She managed to smile back at him. ‘I don’t think I could cope with visitors the way I am now,’ she said, putting a hand over her growing bulge. ‘Maybe after he’s born.’
‘It’s up to you, darling,’ Alex said, getting up from the table and kissing her goodbye.
As he left for the mill he said, as he had every morning since she’d told him about the baby, ‘Don’t go overdoing it now. Remember the doctor said you must rest.’
She nodded dutifully, telling herself it was good that he cared, although it still irritated her when he chided her for overdoing things. She’d tried to make him see that it was natural to feel a little tired at the end of the day. And she was a healthy young woman – the doctor had told her there was no reason why she shouldn’t carry on normally as long as she felt able to. Sometimes she felt that it wasn’t her Alex was concerned about, but the baby.
He probably felt she was putting her work before the welfare of their child, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t combine a career with motherhood. Her own mother had done it – out of necessity it was true. But Mary had gained a satisfaction and fulfilment from nursing in addition to her very important contribution to the family finances. Ellie didn’t need to work – not for money anyway. But she had always felt that her life was incomplete without her art. And earlier this year, when she’d been feeling so depressed, it was her art that had saved her.
Alex didn’t mind her doing it in her spare time, but she didn’t want to be a hobby artist. There was far more satisfaction in seeing her creativity giving pleasure to others. If it came to it, Ellie wouldn’t give in easily. She would fight for what she wanted.
Harry served the queue of customers, automatically exchanging his usual backchat with the regulars, but his heart wasn’t in it. Mary was out of hospital but he was worried about her. Even a couple of months after her operation, she was still weak.
She’d been warned to do only light housework, but Harry often came home to find Mary leaning on the edge of the sink, her face pale and drawn, as she struggled to peel potatoes for their evening meal. He did his best to help but there weren’t enough hours in the day. If Bert lent a hand, things would be easier. Fat chance, he thought.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, there was his concern for Sid. He seldom complained, although it was obvious he was in pain and he refused to go to the doctor.
‘I don’t want to die in ’ospital, ’Arty. I wanna be in me own bed,’ he said, clutching his stomach, his forehead beaded with sweat, even though the day was freezing.
‘You won’t die, Sid. They can do wonders nowadays,’ Harry told him with more conviction than he really felt. He didn’t want to believe his old friend was dying but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long.
Sid knew it too, although he continued to make light of his symptoms. He heaved himself up from the chair which Harry had provided to replace the wooden box he’d always used as a seat. ‘I’m a bit tired, son. You can carry on ’ere, can’t yer?’
‘Yeah, go home, mate. I’ll bring the takings round later,’ Harry told him. ‘Won’t be able to stay long though.’
‘Mary still poorly, is she?’ Sid asked.
‘Not too bad – but she will overdo it. I can’t get her to rest.’
‘That lazy bugger of a husband should pull his weight. I bet ’e don’t do sod all.’
Harry didn’t answer. The mere thought of Bert made him see red. Fortunately, he spent more time hobnobbing with Tommy and his cronies than he did at home and Harry managed to keep out of his way. It was at times like this that he wished he’d stayed in the army. But what would have happened to Mary if he hadn’t been there? Sheila hardly ever came round these days and Ellie had disappeared, apparently without trace.
When Sid had left, Harry found himself thinking about Ellie, as he did so often these days. When Mary was taken ill he’d been determined to find her and had used some of his precious savings to hire a private detective. He’d made enquiries in Colchester, where the cards Ellie had sent had been posted, but had drawn a blank.
‘The thing is, Mr Scott, she may not want to be found,’ the detective said, shrugging. ‘She could have got someone else to post the cards for her.’
Harry didn’t want to believe that Ellie had cut herself off deliberately. She’d been hurt and unhappy when she ran away, scarcely more than a child. Even if she regretted her hasty action she probably thought her family wouldn’t forgive her. If only he could find her, he would make her see how much she was loved and missed. He pictured the joy on Mary’s face when she was reunited with her long-lost daughter – a tonic that would surely set her on the road to recovery. If only for his foster mother’s sake, he’d have to try once more to find her. He tried not to think what it would mean to him to have her home again. But just to know she was safe and happy, surely that would be enough….
He called in at Sid’s flat and made him a hot drink, leaving it on a side table with his tablets. ‘Make sure you take them – and if you still feel bad in the morning, don’t worry about the stall. I’ll manage,’ he said as he went out of the door and down the stairs. The newsagent’s shop under the flat was closed, Mr Cook having locked up and gone home to his wife and family hours ago. Harry reflected that if Sid were taken ill during the night there’d be no one to hear. He should have the phone put in, he thought, resolving to see to it himself.
It had rained earlier in the day and with nightfall the air had grown colder. The wet pavements underfoot were slippery but he strode along, anxious to get home.
Seating himself opposite Mary, Harry thought the cosy domestic scene was reminiscent of the days before he’d joined the army – times when, like today, Bert had been working late – or more likely was down the pub. He smiled across at Mary, who had her feet on the little wooden stool he’d made for Ellie so long ago.
She had picked up a magazine and was idly flicking through it.
‘I didn’t know you’d been out,’ he said. ‘You should have asked me to get the shopping.’
‘I picked this up in the surgery,’ she said.
‘What did the doc say?’
‘Just gave me some more pills.’ She shrugged and turned a page. Suddenly she gasped, the magazine fluttering to the floor.
‘What is it? Are you all right?’ Harry grabbed her hand, which was icy-cold.
She pushed him away. ‘It’s OK. I just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. But it couldn’t be – I must have been seeing things.’
‘Something must have upset you,’ Harry said.
Mary picked up the magazine, folding it back to reveal a coloured photograph. ‘I was just being silly,’ she said with a little laugh. She thrust it at him. ‘I thought for a moment – it looks just like her.’
Just a quick glance was enough. There was no mistaking that smile. Harry felt the colour drain from his face as he held the picture up to the light for a closer look.
The article was spread across the centre pages and Harry waited until he’d read every word before speaking. It could have been a coincidence – a girl who looked like Ellie and just happened to be good at design. But by the time he got to the end, he was convinced. In addition to the girl’s looks, there was the name – Helen Scott Cameron. And she worked from a studio in Essex, not far from where they’d had the first postcard. What really convinced him was the picture of the butterfly-and-flower design. He’d seen something very similar not long ago, when he’d gone into Ellie’s old room and been disturbed by the sight of her early paintings still pinned to the walls.
‘It is her, Mum. It’s our Ellie.’
Mary snatched the magazine back and devoured the photograph, tears streaming down her face. ‘She’s safe – I always knew deep down she was all right. And to think she’s got her own business – and making a success of it too. She must have married as well.’
Harry’s stomach lurched as the significance of Ellie’s name change hit him. He could understand her calling herself Sco
tt and Helen was only a different version of Ellen. Cameron must be her husband’s name. But that didn’t matter, they’d be able to find her now. He put his arm round Mary. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. We’ll get in touch with the magazine – that’s if you want to.’
‘Want to? Of course I do – she’s my daughter. I have to see her.’ Mary leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘Why hasn’t she been in touch with us?’
Harry patted her arm. ‘She probably thinks we’re still angry with her for running away.’
‘Her father is,’ Mary said. ‘He’ll never forgive her. You know he won’t have her name mentioned. Perhaps we should let well alone.’
‘But, Mum—’
‘No. She knows where we are. She’s the one who should write to us.’ Mary picked up the magazine, staring for a few moments at the spread of words and pictures. Then she screwed it up, threw it down and without another word got up and stumbled out of the room.
Ellie carefully folded the last of the scarves and placed it in the box. ‘All ready for delivery tomorrow,’ she murmured.
She glanced at her watch. Time to get on with her latest painting before Alex got home. She went across to her easel and studied the design critically.
She was finding it harder to come up with something new. Perhaps she should never have embarked on these abstract designs. But for Carnaby Street it had to be ‘new’, the next big fashion. So different from those for Sylvia – she knew just what her customers wanted.
She needed a change of scene – fresh sights to inspire her. Ellie fondled her bump. Already she felt like the side of a house and had little energy for anything besides her painting – and there was ages to go yet. Ellie sighed. Alex now seemed resigned to her carrying on her ‘little cottage industry’ as he called it – at least until the baby came. Although she’d nodded agreement, she was determined not to give up. Alex still didn’t know about her contract with the printing firm in Chelmsford or her dealings with the Carnaby Street shop. For weeks after the magazine article had come out she’d held her breath every time he came home, or when the phone rang.
Not that they ever had proper rows. No, Alex was always sweetly reasonable, his demands framed as requests and, she knew, prompted by his concern for her and the baby. But when he did find out, she knew he’d be furious.
She should confess, she thought, despising herself for her weakness. Why couldn’t she speak up for herself, make him see that motherhood shouldn’t stop her carrying on her business? Meanwhile, she must get on with this wretched design, otherwise she’d have no customers to do business with.
The flash of anger directed at herself served as a spur to her creativity and she splashed bold colour on to the paper stretched on her easel. For the original paintings, she’d started using designer’s gouache, an opaque paint which came in vibrant colours more suitable for the modern designs. Then the painted design was copied on to a screen for printing on to the lengths of silk.
Soon, she was lost in her work and, as usual when things were going well, she completely lost track of time. At last, she threw down her brush and stepped back to admire the finished painting, sighing and rubbing her back.
‘Darling, there you are. Have you been working in here all day? You know you shouldn’t be doing so much now.’
Alex’s voice made her jump and she turned angrily. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that,’ she said.
‘Creep! A herd of elephants could walk in here when you’re painting and you wouldn’t even notice.’ He gave a little laugh and came towards her. ‘Seriously, though, you do look tired.’
She shrugged him away. ‘I’m all right, Alex. Please don’t fuss.’
She carried on washing her brushes and cleaning her palette. When she’d finished he was waiting for her by the door and she felt a little guilty that she’d been so brusque. But as they turned out the lights and locked the studio door before going across to the house, she realized he hadn’t even commented on her painting.
They had finished supper, a casserole left to cook slowly in the oven while Ellie worked, when she asked Alex if he’d take her in to Colchester the next day. ‘I can come back on the bus,’ she said. ‘That’s if you really think I shouldn’t drive myself.’ She had to admit that recently it had become a bit uncomfortable to get in and out of the car – not that she’d admit that to Alex.
‘I’m sorry, Ellie. I have to go to Manchester tomorrow – another crisis up there, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll have to take the car then. I promised Sylvia I’d deliver her scarves this week.’
‘Didn’t you say you were going to give it up?’
‘This is the last lot.’
Alex sighed. ‘That’s what you said last week.’ He threw down his napkin and stood up. ‘If it’s so important to you, I’ll, deliver the stuff to Mrs Marshall – just this once. But no more, Ellie. I will not have you wearing yourself out like this. The baby comes first.’
‘I’m perfectly fit.’ Ellie’s irritation rose again. Would he never allow her a shred of independence? ‘Besides, I’ve hardly been out of the house for days.’
‘I know, darling, but I worry about you. I’ll be away a couple of days this time and you wouldn’t want me getting in a stew, would you? Look, I’ll try to get back for the weekend and we’ll go up to Southwold on Sunday – a bit of sea air will do you good. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’
His smile mollified her. Was it so bad that he cared? She knew he wasn’t keen on visiting her friends and accepted that he was trying to please her. ‘I’d love it, Alex. I haven’t seen Norah for ages. And thank you for offering. Tell Sylvia I’ll phone her later.’
It was only after she’d gone to bed that she realized she hadn’t asked Alex about the crisis in Manchester. There seemed to be rather a lot of problems in their northern mill lately. He was always dashing up there these days. At one time, Alex would have discussed it with her. When she’d been his secretary he’d been pleased at her interest in the business, using her as a sounding board for his ideas and confiding any problems. Once they were married, she felt as if he had put her in a different compartment in his life. But if something was wrong, she’d rather know about it.
She could hear him moving about in the next room. It sounded as if he couldn’t sleep either. If he was worried she ought to try to get him to share his problems. But, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, another thought struck her and she sank back on the pillows. What if he’d found someone else? Suppose his frequent trips to Manchester were to see another woman?
She was surprised at the pain the thought gave her. She believed that Alex loved her, was looking forward to fatherhood. Surely he wouldn’t risk what they had just for the thrill of an affair? For she was certain that’s all it could be. Her stomach twisted as she realized she didn’t blame him. She knew what men wanted – even a man as gentle and loving as Alex. And she hadn’t been able to give it to him. It wasn’t just sex either. She hadn’t given him her heart – not wholly. Yes, she had tried, had told herself repeatedly that Alex was all she wanted, that she was happy. She counted her blessings daily – a lovely home, her own business, freedom from financial worry, the love of a good man. The girls she’d grown up with would be more than content with that. But it wasn’t enough. Without love, it was all meaningless.
As she turned over and buried her sobs in the pillow, Ellie’s only comfort was that soon she would have someone she could truly love. Her baby would grow up surrounded by love, smothered in it. He would never know the insecurities and tensions she’d had.
Let Alex have an affair, if that made him happy. Just so long as he was a good father and provided a stable home for their child.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Harry’s steps dragged as he left the building, his shoulders hunched. Had he really expected anything else? The woman in the magazine office had been sympathetic but had refused to give Ellie’s address or phone number. He couldn’t blame her. After all, he could
be some sort of nut – a jealous boyfriend or business rival.
He ought to get back to the stall but surely there was something he could do. The magazine hadn’t given the name of the shop which sold Ellie’s scarves, but it should be easy enough to find. Not that he was likely to get much joy there either.
On impulse, he jumped on a bus going towards Oxford Circus. He had to try for Mary’s sake, at least that’s what he tried to tell himself as he found a seat and pulled the now crumpled magazine from his pocket. Ellie’s clear brown-eyed gaze seemed directed just at him and a lump formed in his throat as he stared at the photo. He’d never really believed she’d run away just because he’d kissed her. It must have been something else. And whatever the trouble was, she must have known he’d help her. Was it too late? He hoped not, for he’d realized from the moment he saw her face smiling up at him from the magazine that he still loved her – always had, always would.
The bus jerked to a stop and he pushed past the other passengers, plunging into the maze of streets that made up the Soho district. Despite the cold, the Berwick Street market was crowded with shoppers and Harry fought his way past, searching for the shop featured in the article. The air was rich with spicy cooking smells and his stomach rumbled. But he couldn’t stop to eat.
He walked for a long time, stopping frequently to ask directions, until he turned a corner and found himself in Carnaby Street. This was more like it. Even the people looked different – mostly young, smartly dressed in clothes that would raise eyebrows where he lived. The latest fashions took a while to reach their part of London and short dresses with knee-high boots in shiny plastic were the exception rather than the rule in Bethnal Green. Harry looked in one of the windows and gasped as he saw the price tag. No wonder he didn’t see many girls in Kendall Street dressed like this. But no one here turned a hair – at the fashions or the prices, it seemed.
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