Wartime Family

by Lane, Lizzie

  ‘So where did he find them?’

  Stanley continued with his evasive manner. ‘I don’t know, but he said there’s loads of criminals back round where we were living. He said—’ He stopped suddenly.

  Mary Anne frowned. ‘Go on, Stanley. What else did this man say?’

  Her youngest son stood like a block of wood, his eyes carefully averted from his mother’s face, and Mary Anne didn’t like it, she didn’t like it at all. Stanley’s attitude, on top of everything she’d been through these past few months, suddenly became too much to bear. Grabbing his shoulders, she brought her face down to his level and gave him a good shake.

  ‘Don’t you dare keep secrets from me, Stanley! Don’t you dare! Now tell me. What did he say to you?’

  Her eyes were blazing and her loud voice took Stanley by surprise. The bike went crashing against the wall. Wide-eyed, Stanley stood with his fists clenched at his side and whispered so quietly that she didn’t catch what he said. She asked him to repeat it. ‘Now,’ she said, just when it looked as though he might change his mind.

  ‘He said that it was your fault we were living in a place like that. He said women couldn’t be trusted to do things right without a proper man around!’

  Mary Anne stared at him. All the hurt, all the anger of most of her married life erupted in one swift slap. Stanley’s face reddened. He looked shocked, but he didn’t cry and didn’t answer back.

  ‘Now pick up that bike and get inside,’ she shouted.

  Stanley’s eyes went to the brown carrier bag. ‘My skates …’

  Mary Anne pointed to the dark passageway inside the front door. ‘Inside!’

  Tears stinging his eyes, Stanley did as ordered, leaving the bicycle leaning against the wall just before the stairs.

  ‘Now go and wash your face and hands,’ ordered Mary Anne, though not so stridently. She regretted raising her voice the moment Biddy Young’s parlour door opened and her fleshy face peered out.

  ‘Your Stanley up to no good then, Mary Anne?’ She said it with a knowing smile. Her youngsters had made a career out of being no good. The youngest had only just started work and had already been sacked for thieving.

  Mary Anne was in no mood to take any criticism, except perhaps from herself.

  ‘No fancy man tonight then, Biddy?’ she asked, glancing beyond Biddy to the scruffy room.

  Biddy’s pleasure at hearing Mary Anne lose her temper was soon wiped from her face. ‘I haven’t got one – not one you’d call a fancy man as such. He just pops in when he’s passing by. I expect he’s busy at the moment.’ Her features sagged as though she were storing lead in the corners of her mouth.

  Mary Anne didn’t need Biddy to tell her that the ‘fancy man’ hadn’t called for quite a while, that perhaps he’d tired of Biddy’s blowsy company.

  Sensing Biddy needed to unburden her woes, Mary Anne relented and offered what any friend would. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’

  Biddy wiped her fingers across her nose. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’ve got biscuits.’

  Biddy brightened immediately. ‘Lucky sod! Where did you get them then?’

  Mary Anne smiled and tapped the side of her nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to guess at.’

  They settled into the kitchen at the back of the house. Mary Anne noticed that Stanley’s tea – bread, margarine and a scrape of plum jam – lay untouched on the table.

  Biddy noticed it too. ‘Don’t your Stanley want his tea then?’ The legs of the chair closest to the plate scraped noisily along the floor. Food was Biddy’s big passion, a far bigger passion than men. Wartime rationing was sheer torture, though you wouldn’t think she went without much judging by the rolls of fat resting on her thighs.

  Mary Anne concentrated on lighting the gas beneath the kettle. Her palm still stung with the aftershock of slapping Stanley’s face. She was filled with remorse, more so because Biddy had heard everything.

  ‘So how’s the family?’ she asked as she carefully portioned spoonfuls of tealeaves into the pot.

  ‘They’re all fine,’ said Biddy, her face filling out as she smiled. ‘My boys look ’andsome in uniforms, even if I do say so meself. My Alf would ’ave been proud as a peacock to see ’em.’ At mentioning Alf, Biddy dabbed at the corner of one eye with a grubby fingertip. ‘God rest ’is soul’

  Biddy went on to relate what her boys were up to. One was in the navy, one in the army, the latter having been rescued from Dunkirk.

  ‘They was the bravest lads of all at Dunkirk,’ she went on. ‘And so was them in their little boats that came to rescue them. If if hadn’t been for them, my Cedric would be no more than bleached bones on a baking beach.’

  Mary Anne didn’t inform her that Dunkirk was just across the English Channel and therefore the temperature wasn’t much different from England. Instead she poured the tea.

  ‘Still, it gets a bit lonely with only me youngest at ’ome,’ said Biddy, her attention momentarily diverted to Mary Anne prising off the lid of the biscuit barrel. ‘And I do miss my Alf.’

  ‘Of course you do. And I bet you’ve got more than one admirer lining up to take his place,’ said Mary Anne, offering her the open biscuit tin. She gritted her teeth as Biddy took two, then dived in and took another two.

  Biddy tittered like a silly girl. ‘Well there was one. He was a lot younger than me, mind you, but he told me he liked mature women, and anyway, he didn’t think I looked old enough to have grown-up sons.’

  Mary Anne almost choked. If she’d had biscuit crumbs in her mouth, she would have spattered them all over Biddy. Instead she managed to hide her amusement behind her teacup and took the tiniest sip possible.

  Biddy sighed. ‘I think he must have been posted. He was in aircraft engineering, you see. Could have been sent anywhere at a moment’s notice, he told me. Very important war work, you see.’

  Mary Anne asked when she’d last seen him.

  ‘About a week before you got here,’ said Biddy. ‘Shame that.’

  She makes it sound as though I’ve got something to do with it, thought Mary Anne. ‘Never mind,’ she said, hiding her feelings behind a watery smile. ‘As you said, he was doing important war work and was bound to go sooner or later.’

  On dunking the last biscuit and sucking it dry, Biddy’s attention returned to the biscuit tin. Mary Anne pretended not to notice her interest, and slammed the lid on and returned the blue and white barrel to its shelf.

  Biddy sighed heavily, whether due to her lost love or the loss of the biscuit tin, Mary Anne couldn’t be sure. She was just about to ask the name of the man who had stolen her heart when she heard Henry shouting from the passageway.

  ‘Here comes your lord and master,’ muttered Biddy and got up from her chair. She paused before leaving. ‘How’s he been?’

  Mary Anne raised her eyes to meet those of her old friend. She wanted to say that she felt as though she were at the beginning of a race, waiting for the starting wire to spring into the air. Only it wasn’t a starting wire; it was Henry’s temper simmering just beneath the surface.

  The door flew open. Henry stood there, his face flushed and his eyes blazing. The stink of beer wafted from his breath and his clothes.

  ‘Who gave him those bloody skates?’

  Mary Anne got up and took the dirty cups and saucers to the sink.

  ‘They’re his own. He lost them but someone found them and gave them back to him.’

  ‘I suppose the Kraut bought them for him! Bloody stupid idea. If I catch ’im skating in the house again, I’ll take them off ’im and chuck ’em in the river!’

  Mary Anne knew better than to answer. Trying hard not to quake with fear, she turned her back on him, concentrating on pouring boiling water on to the crockery. She added a handful of soda crystals.

  Biddy eased towards the door, giving a nervous wave once she’d got there. ‘I’m going now, Mary Anne. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said in a sickly, scared voice, her eyes
flitting between the two of them before dashing out the door. Henry reached out and slammed it shut.

  He paused for a moment, admiring the curve of his wife’s back, the way her buttocks swelled beneath the simple cotton frock. His eyes lingered there.

  ‘A hard-working man is entitled to a drink,’ he slurred, swaying slightly as he made his way across the kitchen to the sink.

  Before she had time to step aside, he’d slapped his hands on her hips, groaning with satisfaction as he slammed his groin against her behind.

  ‘Let me go!’

  The rim of the sink dug into her stomach. His fingers dug into her hips as he scrabbled at her dress.

  ‘You’re me wife,’ he muttered, his blood rushing to his groin despite the drink. It had been so long – far too long.

  Mary Anne stopped struggling. What had she expected him to do? She’d kept him at bay for a few days only. His talk about being teetotal and churchgoing had some truth about it, but deep down she’d known he wouldn’t keep to it. Henry regarded himself as master in his own house. What he wanted, he got. She’d come back of her own free will. He could do as he liked.

  She closed her eyes, both hands clasping the kitchen tap as he bent her over. She felt his hands groping at his flies, closely followed by the hard heat of his erection.

  Please let it be over quickly! she silently prayed.

  The back of her dress became bundled around her waist. The elastic waistband of her knickers strained around her thighs. Goosebumps raced over the expanse of bare flesh. The heat of his loins was on and in her, his hands squeezing her breasts.

  He groaned when it was all over, his breath hot against her neck. ‘You’re me wife,’ he said once he’d done up his fly buttons and she’d rearranged her clothes.

  He fell immediately into a drunken stupor, sprawled in a brown chair. The old springs moved in time with his snoring and horsehair stuffing pushed through the holes.

  She stood completely still, looking at him. He’s only taken a husband’s rights, said a small voice in her head. He hasn’t hit you.

  No. He hadn’t hit her. She’d seen the joy in his eyes when she’d appeared on the doorstep that day. To her surprise, he’d been accepting of the terms of her return, the request that he give her time to readjust.

  ‘I’ll come to your bed when I’m ready,’ she’d said.

  With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, he’d agreed to her terms. So why after just a few days had he returned to some of his old ways? And how long before she had bruises to hide and cuts to blame on the slip of a bread knife?

  Perhaps she’d have stood things a little longer if it hadn’t been for Stanley.

  Her youngest could be relentless about the fish and chips he so enjoyed. It was hard asking him to do without because of the rationing. But still he carped on. One night when Mary Anne was rolling a precious piece of pastry for a pie, the tension boiled over.

  Henry came in smelling of drink. Stanley was on him in seconds. ‘Dad, I could really do with some fish and chips. I’m starving. Have you got a shilling, Dad? A sixpence would do.’

  Mary Anne could see trouble looming. Gone was the cheery disposition Henry used to adopt in days gone by. Back then it was only her to whom he’d shown his darker side. Now she was afraid for Stanley.

  ‘Stanley. Leave your father alone. He’s been at work all day.’

  ‘No he ain’t! He’s been in the pub!’

  Out of the mouths of children …

  No sooner had the thought occurred to her than Henry grabbed Stanley by the shoulder of his pullover, swinging him around like a rag doll. ‘I’ll teach you, you little …’

  Mary Anne stepped between the two of them, tugging at Henry’s arm and pushing Stanley backwards. ‘Leave him alone!’

  He raised his hand. She raised her rolling pin, her eyes blazing with an anger Henry was not accustomed to.

  ‘Stanley! Get our things. We’re going.’

  She could not believe the strength of her voice, her tight grip on the rolling pin. She held Henry’s attention as she never had before.

  ‘We’re going,’ she said firmly and knew she certainly would.

  Upstairs Stanley stuffed everything they’d brought with them into two bags. Reaching beneath his bed he brought out his secret object given him by the man in the trench coat. He’d done as the man had said that day, tucking it beneath his pullover, the roller skates diverting his mother’s attention.

  Carefully rewrapping the item in a pair of trousers, he placed it at the bottom of his bag. Finally, after a few layers of underwear and pullovers, he covered it with his skates.

  He paused. How about taking one more look at it? The temptation was too much. He couldn’t resist. Silently he unwrapped the cloth from around the barrel and laid the gun in his hand. It was real; he was sure it was real.

  At the sound of his mother’s footsteps racing up the stairs, he quickly returned the gun to its hiding place. He didn’t need it – at least not yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lizzie and Guy managed to sneak another two days aboard the boat. The rain was drumming on the roof like a thousand fingers.

  Lizzie lay next to Guy, cosy beneath the bedcovers. Both were looking at the ceiling, as though concentrating their minds might make it stop. Guy had checked the tanks and found a little fuel, enough for a small trip, but the weather had put paid to all that.

  ‘Doesn’t it ever stop?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, snuggling against him, relishing the scent of his skin in the aftermath of sex. ‘We can go again when the weather breaks.’

  ‘In the summertime?’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘This is summer.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  She stroked the tufts of unruly hair growing at his temples. The rest of his hair was quite straight and dark. The tufts were blond and wavy, swirling over his brow.

  ‘I’d like to live on a boat someday,’ he said, a faraway look in his eyes and a dreamy note in his voice.

  ‘This boat?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Lizzie imagined herself living on a boat with him. It wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind. The boat could accommodate two quite comfortably, but what if there were more than two; three perhaps, or even four? She couldn’t help voicing what was in her mind.

  ‘There’s only room for two. Any more than that and it could be extremely crowded.’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s OK. Visitors would have to manage.’

  Lizzie lowered her eyes and rolled away from him on to her back. ‘I wasn’t talking about visitors. I was talking about a family, when your divorce comes through and you remarry.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sorry, honey. I wasn’t thinking about that.’

  The drumming on the roof intensified.

  ‘Where would we live?’ Lizzie asked him. ‘Here or in Canada?’

  ‘Canada of course.’

  He hadn’t asked her for a preference. There would be no discussion. He was Canadian and had no intention of living anywhere else. In one respect the prospect of living in a foreign land excited her. But what about her family? Her feelings were too big to keep inside. ‘I’d miss my family.’

  ‘You’d get used to it. I’m missing mine – my parents, that is.’

  The flat way he said it surprised her. If she wanted him it would have to be on his terms, that was clear. She pushed away the sudden comparison between him and her father. Guy wasn’t at all like her father. He didn’t drink so much as her father, and he wasn’t hot tempered. On the contrary, he could be quite cold at times – but only in response to insubordination, she reminded herself and was reassured.

  The sound of gentle breathing told her he’d fallen asleep. She looked at him sleeping, the dark lashes resting on the high cheekbones. He had a dimple in his chin – quite a deep one. She smiled as she poked her small finger into it. He murmured something but didn’t open his eyes.

  ‘I’m going to have a c
igarette,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t smoke,’ he murmured and rolled over on to his side.

  She couldn’t blame him for being tired. He was continually flitting about the countryside and from one country to the next. He’d never fully explained what his trips back and forth to America were about, except that when he was there he travelled up to see his parents in Canada.

  ‘When time allows,’ he’d said to her.

  ‘Do you visit your wife too?’ she’d asked him.

  ‘Only when my lawyer tells me to get my tail up there and sort a few things out.’

  He’d kissed her afterwards and made her feel warm all over. Confirmation that the separation from his wife was proceeding stopped her enquiring about his war work. He was in charge of squadrons, took part in operation planning, but still there was something else, something he was loath to discuss.

  Don’t worry about it.

  Wrapping his jacket around her nude body, she tiptoed across to where he’d left a packet of Camel cigarettes sitting on the table. She slid one out, looked for a lighter but saw none.

  It must still be in his pocket, she thought.

  She reached into the pocket of the jacket she was wearing. Her fingers touched the lighter. She drew it out. A piece of paper came with it and fell to the floor.

  The letter was written on sweet-smelling paper, the sort that had disappeared within months of the war starting.

  She hadn’t meant her eyes to fall on the signature – or perhaps subconsciously she had. The insecurity of loving another woman’s husband had never quite gone away, even though he assured her that he and Pamela – that was her name – were in the throes of getting a divorce.

  Curiosity got the better of Lizzie. Carefully the letter was unfolded and flattened. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the signature. For a brief moment she thought about refolding the letter and shoving it back into Guy’s pocket, but it was too late. Her eyes were already scouring the words. There was nothing in this letter about a divorce. Quite the opposite – the woman was calling him darling! She’d signed off Your affectionate and ever loving Pamela. Guy had said their divorce was amicable, but this amicable?