The room she found with Mrs Fuller was far from comfortable. Mrs Fuller was a friend of Mrs Drew. The restrictions on what she could and could not do increased and one day, only two weeks after she had left Woodcutter’s Row, she was told to leave. The excuse given by Mrs Fuller was, ‘You are an inconsiderate lodger, with your peculiar hours and filthy clothes.’
‘You can come back here and stay with your father and me, but only until the baby is born,’ Nelda told her. So Patricia moved back into her own bedroom and, by rising at six, lighting the fire and settling the table for breakfast, soon found she was expected to return to her previous routine, including making the evening meal and the Sunday lunch just as she had before. She didn’t resent it, she was glad of the activities which kept her from thinking.
With no letters from Matthew and none further from Roland, she was isolated from everything except Cottage Flowers and running the house for Nelda. She still helped at the Youth Club, which she enjoyed more than any other part of her week. Although things were difficult there, with her helpers disappearing into the services as conscription increased. Besides those evenings, and when she helped at the farm, she spent time either with Julia, or in her solitary room. She was uncomfortably aware that Nelda wanted her out of the living room as soon as the meal was finished, leaving her and her father in peace. It was worse, far worse, than living with strangers.
* * *
Roland was puzzled when he had his mother’s letter telling him Patricia no longer wanted him to write to her. He too blamed that kiss and wished the impulse had been denied. What must she have thought, a man of almost thirty kissing a girl of barely eighteen? He waited in vain for a note from her but none came. She filled his thoughts for much of each day. An image of her brought him calm during moments of danger and stress.
In December, as Pearl Harbour brought the Americans into the war and brought relief to everyone, he was taken prisoner. All mail ceased.
Chapter Eight
In June, 1942, Marion walked home from work to see several army lorries and smaller vehicles parked in the main road. One was outside the Drew’s house and she slowed her steps, curious to learn what was going on. Mrs Drew was arguing with an army sergeant who carried a clipboard, and waved a pencil angrily as he answered her. Licking the end of the indelible lead, he wrote something down at a furious rate and shouted.
‘You’ve got room for four of my men, missus. Two in each bedroom and that leaves you one bedroom for yourself, ’ow many d’you want for Gawd’s sake? Don’t yer know there’s a war on?’
‘I need my daughter’s room left as it is and my son will be home in a few days time.’
‘Then you’d better start peelin’ spuds, ’adn’t yer, lady! Four soldiers, arriving tomorrer and that’s final!’
Marion went to share the exciting news with her friend Joanne.
‘Soldiers are going to be billetted in the village! Dozens of them! And there’s rumours that the Americans will be here before summer’s gone! What a time we’ll have!’
Managing to slip out before Joanne’s mother had learned about the proposed new inhabitants of the village, they walked to Ebenezer Street wearing a trifle more lipstick than Joanne was allowed, their skirts rolled up around the waist bands, which shortened them by at least three inches, and with the top three buttons of their blouses opened.
‘Show them what you’ve got but don’t let them touch,’ was Marion’s rule.
The soldiers stayed just a month and at the end of their stay Joanne was pregnant and Marion had nowhere to live.
‘I told you to be careful,’ she complained to her unhappy friend. ‘Now look what a mess you’ve got us into. You with a baby on the way. Now you’ll have your Mam breathing down your neck for the rest of your life. And there’s me with nowhere to live. Why did she kick me out? I’m not going to have an illegitimate baby!’
‘Neither am I,’ Joanne told her sweetly. ‘Robin Parker and I will be getting married on his next leave. See–?’ She showed Marion a letter in which the details of his parents and family were written and the date and time of their wedding. ‘And Mam won’t be breathing down my neck either. I’m going to find somewhere else to stay. Mam says I’m a victim of the war, lacking in parental control. I’ve had enough of parental control. What a way of describing motherly love, eh?’
With no hope of being allowed back home, and Elizabeth unwilling to find room for her at Caradoc’s farm, Marion should have been worried, but she calmly announced that she would use Matthew’s cottage. Nervous of being there on her own, she invited Joanne to live there until Robin returned to marry her, which he did two months later.
* * *
Leonard was concerned about his youngest daughter. She, more than the other two, caused him sleepless nights. Elizabeth had always been the steady one; serious and rather dull, he admitted to himself. Patricia was a constant joy, so reliable, capable and never creating a moment’s dismay. But Marion. He was afaid for his wayward child. Her devilish attitude, and her determination to squeeze the very last fraction of fun out of every day left her vulnerable. If only she had stayed at home where she was at least under his eyes for part of each day, instead of on the edge of the village, cut off and with only Joanne for company.
Every night about ten o’clock he left Nelda and walked up through Ebenezer Street and up Deepcut Lane to the cottage. Most times he didn’t even knock, but just stood for a while listening, making sure the girls were safely inside. There were surprisingly few nights when they weren’t. On these occasions they were usually at the dances arranged by Patricia, or on a trip to the cinema with other friends.
One night he heard laughter as he approached, and he smiled. They had invited friends back for coffee. But there was a man’s voice and he chilled at the thought of she and Joanne entertaining men in that lonely place. He stepped nearer and pushed the door.
Marion was in the kitchen, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
‘Hello, our Dad. Come for a coffee? Joanne’s husband is home and her Mam and Dad have brought us a new friend.’
Hoping his relief didn’t show, Leonard walked into the living room and saw Joanne and her sailor husband on the floor, admiring a long-legged labrador puppy, while Joanne’s parents looked on.
Marion handed Leonard a cup of coffee and the next hour was filled with laughter, watching the antics of the young animal who knew he was surrounded by friends.
‘You thought we had some men here, didn’t you our Dad,’ Marion accused as he was leaving.
‘No, of course I didn’t love. You’ve got too much sense.’
‘You’re right. I never put myself in a situation where I could get trouble and this place is too far from civilisation. And,’ she added, laughing at his frown, ‘I’ve never let a boy do – you know.’ Leonard went home embarrassed by his daughter’s frankness, but content.
* * *
Nelda was unhappy during her second pregnancy. She refused to become involved in collecting baby clothes. She just nodded when Leonard dragged the pram and cot out of the loft, where he had hidden them after the death of baby Gregory. When Leonard or Patricia tried to discuss the preparations for the birth all she said was, ‘Please yourselves. I don’t want this baby.’
She was afraid of loving it. Awaiting the birth of another child filled her with dread, and tore her in different directions. Part of her hated the prospect because she knew it would change her life. Part of her trembled with the fear of losing it. She had loved Gregory in the short time he had lived and she still remembered the pain of watching him weaken and die. She didn’t want to face it all again. Not wanting the baby, disliking even the thought of it, was her only protection against such agony.
Patricia continued to run the house and spent two evenings a week at the Youth Club filling in for Nelda who, so close to her time, felt unable to help. Patricia also organised picnics and walks and bus trips for the local children and youth club members.
Tobruk fell
to Rommel’s troops and thousands of allied prisoners were taken. Among them was Matthew Morris. But to the people of the village, the war and all its horrors seemed a part of other people’s lives. Air raids were rare, although they were distressing for the people in other parts of the country who still suffered badly. Only when news of a death of a local boy filtered through was the war immediate and frightening once again.
The worst evidence of a war that seldom intruded physically was in the shortages that had women searching for hours each day for something to feed their families.
Queues were a regular sight as a few stunted cucumbers or tomatoes appeared, or an allocation of oranges – for green ration cards only, so the children at least had an occasional treat. Joanne was in the queue for these rarities as, with a baby on the way, she too had a green ration book.
One day Patricia called in to see Julia and take her a few eggs Mr Caradoc had spared, off the ration.
‘Pullets, just beginning to lay, so they’re a bit small, and one I cooked yesterday didn’t have a yolk!’ she said. ‘He can’t give them for someone to have as part of their rations, it wouldn’t be fair.’
Julia was standing close to the window reading a letter and after Patricia had found a bowl and placed the eggs carefully in it, she realised that her friend hadn’t moved. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘My son, Marco. He’s ‘missing presumed killed’.’ Julia’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘Oh Julia, I’m so sorry.’ Patricia put her arms around Julia’s shaking shoulders and held her while the tears flowed. ‘He was all you had in the world, wasn’t he?’
‘He was very, very special. My surprise baby, who came, strong and lusty, when I thought I was far too old to conceive. A gift, to make up for my daughter and now – what a waste. What a stupid insane waste.’
‘Amen to that,’ Patricia whispered quietly. She was thinking, not of Marco, whom she did not know, but of Roland, who was perhaps also dead, and buried in some strange land so far from those who loved him. ‘Such a waste of talent,’ she murmured, still thinking of Roland.
‘Yes, it is. And you must not waste yours!’ Julia sobbed. ‘There’s been enough squandering of youth. You have the chance to do something worthwhile, so don’t throw it away waiting for something that might never come, or that might disappoint you and make you regret the time lost hanging around for some miracle to point the way, or some man to take away your need to think!’
Patricia wondered why the anger Julia felt, mixed with her anguish, was directed at her. Then she shrugged. It was because she was here and there was no one else. She still held Julia and she glanced over the woman’s shoulder at the photograph of the dark haired young man which Julia had placed on the window sill in front of where she was standing.
There was something about him that looked familiar. She remembered feeling the same when she had met him the first time he had come to visit his mother at Rose Cottage. She looked to see Julia’s features in the smiling face and thought the mouth, and the dark eyes were his mother’s. That must be what she saw. She felt a touch of sadness, remembering that she would never have the chance to look for it again.
* * *
Nelda’s baby was born in July 1942 and to Leonard’s delight it was a boy. He stood, looking awkward and ill at ease, at one side of the white hospital bed, facing Patricia on the other, and smiled down at his wife.
‘I didn’t really mind,’ he assured his daughters. ‘Another girl would have been perfect, but never having had a son, and losing our beautiful Gregory, well, it makes it that little bit more exciting.’
‘I expect you’ll want me to stay at home, until you stop feeding him, won’t you Nelda? So, I’ll start looking for a place from when, Christmas?’
‘I have no intention of feeding him,’ Nelda said firmly. ‘I’ve already arranged for the nurses to prepare bottles.’
‘When d’you want me to leave?’ Patricia asked again, picking up the sweet-scented bundle from the cot beside his mother’s bed. ‘Would you like me to wait a few weeks, until you and he are a bit stronger?’
Nelda looked at the baby in Patricia’s arms, then turned her head sharply away. ‘Perhaps you’d better stay a week or so.’
Across the bed, Leonard looked at his wife and their baby and crossed his fingers and uttered a short, fervent prayer. Perhaps it would be all right. Patricia and he had hoped that, once Nelda had seen her baby, felt him in her arms, she would soften in her determination to give him up. So far, during the few hours since the birth, she hadn’t changed.
After Patricia and Leonard had gone, Nelda reached over and clumsily, almost unwillingly picked up the baby. Half-hidden in the shadow of the corridor outside, a young nurse watched, and hoped.
Nelda held the tiny, helpless creature to her so their heartbeats melded into a comforting melodious rythym. Almost at once the baby began rooting for food, his scrunched-up face moving from side to side, smelling the nipple that was already beginning to dribble with anticipation of his feeding. Eyes closed, his urgent need of sustenance caused a frown across his brow that made her smile. His lips grasped the nipple through the nightdress and instinctively, Nelda moved the cloth away and watched his attempt to latch on.
The nurse who had been watching, stepped across and as casually as she could, assisted the baby to suck.
‘It’s a weird sensation. One I don’t like!’ Nelda groaned. ‘Take him away! It’s hurting me, you never tell mothers it hurts!’ She was embarrassed at her own weakness. Why did the nurse have to see her and interfere? She didn’t want to feed the baby. She wasn’t going to love it.
‘Sh,’ the nurse soothed, ‘look at him. You couldn’t deprive such a tiny mite of what he needs, can you? Something you can give so easily?’ She went on talking, encouraging, telling Nelda what a natural she was and how cleverly she was coping with this new experience.
Nelda watched in wonder as the baby’s cheeks indented with the strength of his sucking and laughed with the young nurse when he eventually fell back exhaused, his face red, creased and blotchy, his mouth dribbling out the precious colostrum.
When Patricia and her sisters visited the following day, they were surprised and delighted to see Nelda sitting up in her bed with the baby clamped to her breast.
‘Watch him,’ Nelda said. ‘Just look at his cheeks, see him pull. The doctor said he’s a very strong baby and one of the nurses said I’m obviously a good mother. Isn’t that surprising?’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Patricia leaned over and kissed the tiny dark head. Nelda smiled happily, then unfortunately Patricia added almost smugly, ‘I knew you’d love your baby once you saw him.’ And Nelda’s smiled became a frown.
‘I don’t want to keep him.’ Nelda assured them pulling a face as she eased the baby’s mouth free and lifted him up to her shoulder to be ‘burped’. ‘Don’t think I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Of course not,’ said Patricia. ‘I’ll take him as soon as you’re ready to let him go.’
‘I hope you’ve found a place and made proper arrangements?’
‘A room in the farmhouse next to Caradoc’s. Mrs Francis is willing to look after him while I work. Her husband is in France and she has an eighteen-month-old son. I’m sure she’ll look after him well. I’ll be around the farm a lot of the time, except when I’m at the flower shop, and Elizabeth is only next door to her with Mr Caradoc. Don’t worry, he’ll be loved and cared for. Have you chosen a name yet?’
‘Richard. Your father wants Richard Haydn Lloyd. How does that sound?’
‘Welcome to the world, Richard Haydn Lloyd,’ Patricia smiled.
* * *
‘Doormat mentality,’ was Julia’s response when Patricia told her of the arrangements for looking after baby Richard. ‘How old are you, Patricia?’
‘Nearly nineteen. And before you say it, no, I’m not regretting my promise to help with Richard. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Doormat,’ Julia whispered again.
Christmas 1942 passed with very little celebration. Most families were bereft of at least one member of their circle and the gaps in many households would never again be filled. There were carol services and parties, but with mostly women and young people the atmosphere was not the same as Christmasses remembered and mourned.
In the Summer of 1943, roughly scribbled words appeared demanding ‘The Second Front Now’, on bridges and walls and on semi-demolished houses. The paint was patiently removed, only for the words to reappear somewhere else almost immediately. Patricia saw them and wondered if a Second Front would really mean the end of the war, as the daub artists obviously thought, or just more deaths.
Weeks drifted on, in a kind of limbo, as people managed, coped, and waited for it all to end. There had been no word from Roland and only Jacky continued to write. His letters were brief and contained nothing more than his plans for extending his business once the war was won. Matthew had never reappeared and Marion and Joanne continued to live at his cottage undisturbed. Joanne had gone back to work and her parents, who relented as soon as the baby arrived, had taken charge of him completely.
Patricia stayed on at Woodcutter’s Row. Mrs Francis looked after Richard while she was at work but then she would collect him and take him back to Woodcutter’s Row. Nelda had gone back to work when he was six months old and, although she finished sooner than Patricia, she made no attempt to collect her small son.
So far she had not asked Patricia to leave and Leonard hoped that if his daughter did go, it would be without the baby.
It was Patricia who got up in the night to see to the baby’s needs, changing him, soothing him through the discomfort of his first teeth, taking him to Nelda to be fed when necessary. It was also Patricia who took him to the doctor when necessary, although she noticed that Nelda would be there showing concern when she returned from one of these visits.
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