by Annie Groves
In her final paragraph she had added an apology to Luke for bothering him with her problems when he had so much to face, and then added an extra few words, having remembered that she hadn’t told him yet about what had been said at Rainbow Corner, about the Allies already being aware of the plight of the Italian population and that steps were already being taken to help them.
She had guessed from his last letter that they were advancing on Rome. She hoped he would find the people there in less dreadful circumstances than the people of Naples, and reflected not for the first time that she was glad that Luke wasn’t involved in the assault on Monte Cassino, which was costing so many Allied lives.
‘What do you mean, we can’t get engaged?’
They were in the pub where Kieran had taken her to discuss their pretending to be planning to get engaged. Outside its doors, spring flowers were blooming in the hedgerows and on the banks of the stream that flowed through the village, where Lou had seen a duck and her ducklings as she cycled past on her way to meet Kieran.
‘It’s because of Sasha. I should have thought, but I didn’t, and now it’s even worse. The most dreadful thing has happened. Bobby, her fiancé, has had to have his leg amputated, and Sasha’s written to me asking me if I’ve got any leave due. She needs me, Kieran.’
‘Yes, I can understand that, but how does her needing you affect us getting engaged?’
‘When we first met you, she loved you, Kieran, just like I did, and well, I don’t know if she ever really stopped loving you. Don’t you see how impossible it is for me to tell her that you and I love each other, when she’s there with Bobby so badly injured? We quarrelled dreadfully over you, Kieran, and I made it worse when she first got engaged. It was only this Christmas that we finally made things up. She asked me to promise her then that I’d never let anything or anyone come between us again and I agreed. Now if I tell her that we’re engaged, she’ll think I’m breaking that promise. We need to wait until…’
‘Until what? Until when, exactly? You said you loved me.’
‘I do,’ Lou insisted. She could see that Kieran was angry, and of course she didn’t blame him.
‘Well then, it’s you and me you should be putting first, not your sister. You’re acting like a kid – the kid you were when I first met you. Perhaps that’s what you still are.’
‘No, Kieran. Just let me go and see Sasha and find out—’
‘What? If she’ll let you get engaged to me?’ Kieran shook his head. ‘Don’t bother. I thought you and me had something special. I thought…’ He shook his head again as though unable to find the words to explain his feelings. ‘When two people love one another they put each other first, not their ruddy sister.’
‘Kieran, that’s not fair.’
‘Isn’t it? How would you feel if I told you that I wasn’t allowed to love you because my sister didn’t want me to?’
He had a point, Lou knew.
‘It’s different with twins,’ was the only lame answer she could come up with, but all it seemed to do was further ignite Kieran’s anger.
‘Twins! Don’t remind me about that. Caused me enough trouble, the pair of you did back in Liverpool, without you causing me any more. The trouble is that I thought you’d grown up and become a woman, but I was wrong. Well, I’ll tell you what, Lou – you go and find out if your twin will let you love me, but don’t bother coming to tell me what she said, because I don’t want a girl who needs permission to love me; I want a girl – a woman – who knows her own mind and who makes it up for herself. I thought you were that girl, but obviously you aren’t.’
‘Kieran,’ Lou protested, but it was too late, he was striding away and through the pub door.
As badly as she wanted to run after him, Lou knew that she couldn’t.
Francine’s heart had felt heavier with every mile that the tired train, with its soot-blackened windows, and full carriages packed mainly with young women in uniform, had carried her north. Marcus had rejoined his men. The whole of southern England had become a gigantic armed camp with huge tank, truck and artillery parks and innumerable arms dumps. Enough to equip the forces of over 3,500,000 assembled for the invasion. Was that the reason why there were so few men in uniform on board the train? Because they had already all travelled south and were right now awaiting the order that could carry the Allies to their victory, but which most certainly would carry many of those young men to their deaths?
Fran gave a shiver, uncomfortably conscious of the way she stood out a little from the other travellers in her smart powder-blue costume, with its gay little matching hat trimmed with a small bunch of artificial lilies of the valley, and wishing now that she had chosen to wear something less elegant. The soft pale grey kid of her court shoes and matching handbag seemed to rebuke her for their obvious luxury. She had seen the way the other occupants of the first-class carriage – young women officers in tailored uniforms, which might have been made for them at Austin Reed but which were still made from inferior cloth, as part of the war effort – had looked at her and then studiedly avoided looking at her again. The trouble was that all her clothes were equally smart. Unlike most British women she was not having to rely on clothes bought before the war had begun, thanks to having only returned from working in America just after the start of the war, and the time she had spent in Egypt.
The young women officers made her feel frivolous and useless, adding to her misery. Better to think in general terms about the coming invasion instead of dwelling on her own private despair.
After all, almost every occupied country in Europe was joining in the planned invasion: the French, the Poles, the Belgians, the Dutch, the Norwegians and the Czechs. The Australians and the New Zealanders were mobilising five air squadrons each, at least according to the papers. But whenever the invasion took place it was the British and the Americans who would go in first, and that meant Marcus. Fear for him clutched at Francine’s stomach, at the thought of what he would be facing.
She had telephoned Emily to tell her that she was coming and it had been arranged that Wilhelm would take Jack to the cottage to meet her.
Francine had been rehearsing what she was going to say to him and, ridiculously for someone who had been a singer and used to appearing on stage in front of an audience, she was desperately afraid that she wouldn’t be able to say what had to be said without her emotions overwhelming her.
‘It’s all right, Wilhelm. I can wait for my aunt on my own. Mum needs you. She gets upset when I’m here.’
Wilhelm patted Tommy on the shoulder and nodded, saying warmly, ‘You are a good boy, Tommy.’
Tommy. Jack wished that he really was Tommy and that he didn’t have to be here. He wished that Emily really was his mum and that he could stay with her.
He wished too that his auntie Fran wouldn’t cry whenever she saw him because it made him feel guilty.
Francine could see Jack waiting outside the cottage for her when the taxi dropped her off.
He’d obviously ridden over on his bicycle because he was standing beside it, looking awkward and uncomfortable, and so endearingly lovable that Francine just wanted to hold him and breathe in the now familiar scent of boy and chalk and country air. But she knew from experience that if she did he would go rigid in her hold and turn his face away from her, so instead she simply said, ‘It’s a lovely day,’ as she looked from the blue sky, with its white fluffy clouds, to the new leaves on the trees, and then at the lambs in the field beyond the cottage garden. New life burgeoning everywhere. Spring, with all its promise and its hope was surely the worst time in which to suffer the loss of a loved one, and soon now there would be many, many households amongst the Allied forces where such losses were going to have to be borne.
‘Let’s go inside, shall we, Jack?’ As she went to put her hand on his shoulder, he moved away from her. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She longed for Marcus and his calm support, but she knew that this was something that she had to do herself. After all,
Jack was her child. But he didn’t want to be her child. He wanted Emily as his mother.
The cottage had been stocked for her visit with fresh milk and even a couple of eggs, but Jack refused a cup of tea and Francine could tell from the longing way he was looking through the window just where he really wanted to be.
There was no point in putting it off, no point in prolonging his distress in order that she could delay her own, by stealing another day with him before she finally told him what she had to tell him.
She went over to him and said to him quietly, trying to conceal the desperation she was feeling for his sake as well as her own, ‘Please come and sit down, Jack. There’s something I want to…to tell you.’ Not really something she wanted to tell him but something she had to tell him, Francine admitted to herself. In London, in the apartment, rehearsing what she would say she had felt far more in control than she did right now. Funny to think that she stood up and sung in front of audiences of hundreds without a qualm and yet here she was, shaking in her elegant shoes at the thought of speaking to one boy. This, though, was different. She might have given herself a set role to play, set lines to learn, but they could provide only a thin covering for her feelings, which didn’t protect her at all.
She could see the wary look in Jack’s eyes; the way he moved back from her and looked longingly towards the door, wanting to escape from her. Francine ached to hold him close and reassure him. But doing that would not reassure him. It would increase his anxiety because it was Emily from whom he wanted to receive a mother’s embrace, not her.
He was sitting down now, or rather perching on the edge of an old-fashioned rush-bottomed chair, his short trousers revealing his thin legs, the knees polished and shiny as though he had scrubbed them before coming out. Francine could picture Emily instructing him to do so, determined to let her see that she provided all the mothering he needed. The laces of one of his shoes were coming undone, the shoes themselves well polished. Francine closed her eyes. As clearly as though it had been yesterday she could hear her own mother telling her children that you could judge a person by the state of their shoes. She could see her mother too, kneeling down every evening to polish the shoes she had spread out on an old newspaper. Her mother would have loved Jack.
‘Do you remember the fun we had together when we stayed at your auntie Jean’s, Jack?’ she asked him.
For a minute she thought that he wasn’t going to reply but then with obvious reluctance he nodded. Emily was obviously bringing him up to be honest and truthful. Francine felt as though a knife was being twisted in her heart.
‘I’m sorry that you weren’t happy with Vi and Edwin.’
He was tense now, his body stiff and unmoving.
‘They were unkind to you, I know.’
‘I’m not going back to them.’
His voice was unexpectedly sturdy and strong, but Francine could see the fear in his eyes.
‘Were they ever kind to you, Jack?’ she asked him. ‘Can you remember? Perhaps when you were little?’
What was she hoping for? That he would say something that would take away her own guilt and pain?
‘Auntie Jean was always nice to me. And Luke and Grace and the twins.’
‘Oh, Jack!’
He was retreating from her again, pushing himself back into the chair.
‘I was always in trouble at home for doing things wrong.’ It was the first piece of information he had given her voluntarily.
‘It wasn’t you who had done wrong, Jack,’ she told him sadly. ‘It was me.’
Vi and Edwin had punished Jack for her sins, but Francine knew that she would never get her sister to admit as much.
Jack was frowning now and looking puzzled.
Having come this far she couldn’t stop now. It wouldn’t be fair to him, no matter how hard she was finding it to tell him the truth.
She took a deep breath and then pulled up another chair so that she could sit directly in front of him. The temptation to take hold of his hands and hold them in her own was hard for her to resist, but she knew that if she touched him he would withdraw from her.
‘Jack, there’s something I have to tell you,’ she began quietly.
He was looking at her at last, his gaze still wary.
‘I know this isn’t going to be easy for you to understand. It isn’t easy for me to tell you, but the truth is that…’ Her mouth had gone dry, her voice cracking. She had to take another deep breath. ‘The truth is that Vi and Edwin aren’t really your parents. They…they adopted you when you were a baby because…because your own mother couldn’t look after you.’
Now she had his attention, his eyes rounding as he focused on her.
‘I know this must be hard for you to hear—’
‘No. I’m glad that they aren’t my mum and dad,’ Jack told her emphatically. ‘I suppose that’s why they were always so angry with me, because they didn’t really want me.’
‘Oh, Jack, they did want you,’ Francine protested. ‘Vi wanted you very very much. She begged to have you and she promised—’
‘She said I was a nuisance and that I got on her nerves and under her feet.’
‘Oh, Jack!’ She wanted desperately to hold him, so very desperately, but she knew that she mustn’t and that he wouldn’t welcome her hold.
‘I’m sorry you were unhappy.’
There was a small silence whilst Jack looked at her and then away, before looking back at her again. ‘If they aren’t my mum and dad, then who is?’
Francine took a deep breath. ‘Well, I am your mother, Jack.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me.’
She could see that he was struggling to assimilate what she had told him, so she waited several minutes before explaining, ‘It was because I wasn’t married when I had you and because I was very young, only sixteen, that I had to let you go. I wanted to do the best I could for you, Jack.’
Would he understand? Could he understand or was he too young?
‘When my sister Vi said that she and Edwin wanted to be your parents I agreed that they should be. I wanted you to stay with the family, you see. I thought I was doing the right thing – the best thing for you.’
‘So they aren’t my mum and dad at all then, they’re my aunt and uncle, and you had me but you had to give me to them because you weren’t married?’
Francine exhaled. ‘Yes. That’s right. I’m so sorry that Vi and Edwin were unkind to you. I didn’t know. I wish I had.’ Francine could feel her self-control slipping away from her. If only Marcus were here with her. She wasn’t sure she had the strength for this.
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Her son’s voice was gruff, almost grown up, enabling her to regain control. Almost grown up, but he was also scuffing his foot as the embarrassed boy that he still was, as he asked her, ‘So if I haven’t got a proper mother does that mean I can choose who I want to be my mum?’
She mustn’t allow herself to give in to her own grief or to ache for the fact that he wasn’t throwing himself into her arms and declaring that she was the mother he wanted. After all, she had known that that wouldn’t happen. That was why she was here. There would be time enough for her to grieve for what she had lost later, when she was on her own.
This was it, the moment when she had to prove her love for him by putting him first. Francine could feel herself wavering, wanting to reach out and beg him to be hers, but she must not do that – for his sake.
It took every ounce of resolution she had for her to say, ‘You can, Jack, but I think I know already who you want to choose. It’s Emily, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘I like you,’ he told her earnestly, his previous silence with her giving way to a rush of words stemming from relief, Francine thought painfully. He continued, ‘But you don’t seem like a mother…’
‘And Emily does?’
‘Yes.’
It hurt – of course it did – but she had had to hear it, and to confirm what she already knew.
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br /> ‘Can we go and tell Mum?’ His face was alight with eagerness and impatience. ‘She’s been worrying ever so much that you would try to take me away. She doesn’t say anything but I’ve heard her crying at night.’
‘You really love her, don’t you, Jack?’
‘Yes, she’s the best mum in the whole world. I’m glad he’s gone, though – Con. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me.’
Francine forced a smile. He hadn’t asked her about his father and perhaps it was just as well.
It was over and done. And now she was waiting for the train to take her back to London. She felt tired and very alone. She could have gone to see Grace but she hadn’t felt in the mood for sympathy; her pain went too deep for that. Francine looked at her watch. Another half an hour before her train was due. She settled back on the wooden platform seat, barely looking up five minutes later when someone sat down beside her, until she realised that that someone was Emily. Emily, out of breath and puffing slightly, her face flushed as though she had been hurrying. Emily, in her green and brown floral print dress, her brown cardigan, and her sturdy sensible shoes. Her nose was shiny and her curls untidy beneath her green pork-pie hat, her appearance in stark contrast to Francine’s own city elegance, but it was Emily who had the advantage over her, and not the other way round, Francine acknowledged.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Emily announced without any preamble. ‘What you’ve done for Tommy is something I’ll never forget, and nor will he. I can’t deny that I wish you’d never seen him and that none of this had ever happened but it has, and well, deep down inside I don’t feel right about you giving him up and never seeing him again, so I was thinking, how would it be if you were, in public, like, to be his godmother, and you now come down and see him regular, and p’haps when this war is over have him up to London to stay with you? A bright boy like Tommy should be going to London to them museums there, and that, especially if he’s going to go to Oxford.’