It Had To Be You

by June Francis

  Betty had her mind set on trying to get into Liverpool’s School of Art after leaving the grammar school in Waterloo next year. Betty’s art teacher had told Aunt Elsie that she had talent, but her aunt had said that she didn’t want her niece messing around with paint but to get herself a proper job and earn some money. When Betty had argued with her, Elsie shook a finger at her and said, ‘You’re a very fortunate girl. Your mother and I never had the opportunity to go to grammar school and I’ll not have you wasting your time with arty people. You want a decent job, so you can meet decent men. You’re bound to marry because you’ve got a way with you, just like your mother.’

  Betty felt a familiar anger. She had worked hard to pass the scholarship, so it wasn’t as if it had been handed to her on a plate. And how was she fortunate when she was an orphan? She was definitely in no rush to settle down, marry and have babies. She wanted to make something of herself, not be some man’s slave.

  She uncurled her body that showed all the signs of burgeoning womanhood and got to her feet. She was hungry. Pocketing the letter, she hurried into the kitchen and checked to see whether there was a loaf in the bread bin. She cut a slice of bread and spread it with shop-bought plum jam. If Aunt Elsie had been there she wouldn’t have been allowed to eat between meals. Her aunt just didn’t take into consideration how hungry a growing girl could be.

  Suddenly she caught the sound of the key being scrabbled up the door, clinking as it went through the letter box. Swiftly she swallowed the last of the jam bread and wiped the corners of her mouth and poured herself a cup of water. She was calmly drinking it when her aunt and younger cousin entered the kitchen, carrying several shopping bags.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ asked Elsie sharply, dumping two bags on the table and staring at her niece.

  Betty’s eyes widened. ‘Whatever do you mean, Aunt Elsie? I haven’t been up to anything. I’m standing here, minding my own business, drinking a cup of water. What’s the harm in that?’

  ‘Don’t give me cheek! You’ve got that look on your face. It’s the same one our Lizzie used to wear when she’d been doing something she shouldn’t.’

  Betty was astounded at this mention of her mother. She found it difficult to believe that Lizzie had ever done anything wrong. Her mother had been one of the most sensible and kindest people she had ever known. She thought bleakly, why did God have to take the good ones like her mother and Uncle Owen? Why couldn’t he have taken Uncle Teddy or her Aunt Elsie, instead? She was always up in the air about something. It showed in her restless movements and her twitching face. No wonder she looked older than her age: crow’s feet at the corner of her hazel eyes and grooves going from her nose to her chin. Her hair was no longer the natural gingery red that ran in her side of the family but was going grey. She was busty and had legs straight like tree trunks and they were mottled with sitting too close to the fire during winter. She wasn’t at all like Betty’s mother.

  ‘Well, are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to?’ demanded Elsie.

  ‘I’ve been round at Irene Miller’s house, listening to records,’ said Betty. ‘Her brother, Jimmy, who’s in the merchant navy, has just brought her the latest Johnnie Ray from America. It’s called “All of Me”.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t waste time with her,’ said Elsie, frowning. ‘And why listen to that caterwauling rubbish? He wails “cry-i-ing over you”,’ she sang in quite a decent voice. ‘Mario Lanza! He’s the one you should be listening to.’

  ‘You like “Because You’re Mine” don’t you, Mum?’ said Maggie.

  ‘That’s right, love,’ said Elsie, giving her younger daughter a look of approval. ‘You know a good singer when you hear one.’

  ‘I think he’s great,’ said Maggie, heaving a sigh. ‘I like Danny Thomas, too. Remember him in that film last year with Doris Day?’

  ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams,’ said Betty. ‘He sang “It Had to Be You”.’

  ‘That was a lovely song,’ said Maggie.

  Betty leant her back against the table and folded her arms across her bosom and smiled. ‘You’re a romantic. There are plenty of singers with voices just as good as them. Frankie Laine, for instance.’ She began to sing ‘Mule Train’.

  ‘I can do without you belting that out,’ said Elsie, emptying potatoes onto the table. ‘You can start peeling these, Betty.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, opening a drawer and taking out the potato knife. ‘But what about his version of “Jealousy” and that one he sang with Jo Stafford, “Hey, Good Lookin”?’

  ‘Enough!’ cried Elsie, putting her hands to her ears. ‘I’ve a blinding headache coming on. Maggie, you fry the sausages. I’m going to take some Aspro and have a lie-down.’

  ‘There’s a letter for you from Jared on the sideboard,’ said Betty.

  Her aunt’s expression altered. ‘Why didn’t you say so straight away?’ She hurried out of the kitchen, picked up her son’s letter and went upstairs.

  ‘I’m going to have to put everything away, as well as cook the sausages now she’s gone,’ complained Maggie. ‘She should have come home from town when I suggested. She got all hot and bothered and I thought she was going to faint.’

  ‘I heard her talking about hot flushes to next door the other day and something about “the change”,’ said Betty.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Something women go through when they reach her age. I think it means they can no longer have babies.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Maggie. ‘Why should she go all faint because she can’t have babies anymore?’

  ‘Don’t ask me!’ said Betty. ‘Your mother never tells us girls anything. It was your Dorothy who had to tell me about periods when I started with them.’ She changed the subject. ‘Did your mother buy you anything new?’

  ‘Only white gloves. I lost one of the pair she bought me at Christmas. She was a bit narked about it to be honest. I felt guilty because she said she didn’t want to be spending money out on gloves for me again,’ said Maggie gloomily.

  ‘If she’s so short of money, she should make you do without,’ said Betty firmly.

  Maggie looked annoyed. ‘I have to have a pair of gloves to go to church.’ She placed several packets on a shelf in the larder. ‘Remember Dad? Until he got ill, he was really generous when it came to finding ways to provide us with pocket money.’

  Betty recalled how they’d had to earn their shilling by making him a cup of tea or going to the shops for his cigarettes or evening Echo. Fortunately, since her mother’s death, she had found herself a little job doing messages for an elderly widow down the road. This she kept quiet about because she was convinced her aunt would take the money from her if she knew about it. As it was, Betty had managed to save her shillings and had them hidden away in an old sock beneath her mattress.

  Fortunately, her aunt didn’t set foot in Betty’s bedroom as she was expected to keep it clean and change the bedding herself. As soon as their evening meal was over, she planned on going up to her room and writing a reply to Emma’s letter. She decided not to mention it to Maggie, just in case she went and told her mother. This would be Betty’s secret.

  Emma was hoeing the vegetable patch when she heard the squeak of the postman’s bicycle brakes and then footsteps approaching the front of the house. She dropped the hoe and raced up the garden and into the house, wondering whether it was another response to the second advertisement she had placed in the Clitheroe Advertiser and Times or if it was a reply to her letter from her half-sister.

  On the mat lay a single envelope. She snatched it up, noticed the postmark and wasted no time in opening the envelope. Inside was a lined sheet of paper that looked like it had been torn from an exercise book, with handwriting that slanted to the right in bright-blue ink. A lot of words had been crammed onto the single sheet. She recognised the address on the right-hand side and her gaze went swiftly to the signature at the bottom. It was from Betty!

  De
ar Emma,

  Thank you for your letter. It was a real thrill to get it. My mum had told me that I had a half-sister living with her grandparents, but I was only little at the time and I’d almost forgotten about you. Anyway, I’m not going to gabble on because there’ll be no paper left and I don’t want to run out of ink. I’d like to meet you and suggest that we do so outside the Forum cinema on Lime Street in Liverpool next Saturday. You can’t really miss it as it’s on a corner, and if you come out of the left-hand side of the railway station and go down towards Lime Street, it’ll be dead ahead of you. I hope one o’clock will be OK but don’t write back, just turn up. I mightn’t be as lucky in getting my hands on your letter before my aunt does next time.

  Look forward to seeing you,

  Betty Booth

  P.S. I don’t mean this coming Saturday, but the next.

  The postscript made Emma smile and convinced her that her sister really did want to make certain that she arrived at the appointed spot on the right day. A week gave her plenty of time to prepare and it was good that Betty was making allowances for her not knowing Liverpool that well. It was obvious that she hadn’t told her aunt about Emma writing to her.

  The question now was whether she would have the time to meet Dougie as well as Betty. She decided to write and let him know that her half-sister had been in touch and tell him the time and the place where they were meeting. If he was not on duty, then perhaps he would suggest a rendezvous later in the day? It would be lovely if they could spend time together. Her heart that had been racing after her dash up the garden now seemed to bounce inside her chest just at the thought of seeing Dougie again. She was going to have to keep her fingers crossed that it would happen. Life had taken on a whole new and exciting direction from that which she would have envisaged a year ago. She could not wait to see both of them.

  * * *

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  Betty almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Teddy’s voice. She had not realised he was in the house. Did she dare pretend she had not heard him and wrench open the door and go out?

  ‘Are you deaf, girl?’

  He seized her by the shoulder and Betty stiffened. ‘Let me go! I’ve an appointment that I must keep,’ she blurted out.

  He spun her around and she saw that he was wearing a towelling dressing gown but his short bowed legs were bare and hairy. He was only the same size as her but of stocky build and there was an expression in his muddy grey-brown eyes that made her feel uneasy.

  ‘That isn’t an answer. Meeting a boy, are you?’

  ‘No!’ she said indignantly. ‘But even if I was, it’s no business of yours. You’re not my real uncle. Uncle Owen was that!’

  ‘Don’t you give me bloody cheek. You’re just like your mother, the way you speak to me.’ He ran his hands down her back and pulled her against him.

  ‘Y-you know nothing about my mother,’ she stammered, her knees beginning to tremble even as she struggled.

  ‘That’s right, fight me,’ he said against her ear. ‘Lizzie thought herself above me and went off with that bloody artist. A lot of good it did her. Both of them are dead now.’

  ‘Don’t talk about my parents like that,’ cried Betty. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Not bloody likely. We don’t often have the house to ourselves like this, do we, girl?’ His voice had sunk to a hiss, reminding her of a snake.

  She couldn’t speak, terrified of what he might do to her. Then there came the sound of voices outside on the step and he released her abruptly, causing her to fall against the wall. ‘One word, girl,’ he whispered, slapping both her cheeks lightly, ‘and you’ll regret it. I’m the man of the house and my word goes.’

  He made for the stairs and scurried up them in no time.

  Instead of waiting for the front door to open and facing her aunt and cousin, Betty turned and ran through the house and out into the garden. Her heart was hammering against her ribs as she made her way along the side of the house. She peered around the corner to see if Elsie and Maggie had gone inside. There was no sign of them, so she wasted no time running towards the bus stop on the main road. She prayed that if she was late at the meeting place, her sister would wait for her.

  Emma had read the poster advertising the film Reluctant Heroes, showing at the Forum, several times. She had arrived too early, hoping that Betty might be early, too, as Emma had arranged to meet Dougie early evening.

  ‘Emma?’ A hand touched her arm, startling her.

  She whirled round and saw a freckle-faced girl. She was wearing a navy blue gabardine mackintosh that was unbuttoned to reveal a blue and white gingham frock. She looked older than Emma expected, despite the ginger hair tied in bunches and the navy blue beret.

  A warm feeling welled up inside Emma. ‘Aye, I’m Emma Booth. I take it you’re Betty?’

  Betty smiled. ‘That’s me. I know I’m late and I was worried you mightn’t wait.’

  ‘After coming all this way, I’d have waited quite a while, luv,’ said Emma. ‘Ever since I found out about you I’ve been wanting to meet you.’

  ‘As soon as I read your letter I felt the same. I’ve always wanted a sister. We don’t look like each other, though, do we?’ said Betty. ‘I take after my mother’s side of the family.’

  ‘I think I must get my looks from our father,’ said Emma. ‘My mother was blonde and more fragile-looking than I am.’

  ‘Do you have a photo of our father?’ asked Betty eagerly.

  Emma shook her head. ‘I hoped you might have one.’

  Betty frowned in thought. ‘I’m sure there’s one of him with Mum somewhere. I remember seeing it when I was younger. Maybe Aunt Elsie has it in the box where she keeps the insurance policies, old birthday cards and things.’

  ‘I’d be really pleased if you could find it. I do have a birthday card Dad made for me when I was three,’ said Emma. ‘I thought you might like to see it, so I brought it with me. Maybe we can go somewhere, so we can sit and talk?’

  ‘What about Lyons café across the road?’ suggested Betty. ‘My cousin Maggie goes there with my Auntie Elsie when they come into town. I do have a couple of bob, so I can pay my way.’

  Emma smiled. ‘That’s all right. I think I can afford to treat my little sister.’

  Betty’s eyes lit up. ‘Thanks! I appreciate that because I don’t get much in the way of pocket money since Aunt Elsie married again. But I do have a little job.’

  They crossed Lime Street and went inside the café and sat down at a table and picked up a menu. A waitress came over to the table with a notepad and pencil and gazed at Emma expectantly.

  ‘A pot of tea for two,’ she said.

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  Emma looked at Betty. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Seeing as you’re paying you choose.’

  ‘What’s your favourite cake?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Chocolate, but I don’t expect you to buy that because it’s dear. A scone will do me. After all, you’ve had the cost of the journey,’ said Betty seriously, leaning across the table towards her.

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Emma, smiling. ‘But if you ever come to visit me, I’ll make you a chocolate cake as good as my grandmother used to make before the war.’

  ‘You like baking?’ said Betty, interested.

  ‘I’m good at it and I know I’m the one who shouldn’t be saying that. The proof is in the tasting,’ said Emma. ‘Right now I would like to taste what the scones are like here and see if they match up to mine.’

  She gave the order and watched as the waitress moved away before taking Lizzie Booth’s letter and her father’s birthday card from her bag. She slid them across the table towards her half-sister.

  Betty picked up the card first and inspected it. ‘It’s good! I like art, you know, but my aunt wants me to have what she calls a proper job. I don’t know why she thinks money can’t be made from studying art.’

  ‘You must take afte
r our father.’

  Betty blushed. ‘I like to think so. What do you like to do?’

  ‘I earn money from bookkeeping. I also enjoy knitting and crochet work, as well as cooking, of course.’

  ‘That’s creative. Mum was a good cook,’ she added, gazing down at the letter open on the table. She felt a catch at her heart as she recognised her mother’s handwriting and for several moments could only see the words through a blur of tears.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Emma in a gentle voice, placing a hand over her half-sister’s on the table.

  ‘It’s just seeing Mum’s handwriting suddenly like that,’ said Betty, her voice unsteady.

  ‘I still get upset about Granddad. It’s so hard when you lose someone you’ve known and lived with all your life. I got the impression that your mother Lizzie was a kind and thoughtful person. I would have liked to have met her.’

  Betty lifted brimming eyes to Emma. ‘You do understand. She was the best person I ever knew and very different from her sister, my Aunt Elsie. She gets all wound up if I mention Mum, so I don’t get to talk about her often. I sometimes feel that if I could talk about her more she wouldn’t seem so dead.’

  ‘Do you dream about her?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Was your mother pretty?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Betty took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘She didn’t have freckles like me and her hair was a much nicer shade of red. I sometimes wonder whether Aunt Elsie was jealous of Mum and that’s why she doesn’t like to talk about her.’

  ‘It’s possible that your aunt just might find it too painful to talk about her. After all, they were sisters and must have been fond of each other, if your mother decided the pair of you should move in with her family.’

  Betty stilled. ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘Is your aunt unkind to you?’

  ‘Not really. We just don’t always see eye to eye. Although she’s been more difficult since she remarried.’ She fell silent, toying with her handkerchief.