Her Father's Daughter

by Beezy Marsh

  Charlie was there early, waiting at the altar, as thin as a reed in his khaki uniform. Above his high forehead, he had a shock of black hair, which stuck up on end no matter how hard he tried to comb it down. He smiled as Ivy entered the church, and his blue eyes sparkled but Annie couldn’t help thinking there was something flinty about his gaze.

  Ivy’s bouquet of pink carnations was shaking in her hands as she made her way up the aisle on Bill’s arm, with Annie and Elsie following close behind. Everybody wanted it to be such a great occasion, a little sparkle of happiness in the midst of so much death and destruction, and Ivy looked like the expectation of it was weighing on her every step.

  But as she reached Charlie, she smiled and it was like the sun coming out. All the nervousness disappeared. She gazed up at Charlie adoringly as the vicar began: ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of Christ . . .’

  Everyone came back to Grove Road for a reception of sherry, cake and sandwiches with the happy couple before heading off down the pub for a bit of a knees-up.

  Mum was just slicing the fruit cake into thin pieces so that there would be enough to go around when Charlie came over to Annie and embraced her.

  ‘Congratulations, Charlie,’ she said. ‘You must be over the moon.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, running his hands through his hair, which, close up, reminded Annie of a lavatory brush. ‘Ivy’s a lovely girl. But Harry’s a lucky man, isn’t he? I mean, you got your figure back quickly, didn’t you?’ He put his hands in his pockets as he appraised her form in her blouse and tight-fitting skirt. ‘Let’s hope it runs in the family.’

  Ivy came to his side with two pieces of cake on a plate; he took one and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Very nice.’

  Ivy made to pick up the other slice but in a split second, his hand covered hers. Annie watched as Ivy returned the cake to its resting place on the plate in front of her.

  She tilted her chin towards him, her lips slightly parted.

  Then she kissed him.

  7

  Annie

  Acton, November 1940

  Annie and Harry passed like ships in the night.

  He still found time to dandle the baby on his knee but what with the factory and his duties with the ARP, they were barely spending any time together as a family.

  Anita was nearly five months old now, able to hold her head up well and stare at people with such a direct gaze, she seemed to look right into their souls. Harry doted on her; he still insisted on Annie and the baby sleeping down at Grove Road as much as possible because of the bombing.

  Bill had spent ages out in the back garden making the Anderson shelter cosier for the winter. He’d made bunk beds, using wire and some planks of wood from one of the timber yards down in South Acton. The whole project seemed to have involved a lot of splinters and a fair amount of swearing.

  Annie had sewn the siren suit for Elsie out of an old blanket, just as she’d promised, and Elsie had taken to sleeping in it most nights; what’s more, with no Ivy kicking her in the shins, she could make the most of having a bed to herself again.

  When Harry had rest days from his ARP work, they’d stay up at their flat on Allison Road, even though it meant a sprint over the road to the public air-raid shelter in Springfield Gardens when the siren went. It was either that or hiding out under the kitchen table and praying to God that they wouldn’t take a direct hit. She’d started calling that dreaded siren the ‘Moaning Minnie’ and the shelter was ‘the bunker’. She hated that place – it was dank and sometimes the people in there got a bit rowdy, especially if they’d been down the pub first. No one wanted to have to bring their baby into that kind of atmosphere, but it really was a matter of life and death and it wasn’t as bad as some of the other shelters, which were so waterlogged you needed your wellies or you’d be up to your ankles in it.

  She was hoping that tonight would be different, and the bombers wouldn’t come over, so they’d get a quiet night in together. She’d made a little stew, carefully dicing the veg and seasoning it just as he liked it. But Harry didn’t come home for his tea after work as they had planned. The hours ticked by and she busied herself, ironing the baby’s clothes, cleaning the kitchen floor, and doing some knitting for winter. By eleven o’clock, she’d sorted through all her clothes drawers and hung all Harry’s work shirts, nice and tidily, back in the wardrobe, trying to ignore a knot of worry that was building in her stomach.

  She heard the front door open and bang shut, his footfall down the hallway, and then the scullery door swung open and Harry appeared. His tie and collar were undone and he had a ciggie dangling from his lips as he swayed slightly in the doorway.

  ‘Harry!’ Annie chided, standing up. ‘Have you been on the sauce?’

  ‘Can’t a man have a drink?’ he said crossly, glaring at her. He turned his back on her and stalked away to the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Annie sat back down. His evening paper lay folded in its usual place on the table, waiting for him, but he didn’t return. She sighed to herself and heated up some stew on the stove, taking him in a plate of it as a peace offering.

  He was lying on the bed, fully clothed and with his shoes still on, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, going to his side and putting the plate down on the bedside table. ‘You’re working so hard, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t go for a drink. Of course you can.’

  He looked up at her and in an instant, his eyes filled with tears and then he started to sob, his shoulders heaving as his face crumpled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

  ‘Harry,’ said Annie, reaching out to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He sat up, grasping her waist, and pulled her to him, burying his face in her apron. ‘I just wanted to forget, just for one night. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  Carefully, she laid her hands on his back and started to stroke downwards, just as she did with the baby when she was crying. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What is it you want to forget?’

  ‘Everything,’ he replied, turning away from her.

  It was pitch black when Harry sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open, and screamed. Annie shook him. ‘Harry! Harry! It’s all right, it’s just a dream.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lying back down. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He turned over on his side, facing the wall, as he always did. Annie reached out to touch him, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘Leave me be now, Kitty. What’s done is done.’

  Annie felt tears sting her eyes.

  ‘My name’s Annie,’ she whispered into the blackness enveloping her. ‘I’m Annie. And I’m your wife.’

  8

  Kitty

  Newcastle upon Tyne, May 1916

  The white feather lay on the mahogany table in the dining room as the clock marked time on the mantelpiece.

  Harry was sitting there in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with his head in his hands.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ said Kitty, panic rising in her voice. She unbuttoned her jacket and ran to his side.

  Harry looked up at her, his eyes as grey as slate. ‘I went for a quick pint in the Bigg Market after work and a woman came up to me in the pub and pressed it into my hands. ‘She asked me why I wasn’t in uniform, when her son was already away fighting.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ said Kitty, giving her thick, auburn hair a shake as she unpinned it, letting it fall to her shoulders; she hated having to be so buttoned up for work. She sat down beside her brother. ‘She should mind her own business. You aren’t going to take any notice of a stranger, are you?’

  Harry sucked in a breath. ‘I don’t see that I have a choice, Kit. I’m bound to be drafted at some point. I’m nineteen now, I’m old enough to fight. She’s right.’

  Ever since the Military Service Act had been passed a couple of months ago, Kitty had known in her heart of hearts that her little brother would have to go away to
war. Wherever she went, there were posters of Lord Kitchener pointing his finger, saying ‘Your Country Needs You!’ You couldn’t pass a shop window or get on a tram without seeing a bill urging young men to ‘Enlist Now!’ Lord Kitchener and his unrelenting gaze seemed to be seeking out Harry. And now, at last, he’d found him.

  ‘But it’s different for us because Dad isn’t here,’ said Kitty. ‘We need your wage. It’s not practical for you to go away. Mum’ll have to go back to doing extra hours teaching and you know she’s got a weak heart, and with her rheumatism it could kill her.’

  Harry was working as an apprentice engineer at Hawthorn Leslie, one of the big shipbuilding firms, and he was learning how to build the diesel pumps for the engines which powered the ships, which were such a major part of Tyneside, with black smoke belching from their funnels as they headed out to sea. Just as the River Tyne ran through the heart of the city, shipbuilding was the lifeblood of the economy and it made Kitty proud that her brother was a part of that.

  Mum and Kitty didn’t involve him in the running of the house, but the price of food had rocketed in recent months. They weren’t struggling to put food on the table like some folks, but they were already feeling the effects of the war on the household purse strings. Bread was getting very expensive and she and Mum had both noticed that all their essentials – meat, cheese, flour, eggs and sugar – had gone up by tuppence a pound, sometimes more. People were becoming anxious and that had even spilled over into unrest when one shopkeeper had pulled down his blinds at noon and locked the door, saying he’d run out of food. A crowd had gathered and hammered on his window, shouting abuse. Of course, the papers had just put it down to people losing their nerve, faced with the anxiety of war, but there were days when the queues were simply ridiculous and you couldn’t get basics like sugar for love nor money anywhere in the city.

  Kitty’s words came gushing out, but Harry only shook his head, his jet-black hair flopping forwards as he did so.

  ‘There’s shame enough on this family without me adding to it by being called a coward. I’m not scared to go to the front,’ he said, scuffing his feet on the worn patch of carpet under his chair.

  ‘But I’m scared,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m scared for you and I’m scared about what it’ll do to Mum if you don’t come back. It will destroy her, Harry!’ She stood up and walked over to the window, where the aspidistra was wilting slightly in its yellow ornamental pot.

  She read the local papers, the Northern Echo, the Newcastle Journal and the Evening Chronicle, and she’d followed the reports of how our Tommies were giving the Hun a good hiding. But she couldn’t help noticing that the list of the fallen seemed to get longer by the day. And, what’s more, she had no intention of her little brother’s name appearing there.

  She hesitated for a moment and then spun around to face him. He was staring into space, thinking, as the clock ticked slowly towards the end of the hour, while the two china dogs at either end of the mantelpiece stood guard.

  There was fire in her eyes as she spoke. ‘What do we care what other people think of us, Harry? Haven’t we been through enough? Don’t speak to me of shame! I won’t have it. I’m not ashamed. Dad told us never to be ashamed, to look people in the eye and hold our heads high. I’m not ashamed for you to be alive. Don’t be such a fool.’

  Harry’s mouth pressed itself into a thin line and he rose to leave, his fingers gripping the green leather back of the dining room chair. ‘I care what other people think of us, Kitty. I’ve had more than five years of it. I thought it would get better, but at least when I was a boy I could raise my fists and fight, even if they beat the living daylights out of me. It’s worse now, in some ways, people talking behind our backs or giving us sideways glances.

  ‘This is my chance to bring some honour back to the family. My mind’s made up and there’s no changing it. I’m joining up first thing in the morning.’

  Mum went into a frenzy of cleaning after Harry broke the news that he was going to volunteer, just as she had the night they’d said goodbye to Dad for the last time. Kitty tried to get her to stop, to rest and have something to eat after her long day teaching at the primary school, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘We can’t have the place looking like a slum, Kitty. What will the neighbours think?’ she said, frantically polishing the dining table. ‘And I’m sure people will want to pop in for tea soon to ask how Harry is getting on in the army, won’t they?’

  It was Mum’s dearest wish to have people to visit, but no one ever stopped by. Mum said it was because they’d moved from the smarter side of Jesmond, with its leafy streets and grander houses, to Simonside Terrace in Heaton, which was that little bit more working class. They’d had to economize now there were just the three of them paying the bills, so it was further for friends to come. Kitty knew different. Nobody wanted to be seen darkening their door any more.

  Mum’s cloth worked its way over the remnants of the life they’d led before: the piano, the glass-fronted bookcase, the tallboy with all their silver cutlery in it and the walnut kissing seat which had come from Dad’s side of the family. They’d been gentlemen farmers only a few generations back, Freemen of the city of Alnwick, before they’d moved closer to Newcastle to set up a flourishing farming and butchery business and that was the life that Dad had been born into. But he had other ideas and trained as a ship owner’s clerk instead, which hadn’t gone down too well with his father, by all accounts.

  The family had blamed it all on a wild streak from the French side of the family – Dad’s mother, Zelina, was from the Champagne region, and she’d been a governess for one of the wealthy shipbuilding families in Sunderland. Dad only had the haziest of memories of her because she’d died in childbirth when he was just three but everyone who’d known her said she was a spirited woman, determined and outspoken, making her views known in an accent which was a curious mix of English overlaid with Gallic, and a distinct hint of Geordie.

  Dad’s job had changed quite a bit when Kitty was growing up but that hadn’t affected their home life at first. He’d become a secretary to one of the colliery companies, but he helped broker a takeover deal which had made him redundant, even though he got a decent pay-off. Then he came into some money from a wealthy relative in France, and that’s when everything changed.

  By the time Kitty was fifteen, leaving school and starting secretarial college, they’d moved to their home in Lily Avenue thanks to his inheritance. Dad’s head was full of big ideas to use his inheritance to make even more money as a speculator in the coalfields, with one eye on where the next pit shafts might be sunk, so that he’d earn yet another big commission.

  Mum seemed worried by it all because Dad was spending more time away at the races, where he’d place bets on behalf of wealthy coal merchants. Kitty realized, from the hushed conversations she’d overheard between her parents, that being a bookie was illegal and he was sailing close to the wind, but Mum did her best to shield Kitty and Harry from her concerns.

  There were big losses but there were big wins too, and then he’d really celebrate. Mum could only laugh when one evening he came home three sheets to the wind, clutching a massive, ornate glass bottle filled with coloured water that he’d bought from the chemist’s shop, thinking it was perfume. ‘I just want to give my darling wife a lovely present,’ he slurred, swaying slightly as she took it from him and placed it on the mantelpiece. Kitty and Harry were shooed away into the scullery while she helped him out of his new winter coat with its astrakhan collar and he fell asleep in the armchair by the fireside for a while. Later that evening, Kitty heard Mum helping Dad find his way up the stairs and into bed.

  Dad was a bit shamefaced at breakfast and Mum seemed to enjoy teasing him, raising an eyebrow when Harry asked about the new glass ornament, filled with garish pink liquid, which loomed large over the table.

  But what followed only a few months later was no laughing matter. Kitty had gone over and over it all in her mind. Could
the people he was dealing with at the races, in Birmingham and York and Newcastle, have been to blame somehow? She was clutching at straws but sometimes she’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, willing the hands of the clock to run backwards, so that she could say or do something that might change what had happened.

  The chimes rang out in the parlour. Kitty glanced at the silver fob-watch that Dad had bought her for the last Christmas they’d had together, before their lives were turned upside down. It had been a Sunday tea-time ritual for Dad to take the clock down from the mantelpiece to wind it. Harry was supposed to do it now, as the man of the house, but he kept forgetting – at least, that was his excuse. It was running slow again. Kitty knew that once Harry had joined up that task would fall to her because Mum wouldn’t be able to bear it; it reminded her too much of the quiet Sunday evenings they used to enjoy together, reading, playing the piano or a round of bridge.

  It was dark outside now and the house was filled with the overpowering smell of furniture polish. Every piece of wood shone from Mum’s efforts and she had collapsed in her favourite chair in the parlour. Kitty brought her a cup of cocoa and sat at her feet, just as she used to do when she was a girl.

  ‘Must he leave us?’ said Mum. She reached for the cocoa but her hands seemed almost frozen with rheumatism after all the cleaning, and she winced in pain.

  Kitty lifted the cup to her mother’s lips and she took a sip and then Kitty started to rub some life back into Mum’s swollen fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kitty, who could almost hear the sound of boots marching in time through the city streets, as hundreds of young men like Harry headed off to war. ‘He must.’

  Mum dressed in black the next morning as all three of them left the house. She and Kitty were taking Harry to swear his oath of allegiance to the King. Her long skirt swept the ground as they walked, arm in arm, to the tram stop to take them the two miles from Heaton into the city. She was still a fine figure of a woman, with her waist nipped in by her corset, which she insisted on wearing every day, and she had a quiet dignity about her which commanded the respect of her pupils at school.