It Had To Be You

by June Francis

  ‘So what are you going to do about money?’ asked Lila.

  ‘I’ll decide that after I’ve sorted out Granddad’s papers. There’s loads of stuff in his bedroom. At least he had several insurance policies, though they were only for tuppences, sixpences and one for a shilling a week. Fortunately he made a will after Grandma died and left the cottage to me, so I don’t have to worry about having a lawyer to sort things out.’

  ‘I wish I could stay and help you,’ said Lila.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’d have to scrutinise everything myself anyway, to make sure I don’t miss anything that could be important.’

  Emma’s gaze was suddenly caught by the cat crawling out from beneath the sofa. It walked stiff-legged towards the fireplace and stretched out on the rag rug and rolled over. At least she was not completely alone in the house but had Tibby for company. Emma bent over and tickled the white fur on the cat’s tummy and she purred.

  ‘You’re soft with that cat,’ said Lila, smiling faintly. ‘A dog would have been much better company. You could have taken it for walks and it could have caught you a rabbit for the pot.’

  Emma glanced up at her friend. ‘She’s a good mouser. Besides, cats are more independent. You can’t just leave a dog to fend for itself if you have to go away anywhere.’

  ‘I suppose you have something there. Mam would never let me have a pet. But what about the hens? Doesn’t she chase the hens?’ asked Lila.

  ‘Not since she was pecked a couple of times,’ replied Emma, thinking she was going to have to buy some chicken feed if she were to keep the hens. Although, right now she was wondering if she could afford the expense of feeding them. The roof was leaking and the window frames hadn’t seen a coat of paint for several years.

  Soon after arranging with Lila to meet the following morning, Emma saw her friend out, then she put the kettle on for another cup of tea. She hurried upstairs and hung the black astrakhan coat that had once been her grandmother’s in her own wardrobe. It was freezing in the bedroom and she wasted no time carrying the cardboard boxes from her granddad’s room downstairs to the kitchen.

  She leant over to the wireless perched on a shelf in the alcove next to the fireplace and fiddled with the knobs until she recognised the signature tune of Workers’ Playtime coming from a factory somewhere in Britain. It was a programme that had started during the war to encourage productivity and still featured famous singers, musicians and comedians of the day. Her granddad had really enjoyed singing along to the music. She felt the tears well up again and this time she allowed herself the luxury of a good cry. Then she mopped her face and drank her cooling tea before turning her attention to the boxes.

  Each had a label stuck on with the contents written in her grandmother’s neat hand. It had been heart-wrenching watching the old woman slowly succumb to the painful form of arthritis that had eventually affected her heart and killed her, but her grandmother had never complained.

  Emma took the top from the old chocolate box with a pair of fluffy white kittens depicted on its lid and soon discovered that the contents were a mishmash of old bills, postcards from various seaside resorts, and letters. Perhaps her granddad had rifled through them after the death of her grandmother and that was why they were in such disorder. The ink had turned to sepia on some of the letters tied up with yellow ribbon. There weren’t many of those and they proved to be addressed to ‘Ma and Pa’.

  As she began to read them Emma realised that they had been penned from the front by her dead uncles during the Great War. She read no further, unable to bear their poignancy. She did not want to dwell on the sadness in her grandparents’ lives right now. They had suffered so much, first in losing both their sons and then their only daughter, who had been born late in life to them. It was a relief to turn to the next box which proved to contain more bills going back years to the last century. It was interesting discovering the different prices of goods but she knew that she must not waste time.

  She reached for the next box and here she found birth and death certificates, as well as her grandparents’ marriage certificate. There was no sign of her parents’ marriage certificate or her own birth certificate. What she did find were the deeds to the house, which proved to be an interesting document. Apparently the house had been used as a shop and tea room in her great-grandmother’s day.

  Emma rose and placed the document on the table, knowing she had to keep it with all the certificates in a safe place. Then she returned to her task of sorting. Now she came across birthday cards, some addressed to her mother, Mary, during her girlhood, others belonging to her grandparents and uncles, and there were several that were addressed to Emma. One was made from stiff card and appeared to have been hand-painted. It was in the form of a number three with tiny teddy bears, dolls, flowers and birds filling up the space. It wished her a happy birthday and was signed love Daddy with three kisses.

  Her heart seemed to flip over. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, thinking that her father must have made this himself. Had he been here for her third birthday, or had it been sent from somewhere else? There was no envelope. She sat, clutching it against her and wishing she could remember him. What kind of man could make something like this and yet part from his wife and never send his daughter another birthday card?

  She rose from the chair to place it on top of the deeds and certificates before continuing with her task, listening with only half an ear to the jokes of Charlie Chester on the wireless. Shortly after, she switched off the programme and made another cup of tea before resuming her place and taking the last box onto her knee.

  It was at the very bottom of a pile of old newspapers, one dated 1918 proclaiming that the guns had fallen silent along the front, that she found a single letter. It was dated August 1940 and began Dear Mrs Harrison …

  The address on the top right-hand side was in Liverpool. The paper was stained as if at one time it had been affected by damp and yet the newspapers above it were perfectly dry. Had someone cried over this letter? Her gaze went swiftly to the bottom of the page to the signature of a Mrs Lizzie Booth. Emma’s heart gave a peculiar lurch. Could this letter be from her father’s mother? She began to read its contents and soon realised her mistake.

  Dear Mrs Harrison,

  This will be the last time I will write to you, if I receive no reply to this letter. Perhaps you are no longer living at this address but I would have thought if that was so, then the new tenants would have returned my husband’s letters, as well as mine. But perhaps you have received them and chosen to ignore them. But what I have to say now concerns my husband’s daughter, Emma. I am sorry to inform you that William was killed at Dunkirk.

  Emma had to pause and take several deep breaths before rereading that last sentence again and continuing.

  In his final letter to me he asked that I try once more to persuade you to allow Emma to have some contact with us. He so wanted his two girls to grow up knowing each other. Is that too much to ask? I beg you not to ignore this letter. I am certain that it would be of benefit to Emma to get in touch with me and for her to meet my daughter Betty.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs Lizzie Booth

  Emma reread the letter twice through a blur of tears. So it was true that her father was dead! How long after her mother’s death had he married again? How old was her half-sister? Perhaps it had been one of those quick wartime weddings. Yet it seemed her father had not forgotten about Emma after all and had wanted to see her again. Why had her grandmother kept this information from her? His widow must have badly wanted to fulfil his last wishes if she had persisted in writing to this address despite her previous letters being ignored.

  Emma felt hurt and angry, believing it was too late now to do anything about it. She wondered if her granddad had known about the letters. Somehow, she thought not. With trembling fingers she folded the letter before putting it on top of the birthday card her father had sent her. Or was it too late? Aye, it was too late to get to know her father but perha
ps it was not too late to meet her half-sister and stepmother. Maybe that was why her grandmother had not destroyed the letter but had intended her to find it one day?

  Emma knew that she could not ignore her discovery. How odd it felt thinking about having a stepmother. It reminded her of those stepmothers mentioned in fairy tales. Yet the little she knew about Lizzie Booth from reading her letter convinced Emma that she was in no way similar to the wicked stepmothers in Cinderella or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  A faint smile twisted Emma’s lips. It was possible that Lizzie Booth had given no more thought to her when she had not received a reply to this letter. But what if she had not forgotten her? What if Emma went to visit the address in Liverpool and explained matters to her? She felt a stir of excitement as well as trepidation at the thought of visiting the city. The furthest she had ever travelled was to the Lake District and Blackpool, and always in the company of her grandparents.

  Of course, it would cost money to go to Liverpool. Could she afford the trip? Probably not, and yet she felt that she must go. She glanced towards the window and saw that the snow was still falling. Obviously it would be sensible to wait until the weather improved. It might also be a good idea to talk to Lila’s parents about her mother and father before making the journey to Lancashire’s premier port.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day when Lila called round to the house, Emma asked her whether she had mentioned her father to her parents. ‘I did as it happens,’ said Lila, smiling.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Emma eagerly.

  ‘Mam said that your da’, William Booth, was a handsome devil and could charm the birds from the trees. Apparently he spoke just like them announcers on the wireless. He never actually lived here, you know.’ Lila’s grey-blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment at dropping this gem of information. ‘Although, it turns out that his great-grandparents were from this area. They were married in the parish church but lived up the hill in Wiswell. When the mill at Barrow closed down for a while during the last century, they left in search of work and they ended up in Liverpool.’

  Emma was stunned. ‘So my dad came from Liverpool?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Emma was silent, thinking about her stepmother’s letter. ‘I’ve met a few Scousers on the fells and they certainly didn’t talk BBC English.’

  ‘There are bound to be posh areas in Liverpool as well as slums,’ said Lila. ‘Think of shipowners, doctors and the like.’

  ‘Even so,’ muttered Emma, frowning. ‘How would an ex-mill worker make enough money in the big city in Victorian times to end up speaking posh? Anyway, Gran and Granddad Harrison certainly weren’t well off.’

  ‘Your granddad owned this cottage, so he wasn’t on his uppers.’

  ‘No, but it was left to him, and Granddad had to continue working until he was an old man and he didn’t have that much in the way of savings. He had to eke out his money with living so long.’ She gnawed on her lip, digesting this new information. ‘If my dad was from Liverpool, I wonder how he and Mam met? Did your mam say?’

  ‘She was a bit reticent about that. I mean, I think she would have told me if Dad hadn’t given her a look.’

  Emma pondered on that nugget of information and then said firmly, ‘I must talk to your parents. I found something yesterday and I’d appreciate their thoughts on what I’ve discovered.’

  Lila smiled. ‘Well, you’re in luck. Mam’s changed shifts and will be home this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m made up about that,’ said Emma, her eyes lighting up. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘What did you find by the way?’ asked Lila curiously, watching her friend put on the Great War-style black astrakhan coat trimmed with rabbit fur over the shop-bought black jumper and skimpy black skirt that Emma had bought for the funeral of her grandmother. Lila knew that her friend had not had any new clothes since then, although she was not alone in that. Their families had all had to make do and mend during the war and its aftermath.

  ‘A letter from my stepmother.’

  Lila’s jaw dropped. ‘What stepmother?’

  Emma glanced at her over her shoulder. ‘The one my dad married after my mother died and who lives in Liverpool with my half-sister.’

  ‘Blinking heck, Em, I’m sure Mam doesn’t know anything about a stepmother. What was she doing writing to you?’

  Emma pulled on her black beret and flicked back her chestnut hair. ‘She wrote to Gran, telling her that my dad was killed at Dunkirk. By the sound of it she and Dad had written before and their letters had been ignored. Apparently my dad wanted his daughters to grow up knowing each other.’

  ‘Blinking heck, who’d have believed it!’

  ‘I’m thinking of going to Liverpool to look them up.’ Emma reached for her bag and put it over her shoulder.

  ‘I’d do the same if I were in your shoes,’ said Lila, almost enviously.

  ‘There’s the cost of the fare, of course,’ said Emma, grimacing. ‘So perhaps it would be more sensible just to write to her.’

  ‘But it’s an adventure, Em! Just think of going all the way to Liverpool! I wouldn’t mind going there myself, only me mam and dad wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Then in that case, your mam’s hardly likely to encourage me to go,’ said Emma dryly.

  Lila puffed out her rosy cheeks and then let out a long breath. ‘It’s different for you. You’re going to see relatives, not just to have fun.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll see what your mother has to say,’ decided Emma, ‘although we’re both old enough to do what we please.’

  ‘I know we are but it’s difficult to go against your parents when they’ve brought you up and you’re their only chick,’ said Lila.

  As they trudged through the snow along the road in the direction of Wiswell, both girls were silent. Emma was conscious of the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She tried to imagine what it must be like living in a bustling, crowded, smoky city without a field or hill in sight and where people were strangers to each other, but she found it difficult because it was beyond her experience.

  At last they arrived at the Ashcrofts’ house and Emma could see Lila’s father’s face at the window. Pity for him touched her heart. He seldom went outside the house because he had difficulty walking. They went inside and he gave Emma a nod. She murmured a greeting and hung her coat over the back of a chair and sat down whilst Lila went in search of her mother.

  Emma glanced about the overcrowded room at the various knick-knacks and wooden models set on every available surface before her gaze came to rest on Mr Ashcroft again. He now seemed completely unaware of her presence and she watched his slender fingers working with glue and matchsticks. He spent most of his days either gazing out of the window or making models from matchsticks whilst listening to music on the wireless. A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray at his elbow.

  Emma thought his models were brilliant but Lila had told her that her mother was getting fed up of them, complaining that they would soon be running out of space to display them. Right now it appeared he was making a model of the nearby ruined abbey before it had fallen victim to Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. At the moment the model was a creation of delicate tracery and beauty. There was a box of matches on the coffee table close to hand and Emma picked it up to see how many there were left in it.

  ‘So, Emma, Lila tells me you want to speak to me,’ said a woman’s voice, startling her so that the box of matches slipped from her fingers and disappeared from sight.

  Emma looked up and saw Mrs Ashcroft standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. Her hair was several shades darker than her daughter’s and she had determined, strong features with a hooked nose.

  ‘That’s right. What’s Lila told you?’ asked Emma in a rush.

  ‘Apparently you’ve got a stepmother and a younger half-sister living in Liverpool. Well, I know what I’d do, lass, I’d stay where you are. I’ve only been to Liverpool twice
in my life. Once to catch the Isle of Man ferry to go on my honeymoon and secondly to meet the troopship that brought Jack here home from Burma. It’s noisy, dirty and there’s so many people you wouldn’t believe it. There’s prostitutes, thieves and drunks staggering about, aside from the sailors from all parts of the world. It’s not the kind of place for a well-brought-up country girl, as your mother—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What were you going to say about my mother?’ asked Emma swiftly.

  ‘I didn’t intend saying anything,’ said Mrs Ashcroft, sitting down in a chair. ‘But now I’ve started I suppose I’d better tell you.’

  ‘Jane!’ Mr Ashcroft gave his wife a warning look.

  ‘It’s too late for that, Jack,’ she said. ‘Emma should have been told years ago and then it wouldn’t come as a shock to her.’

  ‘What should I have been told?’ asked Emma, paling. ‘Is it that my parents weren’t married and that I’m-I’m—’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Mrs Ashcroft, looking shocked. ‘I was going to say that your mam ran away to Liverpool when she was only eighteen, and when she came back it was with you and she was already suffering from the consumption that would kill her. I will add that she was wearing a wedding ring, as well as a lovely diamond-and-emerald engagement ring.’

  Emma’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘So I’m not a bastard child.’

  Mrs Ashcroft clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘No need to use that word in this house, but you understand, Emma, why you’re best staying away from such a sinful place.’