft since she was about eighteen months,’ she said, ‘but Mum’s washed them and they’ve come up lovely. There’s still a lot of use in them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ cried Stella. ‘You can never have enough nappies.’ She gave her friend a nudge. ‘And if you ever need them back—’

  ‘I won’t,’ Lillian quickly interrupted. Embarrassed, Stella and Pip avoided her eye.

  ‘Could Gordon be the person I saw in the alleyway?’ said Pip. Her two friends gave her a puzzled look. ‘It was a couple of nights ago,’ she went on. ‘I saw someone out there smoking. It was late: ten or ten-thirty. I couldn’t see who it was, but I’m pretty sure it was a man, and he headed off towards your back gate.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Lillian dispassionately. ‘Gordon smokes like a chimney.’

  ‘Has he got his discharge papers, then?’ Pip wanted to know.

  Lillian shook her head. ‘Not yet. He’s got two months’ leave and then he has to report to Bovington.’

  ‘What does Flora think,’ said Stella, with a smile, ‘about having her daddy back again? She would only have been tiny when she last saw him.’

  ‘She’s finding it hard to adjust,’ said Lillian. ‘She’s used to coming into my bed halfway through the night, but of course all that’s stopped now. She’s very upset about it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Stella with a chuckle.

  ‘You don’t seem very happy either,’ Pip observed.

  Lillian chewed her bottom lip. ‘To be perfectly honest,’ she began, ‘I’m not. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad he’s home safe and sound. I wouldn’t wish the man any harm, but I’ve got my own life now. I’ve told him I’ve no intention of going back to being just a housewife again.’

  ‘That’s what he would expect,’ said Stella.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Lillian said. ‘I’m not having it, I tell you. I’m not having it.’

  Her defiant glare told her friends the discussion was over. Outside the back door, Timothy Michael began to stir. Stella got up, reached into the pram and picked up her son.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Pip, glad to change the subject, ‘he’s put on weight.’

  ‘Nearly ten pounds now,’ said Stella proudly. ‘I posted a photograph to Johnny last week.’ She sat back down and opened her blouse. ‘Always hungry, aren’t you, darling?’

  ‘What about your father, Pip?’ Lillian asked.

  Pip went to the dresser and pulled a large envelope from one of the drawers. ‘Elspeth sent me this,’ she said, emptying the contents onto the table. The envelope was full of cards. Pip sifted through them, placing them into two distinct piles. ‘My father didn’t know where we were, but every year he bought Marion and me a birthday card and a Christmas card. Look, there’s the one he gave me for my tenth birthday, and this one for my seventh birthday. That one was for the Christmas the year I was twenty-one.’

  ‘You say Elspeth sent them?’ said Stella.

  ‘Daddy kept them in a drawer,’ said Pip. ‘Apparently now that we’ve met, he wanted to get rid of them, but she sent them to me instead.’

  ‘I guess she wanted you to know that he’d never forgotten you,’ said Stella. ‘What a lovely woman.’

  Pip nodded. ‘It’s not hard to see why he fell in love with her.’

  ‘They’re organizing a street party for when Victory Europe Day is announced,’ said Lillian, changing the subject. ‘It can’t go on much longer, can it?’

  ‘Not for us,’ said Stella, ‘but
Pip might have to wait a bit longer. Any news of your Peter?’ she said, finally voicing the one question neither of them liked to ask.

  Pip shook her head. ‘But I shall join in with you all, don’t you worry. There’s a lot to be thankful for. I’ve still got my kids, and now I have my father as well.’ There was a semi-awkward silence. Then she said, ‘Tell you what, though. When Peter does come home, we’ll have the party to end all parties.’

  ‘Mrs Sinclair,’ said Mr Fisher, holding the door open to allow her through.

  Pip, dressed in her best clothes, squeezed past his huge girth and entered his small office. She lowered herself onto a wooden chair in front of his desk and waited for him to waddle round to the other side. There was a buff-coloured folder on the desk. He opened it and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘As you instructed me,’ he began, ‘I am pleased to tell you that both parties have agreed to accept your offer at the suggested price.’

  Sitting primly on the chair, Pip showed no reaction, except perhaps to grip the handbag perched on her lap a little tighter.

  ‘I have drawn up the papers,’ said Mr Fisher. ‘All that’s needed is your signature.’

  Pip nodded.

  Mr Fisher leaned forward in what he hoped was a fatherly way and put his elbows on the desk. Pressing his fingertips together, he gave her a concerned look. ‘However, I would be failing in my duty if I did not advise caution.’

  Pip didn’t move. She knew exactly what he was going to say. Her plan was a good one, commendable under the circumstances, but she would not make nearly as much money as she would if she thought about investing in housing. People need somewhere to live, he would say. With the war drawing to a close, she was turning down the opportunity to make a wise investment. If she had come to him sooner, he would have advised hanging on to that twenty acres on the Maybridge estate. In five or maybe ten years’ time, she could have made a killing. It wasn’t entirely her fault, he would say. Women need a man’s input and sound advice. He didn’t want to sound presumptuous, but as her husband wasn’t around, she should have come to him.

  ‘While I value your opinion,’ she interrupted, ‘my mind is made up. I have worked for years to this end, and with the capital I now have, I cannot wait a moment longer.’

  ‘It is a huge undertaking, Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Now, where do I sign?’

  The cashier looked up as she came to the window. ‘Good morning, Mrs Abbott, and how are we today?’

  Normally his banal greeting irritated her, but today she was too nervous to be cross. She had dressed with care because she wanted to create the right impression. She wore the jersey suit she’d had made up in the style she’d seen Barbara Stanwyck wearing in a film. It was a trifle too hot in this weather, but she knew she looked every inch the lady when she had it on. Her matching hat and the three strings of pearls round her neck added that je ne sais quoi. With a bit of luck, the cashier would be more interested in her than the cheque.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, passing the paying-in book and the cheque over the counter.

  He opened the book and glanced at the cheque.

  ‘Are you doing something special this Whitsun?’ Maud hoped she could distract him.

  The cashier smiled. ‘The wife and I are taking the kids to Weymouth.’

  Maud had not the slightest interest in him or his wife and kids, but she cried, ‘How lovely! Let’s hope you have the weather for it.’

  He pressed his banker’s stamp onto the pad and rocked it in the ink. ‘I hope so too,’ he said as his stamp hovered over the paying-in book. ‘Last year, it poured the whole time.’ He thumped the slip and then the stub.

  ‘I shall certainly keep my fingers crossed for you,’ said Maud.

  ‘And what about you, Mrs Abbott? Have you got any plans?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Maud. ‘My daughter and I like a quiet life.’

  The banker’s stamp crashed over the cheque and he pushed the paying-in book back towards her. ‘There you are, all done. Good afternoon, Mrs Abbott.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said humbly. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  Outside in the street, she had a job not to laugh out loud. Indeed, he had been a great help. He’d brought the stamp down right over her alterations.

  The sound of Gordon crashing up the stairs was enough to wake the dead, but Lillian turned her face to the wall and pretended to be asleep. As he burst into the bedroom, the door banged against the chest of drawers. He clicked the light switch, but nothing happened. How could it? She’d taken the lightbulb out of its fitting.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the chamber pot from underneath. A moment later, the sickly smell of warm urine filled the air. Ugh. Lillian curled her lip. Why couldn’t he go to the privy before he came up to bed? He pulled back the bedclothes and she heard him throwing his clothes over the end of the bedstead. As he clambered between the sheets, there was a loud report and a foul odour hovered between them. ‘Whoops,’ he muttered, and giggled. Lillian despised him more with each passing day. The people in the theatre treated her like royalty, yet every night she came home to this. It took every ounce of strength not to sit up and scream obscenities at him.

  She tensed her body as she felt him pawing her back. He was trying to get close to her. He cursed. ‘Damn it. What have you done with the bed, girl?’

  She stayed silent. He wouldn’t have his way this time. It was becoming more and more difficult to fend him off, even though he was drunk every night when he came to bed. She had rigged the bedding so that he was between the sheets, while she lay on top of them. He sat up and tugged at them. ‘What have you done, Lil?’ His voice was getting louder.

  ‘Shh,’ she said, ‘you’ll wake Flora.’

  ‘I don’t care if I wake the ’ole of blurry Worthing,’ he said, his voice even louder. ‘And what ’appened to the lights?’

  He struck a match and tugged at the bedclothes. The blanket came off at the same time as the match went out. She heard him lumber towards the window, where he pulled back the curtains. The darkness in the bedroom became less inky because of the street light. He stumbled back to the bed. She had grabbed the blanket again and was trying to hold on to it, but he was astride her now, his boozy breath making her head spin.

  ‘No, Gordon. Stop it, will you? I don’t want to.’

  ‘Aw, come on, Lil,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve been home a blurry month and you’ve never let me come near you.’

  ‘Get off me,’ she said, desperately trying to push him away. She couldn’t let him win. She couldn’t even bear the thought of it, and if she got pregnant now, he would ruin everything. She might be willing to take a risk with someone she really liked, but not with Gordon. She couldn’t understand what she ever saw in him. He was a loser. They were both wrestling with her nightie now, her trying to keep it on, him trying to pull it off.

  She hit the side of his head. ‘No, Gordon. Stop it.’

  He stared at her in shocked silence, then hit her back. The nightdress ripped and Lillian cried out in pain.

  They heard Dorcas knocking on the wall, and in the distance, Flora was crying.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she said, gaining mastery at last. She got up, and snatching her dressing gown from the nail on the back of the bedroom door, she left the room to comfort her child.

  It was tempting to spend the rest of the night with Flora, but she knew she had to go back and sort this out once and for all. When she returned, he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Lillian got another nightdress out of the drawer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lil,’ he said brokenly. ‘I shouldn’t have hit you, Lil. I’m really sorry. I only want what’s mine by rights.’

  ‘I don’t want you, Gordon,’ she said coldly. ‘I want a divorce.’

  ‘A divorce?’ he said incredulously. ‘People like us don’t get a divorce.’

  ‘We never should have got married in the firs
t place,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘You loved me back then.’

  ‘I was young and foolish,’ she said. ‘I don’t even think I understood what love was. I’ve told you before. We’re not the same people.’

  ‘All I want is a home, a wife and a family,’ he said. ‘I’ll treat you well, Lil. You’ll be my princess. That’s enough for me.’

  ‘It might be enough for you, Gordon, but it certainly isn’t for me,’ she said, climbing back into bed. ‘I’ve had a taste of real life. Do you realize that I can get as much as twelve pounds a week in variety shows? And you want me to give all that up and go back to the kitchen sink? Oh no, Gordon. It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘When did you become so hard-hearted, Lil?’

  ‘And when did you become a drunk?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be if—’ he began.

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again,’ she snapped. ‘If I’m hard, it’s because I’ve had to be. While you were sitting on your bum in Germany, moaning about Red Cross parcels, I was keeping a roof over Flora’s head and trying to give her some semblance of normality.’ She threw herself back against the pillow. ‘Now let’s get some sleep, shall we?’

  Dejected and beaten, Gordon lay in the dark feeling like a whipped dog. It wasn’t his fault he’d been made a POW. She shouldn’t speak to him like that. Divorce? She’d got to be joking. If he went home and told his dad she wanted a divorce, he’d knock him into the middle of next week. Oh no, he wouldn’t give her a divorce. He’d sooner kill her.

  Outside in the alleyway, a shadowy figure took a long drag on their cigarette and threw it down. Raised voices again; he couldn’t hear what was being said but it was becoming a habit. What on earth was going on in there? What a disappointment. How hurtful. What on earth was wrong with the man? It was enough to make anyone sick to their stomach. Grinding the cigarette into the soft earth, the smoker took one last look at the bedroom window before hurrying away into the night.

  CHAPTER 32

  Georgie and Hazel were very excited to meet their grandfather, and Pip had taken a lot of trouble with their appearance. Hazel looked as pretty as a picture in a yellow-and-white patchwork dress that Pip had made from oddments. Her hair was tied with a yellow ribbon – a rarity she had bought at the haberdashery at the corner of Montague Street. As for her son, although he still wore short trousers, Georgie looked every inch the English schoolboy in his first ever two-piece suit. Pip had made it from the material in a suit of Peter’s. She hadn’t opened his side of the wardrobe for ages, and when she had, she’d been horrified to discover the sleeve had been damaged by moths. It meant a total clear-out, a thorough washing of the inside of the wardrobe itself and mothballs in every pocket when she hung his clothes back up again. While she’d been doing that, she’d spent a moment or two holding his things close to her cheek just to get the smell of him. It had been so long, too long.