Soldier's Daughter, The

by Goodwin, Rosie

  He breathed deeply and stared out across the overgrown gardens to the sea, saying, ‘I think I’d quite forgotten what fresh air smelled like. Thank you, my dear.’

  Briony then went on to speak of what their life had been like back in Nuneaton and he listened avidly, keen to have news of his daughter. In no time at all they were chatting away ten to the dozen but then glancing at the clock, Briony rose and said reluctantly, ‘I ought to be getting on now. I’d like to finish the hallway before Grandmother gets back.’

  A hint of disappointment shone in his eyes but he said immediately, ‘Yes, of course. You get on, my dear. But if you should need anything, come and see me – and don’t let my wife make you work too hard now.’

  Briony skipped away feeling a million times better than she had since first arriving, and soon she was hard at work again.

  She was just washing out the mop bucket when Alfie and Sarah came hurtling in, their faces alight.

  ‘Our school is really nice, Briony,’ Alfie told her, his little face animated. ‘An’ our teacher, Mrs Fellows, is really nice an’ all. We’re to start next Monday.’

  ‘There are some other children there who ’ave been evacuated too,’ Sarah rushed on. ‘An’ I met a girl called Annie who’s from London. She’s gonna be my friend.’

  ‘Well, how nice is that then?’ Briony grinned and hugged them both, but then the happy moment was spoiled when their grandmother barged into the kitchen, her face flushed with anger.

  ‘Just what did you think you were doing girl, leaving my husband sitting at the side of an open window?’ she stormed.

  Briony flushed. ‘I thought the fresh air would do him good,’ she answered quietly.

  ‘Well, in future don’t think! Your grandfather is a very sick man – and if he catches a cold now, it will be your fault!’

  Briony bit her tongue, sensing that nothing she said would make things any better. The woman was clearly determined to pick fault with her and she hadn’t even mentioned the hall tiles, which were now at least three shades lighter than they had been.

  ‘Very well.’ Her eyes were mutinous as she stared back at the woman, who bristled before turning about and stamping from the room, making the feathers on her hat wobble all over the place.

  ‘I don’t like her, especially when she shouts at you,’ Alfie said, his happy mood gone. ‘When can we go home, Briony?’

  She forced a smile to her face. ‘Oh, don’t you get worrying about me – and why would we want to go home yet? You have your new school to look forward to, and I for one want to go back down onto the beach again.’

  As Alfie recalled the jolly time they had spent on the sand the day before, his smile slowly returned. Briony was right: although he wasn’t that keen on his grandmother, there were lots of pluses to living here too, so he supposed that they would just have to make the best of things.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Mrs Dower returned at lunchtime to prepare the meal, her face was grim. ‘Caden was reading in the newspaper this morning about the total number of people killed and severely injured in London from August up till now,’ she reported to Briony, keeping her voice down. The children were outside, but she didn’t want to risk them overhearing. ‘Those wicked German bombers are murderers, that’s what they are. Those poor Londoners must be going through hell.’ The housekeeper had never been to London, but she was very patriotic, and full of praise for Queen Elizabeth and her visits to the East End. ‘It also said that Southern England Commands are on full Invasion alert now.’

  Briony was shocked. Her thoughts turned to Ernie and she prayed that he was safe. She hoped that there had been no more bombs dropped on Nuneaton either. Seeing how distressed Mrs Dower was, and hoping to change the subject she said, ‘That’s just terrible, isn’t it. Look – I’ve been thinking. If you were to tell me what you were going to cook each day and get the necessary food over to me, I could do the midday meal for us all.’

  ‘Your grandmother’s not going to be too keen on that,’ Mrs Dower said uncertainly.

  ‘I can manage,’ Briony promised her. ‘And as I said before, I could do the breakfast for everyone too. Surely that would be a help to you – and it would keep me busy while the children are at school. I’m not going to have anything else to do, am I? So you’d be doing me a favour really and stopping me from being at a loose end.’

  Mrs Dower thought it over. She had refrained from putting Briony’s offer to Mrs Frasier up until now but she supposed the worst the woman could do was say no.

  Two hours later, as she was just about to leave again, she told Briony, ‘The missus says you can give it a try for a day or two and see how you do. But if it gets too much for you, just say. Meantime I’ll send Howel over with the milk, bread, meat and cheese, and anything else you’ll be needing, early each morning. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds marvellous.’ Briony quite enjoyed cooking and was looking forward to it, although she wasn’t quite so happy at the thought of having to serve her grandparents their meals. Marion Frasier was bound to pick fault, but she decided she would cross that bridge when she came to it. At least it would allow her to see a little more of her grandfather.

  She spent the next hour scrubbing the kitchen floor, another job which was long overdue. Not that she blamed Mrs Dower. The poor woman did her best but there was only so much that one person could do. She could hear the children laughing as they played outside in the sun, but then Alfie came dashing in to tell her, ‘There’s a big lorry comin’ up the drive, Briony. Who do yer suppose it is?’

  ‘I should imagine it’s your Uncle Sebastian,’ she answered. ‘Grandmother told Mrs Dower he was coming home today.’

  The little boy shot off again, keen to catch his first glimpse of his uncle and Briony suddenly felt nervous. After all the things she had heard about him, she wasn’t sure quite what to expect. The large van pulled around to the back of the house and drew up in front of the locked barn. From the kitchen window, Briony saw the driver get out but she couldn’t see his passenger. The driver was a great bear of a man with an ugly scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to his chin. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days and his dark hair was heavily oiled.

  To Briony, he looked like one of the gangsters she had read about in crime novels borrowed from the library back home. She watched as he unloaded some large boxes and went off into the barn with them. Then he came back and she shuddered as she saw him checking a number of polished wooden coffins before carrying them into the barn too with the help of another man. He glanced towards the house and afraid of being seen spying on him, Briony hastily left the window and went back to polishing the large dresser, which was thickly coated in dust. After a time she heard the van pull away and then Alfie and Sarah came back into the kitchen again accompanied by the second man she had seen, who looked remarkably like her mother. He had the same fair hair and the same blue eyes – but his were wary.

  ‘So you’re Lois’s firstborn then?’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes, and you must be our Uncle Sebastian.’

  ‘Just call me Seb, everyone else does,’ he answered as he eyed her up and down. Briony squirmed uncomfortably; she felt as if she had been put under a microscope.

  Alfie broke the uncomfortable silence when he piped up, ‘Me an’ Sarah saw you unloadin’ big boxes. They’re called coffins, ain’t they? An’ they’re what yer put dead people in.’

  Sebastian smiled, totally transforming his face as he nodded in reply, saying, ‘They are that. Sadly we’ll all end up in one eventually. But not for a long time, I hope.’

  He was remarkably handsome when he smiled and Briony felt herself beginning to like him. He looked so like her mother that it would have been hard not to. He, on the other hand, could scarcely believe that Briony was his sister’s child. She was absolutely nothing like Lois – although the other two were the spit out of her mouth.

  Sebastian had very mixed feelings about
the children being there. His mother had washed her hands of Lois years ago when she’d run off with James Valentine. Now his father had relented and accepted the children back into the fold. He just hoped that this would not affect his inheritance. When the old dears snuffed it, he intended to be their sole beneficiary now – and the last thing he needed were these kids worming their way into his parents’ affections. However, he couldn’t really see that happening – not with his mother at least. If truth be told, Marion Frasier had been glad to see the back of Lois when she went. His father was a different kettle of fish entirely though. Lois had always been a Daddy’s girl, which was why he himself had also been glad to see the back of her. Thankfully he couldn’t see the old man outliving his mother, and she was putty in his hands. He sighed. He’d certainly have to soften his mother up this evening because he had yet another gambling debt that he needed her to settle. Oh, he knew she’d complain and tell him that money was tight, and that he had to stop this way of life, but he’d get round her, he always did.

  As for these kids . . . he glanced at them all thoughtfully. They seemed nice enough and the oldest might even be a help about the place. He couldn’t see his old dear not taking full advantage of her. They’d be going home once the war was over and if his parents died before then, this place and all they owned would be his anyway and he’d simply chuck them out. Feeling slightly better about things, he smiled disarmingly at Briony, noting that she was trying not to stare at his damaged hand.

  ‘I copped this in Singapore,’ he told her. ‘Shot straight through, it was, and a lot of the nerves were damaged. Can’t use all my fingers now sadly, but worse still they invalided me out of the service. Still, shouldn’t grumble really, you learn to live with it.’ He shook his head as if this were some great tragedy and saw the sympathy in her eyes. Women were so easy to fool. He wondered what she would think if he were to tell her the truth: that he had deliberately shot himself so that he could come home. The way he saw it, he would rather be a live coward than a dead hero, and by doing this he could hold his head up and be admired.

  Turning towards the door he told her, ‘Right, I’d best get off and go and see the parents. Nice meeting you all. Bye for now.’

  ‘Crikey! Uncle Sebastian is really brave, ain’t he?’ Alfie’s eyes were like saucers. He had never met anyone who had been shot by a real live bullet before.

  ‘Not so brave as our dad was,’ Briony said chokily, and instantly wished that she could retract the words when Alfie’s face fell and Sarah’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Of course Uncle Sebastian is very brave and you two must be very good and not get under his feet. He runs Grandfather’s business in Penzance so I would imagine he’s very busy when he’s at home.’

  ‘I wish we could get a proper look at the coffins,’ Alfie commented and Briony couldn’t help but smile. Why was it that little boys liked to be so gory? Show them anything to do with guns or blood and guts and they seemed to be happy.

  Martha Brindley was standing in her front window waiting for Lois to return from her shift cleaning the pit offices. She had cooked them both a meal and hoped that if she could catch Lois before she went into her own home, she could stop her from drinking. She was really worried about her. Since the children had left she seemed to have sunk into a deep depression and lost the will to live. Her neighbour sympathised with her, but at the same time she wanted the children to have a home to come back to after the war – and if that meant keeping a beady eye on their mother, then so be it.

  She had been standing there for some time when she saw Lois turn the corner, and quick as a flash she was out of the front door and waiting on the pavement for her. Lois looked nothing like the glamorous woman she used to be. Her hair, in which she had always taken such pride, was now lank and scraped back to the nape of her neck with a thin ribbon. She was wearing flat shoes instead of her customary high heels, and devoid of make-up she didn’t stand out from the other women in the street.

  ‘Hello, luvvie,’ her neighbour greeted her. ‘I was hopin’ to catch yer. I’ve done us both a bit o’ Spam an’ mash fer us tea. It ain’t much fun cookin’ fer yerself, so come an’ join me, eh?’

  Lois hovered uncertainly, like a butterfly that was about to take flight. ‘Well I er . . . I was hoping to go and check if a letter from the children had arrived,’ she answered lamely. She really did appreciate how kind Mrs Brindley was, but she wasn’t very good company at the moment and would have preferred to be alone.

  ‘The postie didn’t bring nothin’ fer neither of us today. I know ’cos I was out cleanin’ me doorstep when he went by.’ Then seeing Lois’s face fall, Mrs Brindley went on in a gentler voice: ‘They’ve only been gone fer a few days, duckie. You’ve got to give ’em time, an’ yer know how the post is at the minute. It’s about as regular as my bowels – which ain’t sayin’ a lot.’

  Crossing to the door she held it wide and let Lois step by her into her tiny immaculate front room. Lois sighed as she glanced about her. She knew when she was beaten. The floor was covered in brown linoleum, and the edges round the carpet were so highly polished you almost risked your life or at least a broken leg if you trod on it. A large, rather faded patterned rug covered the centre of the room and that was taken out weekly, thrown across the line and beaten to within an inch of its life. A small dark grey moquette two-seater settee stood against one wall and on either side of it were matching armchairs, their cushions plumped up and placed just so. Next to the fireplace was a tall wooden plant stand with turned legs housing a huge aspidistra plant. The leaves on it shone; Mrs Brindley washed them almost daily with a drop of watered-down milk from her precious ration. Snow-white lace curtains hung at the window, and were taken down to be washed on the first of the month, be it rain or shine.

  This was what Mrs Brindley termed her ‘best room’, only to be used on high days and holidays and very special occasions. The only thing that marred the look of the room was the tape that criss-crossed the inside of the window – a stark reminder that the glass could implode into the room should the bombs drop too close to them. Lois wondered how her friend managed to keep everything looking so immaculate. She had never had either the time or the inclination to bother too much about her own home. In fact, it was only now that James and Briony had gone that she realised just how much they had used to do. If she had a meal or a drink now she would find the dirty pots exactly where she had left them the next morning, whereas before she would have come down to find them washed and put away. It was all very depressing and made her more aware than ever of what a failure as a wife and mother she had been. Perhaps the children would be better off with her parents after all?

  As she squeezed by Mrs Brindley the older woman thought she smelled a waft of sherry on her breath. I bet she had a tipple afore she set off for work, she thought to herself, but she kept her voice cheerful as she ushered her neighbour through into the back room and motioned towards the table which was all set for two.

  ‘Sorry it’s only Spam again,’ she said as Lois shrugged off her coat and took a seat. ‘I don’t know about you but I’d kill fer a decent joint o’ meat, but then I suppose we should be grateful that we ain’t starvin’. There’s a lot worse off than us.’

  Lois nodded, her eyes dull as she thought of all she had lost. The house felt so empty now. It was funny when she came to think of it. They had never seemed to have enough room when they were all at home and yet now it seemed enormous. But the silence was the worst. The place used to ring with the sounds of the children laughing or squabbling, and there had been times when she had felt like banging their heads together and begging them to give her a bit of peace, but now the silence was ominous – until she’d had a few drinks, that was, and then nothing seemed so bad.

  She tried to look enthusiastic as Mrs Brindley put a plate in front of her but her stomach revolted. The woman had fried the Spam and the potatoes had been mashed with milk, for gone were the days
when butter could be spared. All Lois really wanted to do was go home and finish the half-bottle of sherry she had left at the side of the chair that morning. But even so she forced most of the meal down, wondering how long she would have to wait before she could politely excuse herself. Mrs Brindley had a heart of gold, but Lois longed to be left alone to wallow in her misery. James was never coming back, she had accepted that now, and she might never see her children again – so what was the point of anything?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mrs Dower had just fetched the dirty dishes from the Frasiers’ dining room that evening when the telephone rang in the hall.

  Alfie wriggled in his seat, his eyes wide. The nearest he had ever got to a telephone before was the one in the big red box at the end of their street back home, and he’d decided that his grandparents must be very rich indeed if they could afford to have one in their house.

  ‘That’ll probably be someone who’s lost a loved one,’ Mrs Dower said quietly. ‘It’s a good job Master Seb is home, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why would they ring here?’ Briony asked.

  ‘Because the shop is shut. During the day Mr Page would deal with it but after closing time the calls come here. No doubt he’ll get the hearse out shortly and go and pick up Morris Page to help him collect the body and take it down to the funeral parlour.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘It is that,’ Mrs Dower agreed. ‘And not the nicest of jobs – but then someone’s got to do it, haven’t they?’ The words had barely left her lips when Sebastian walked through the kitchen, heading for the back door.

  ‘Tell Mother there’s been a death up in the village, would you, Mrs Dower?’ he said. ‘It’s old Ned Clark. His wife just telephoned.’