The Broken (Echoes from the Past Book 8)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “Me too,” David agreed. “Do you like jazz?”

  Helen nodded. “My mother won’t allow me to listen to it in her presence. She thinks that kind of music is degenerate. She prefers classical music, but I do love jazz. I have several records, but I don’t get much of an opportunity to listen to them.”

  “Who’s your favorite?”

  “I love Duke Ellington, and Sydney Bechet, and anything American, really. Their music is so—oh, I don’t know—fun, I suppose. It just makes you want to dance.”

  “Or brood,” David replied. “Some songs by Billie Holiday and Nina Simone, they just rip your heart out, don’t they? They’re so full of longing and pain.”

  “Yes,” Helen agreed. “They’re full of raw human emotion. I enjoy classical music, but I think it’s had its day. The world has changed, and music has changed with it.”

  “When’s your day off?” David asked as he reached for another sandwich. The poor man looked half-starved.

  “Sunday,” Helen replied. All her Sundays were the same. She attended church with her mother, then came home, cooked lunch, and spent the rest of the day catching up on her washing and ironing. On fine days, she did a bit of gardening, or went for a walk with Lynn, who lived two doors down. They’d been friends since childhood, but Lynn was married now and had a baby. She couldn’t get away too often, so their walks usually took place when Lynn took little Charlie out for a bit of air and ended when it was time for his tea.

  “Would you like to go to the cinema this Sunday?” David asked shyly. “In a Lonely Place is playing at the Odeon.”

  “I would love to.” She’d been wanting to see that film, but had been reluctant to go on her own, since Sarah spent her Sundays with Bertie, and Lynn couldn’t bring a toddler to the cinema. She’d asked her husband to mind Charlie for an hour or two, but he’d said that raising children was women’s work, and she had no business gallivanting all around town with her girlfriends when she had a family to look after. Lynn had never brought up the subject again.

  David’s smile lit his gaunt face. “Splendid. Shall I come to collect you, or would you prefer to meet by the cinema?”

  “Let’s meet by the cinema,” Helen replied. It was nice of David to offer, but she had no desire to introduce him to her mother. She wanted to keep this new friendship to herself for now. “I really must get home. My mother will be worried.”

  “May I walk you?” David asked after he signaled for the bill.

  Once again, Helen found herself about to decline when good sense kicked in. She was enjoying David’s company and there was no reason to cut their date short. It was a pleasant day, and the walk home would take at least a half hour. Why not?

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she replied as they rose to leave.

  Chapter 9

  May 1955

  London, England

  “Is that you, Helen?” Edith Brent called out.

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “I was beginning to worry,” Edith said when Helen came into the parlor. Her mother was sitting in her favorite spot, by the window, close to the wireless. Since taking a spill down the stairs three years ago and breaking her hip, she rarely went out, claiming that the injury hadn’t healed properly, and she was in constant pain. Edith spent her days watching the street and listening to whatever was being broadcast on the wireless, her only relief from utter boredom the visits from her friends, Agnes and Joyce, who’d known her since Edith and Harry had moved into the house the year Helen was born. They came by on Saturday afternoons to play a hand of bridge and fill Edith in on all the neighborhood happenings. Edith loved the gossip and passed judgement quickly and harshly, her moral code too lofty to allow any sympathy for mere mortals. By the time they finished drinking their tea, with whatever treat Agnes had baked for them, they’d put the world to rights, and Edith was ready for another week of near solitude.

  “I went for tea with Sarah.”

  “You could have told me you’d be home late,” Edith admonished her.

  “We’d only just decided this afternoon. And we’re going to the cinema on Sunday.”

  Edith didn’t reply. She hated it when Helen left her alone on Sunday afternoons, but could hardly begrudge her a few hours to herself.

  “I’m really tired, Mum. I’m going to have a bath and turn in.” It was too early to go to bed, but she simply wanted to be on her own for a bit, to reflect on her date with David, and maybe read for a little while before going to sleep.

  “Goodnight, then,” Edith replied, her attention already on the radio program that was just beginning.

  Helen trudged up the stairs to the bathroom and turned on the taps, then went to her room, undressed, slipped on her dressing gown and slippers, took a pair of clean knickers and a towel from the cupboard, and returned to the bathroom. The tub was half full, but she decided not to wait. She lowered herself into the water and rested her head against the back of the tub, closing her eyes. Her back and bum were nice and warm, but her breasts and belly were chilled, and she felt ridiculously exposed, even if she was alone. Helen tried to rearrange her body so that the water covered more of her and stared at the sprig of fake flowers sitting on a shelf in a tiny vase. They were violets, made of stiffened purple silk and wire stems wrapped in green felt. Edith had made them herself years ago, when decorating the house had still been a pleasure for her.

  The water finally got deep enough to cover Helen completely and she sighed with pleasure as it warmed her through. She felt guilty about lying to her mother, but had she told her the truth, the revelation that she had gone for tea with a man she’d met at the hospital would have been followed by a stream of questions. Who was he? Who were his people? What did he do for a living? Why wasn’t he married, and was she sure he wasn’t married? Why hadn’t he walked her to the door, as a gentleman should? Would they see each other again? Was she meeting him on Sunday?

  Edith sounded like any well-meaning mother who was preoccupied with her daughter’s unmarried state, but beneath her overwhelming concern lay blatant self-interest. Edith was terrified that Helen would find someone who intended to stick around. The few men who’d been interested in Helen in the past had been torn to shreds, made to sound like depraved bounders who were only after Helen for sex or money, or both. Given that she had nothing to her name beyond about forty pounds in the bank, she was hardly the plum target her mother made her out to be, but she had been right once, and that knowledge had done much to sour their already difficult relationship.

  Edith never missed an opportunity to remind Helen how she’d been taken in, and Helen felt just as heartbroken and humiliated as she had when she’d found out that the charming captain she’d been seeing for six months, who’d spoken to her of marriage and family, turned out to be a married father of two. Captain Hastings had been conducting an extramarital affair not only with her, but with two other women, while his wife and children were biding in the country, safely away from war-ravaged London and rationing that had still been as stringent in 1948 as it had been just after the war. Neil had used his deceased parents’ London flat to entertain his lady friends, having removed any traces of his family.

  Not only had he lied to Helen about being married, but he had often been short of funds, and Helen, being a naïve girl of nineteen, had used her wages to keep him in cigars and whisky, and her rations to pay for the food she bought to cook him dinners. They had rarely gone out, something that should have alerted her to the fact that Neil didn’t want to be seen with her in public, but he had kissed her tenderly and told her how much he wanted to spend the evening alone with her, away from the hustle and bustle of the city after spending all day surrounded by the buffoons that inhabited Whitehall, where he worked.

  Helen no longer thought of Neil as often as she had after she first discovered his perfidy, but when his name did crop up, she had to fight down a wave of shame that threatened to drown her. She’d been so foolish, so naïve. She’d loved Neil and trusted him, had bel
ieve him when he’d promised to marry her and told her that sleeping with him was no sin since they were practically man and wife already. He’d been very careful not to get her pregnant, citing his concern for her health and reputation, while all along the only reputation he’d been worried about was his own. He’d walked away from her without a backward glance when a casual acquaintance of his mistook Helen for his wife, Nancy, and a confrontation ensued.

  It was that same evening that Helen had discovered she wasn’t the only woman he was stringing along. They’d rowed, and the truth had come out, a truth that she’d stupidly shared with her mother when she came home, shattered and crying her heart out. Edith had been quick to point out how ignorant Helen was of the ways of men and how easily she’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She’d been kind enough not to tell Helen’s ailing father what their daughter had been up to but had used her inside knowledge to manipulate Helen into doing a hundred little things for her, knowing that Helen could hardly refuse. The subject came up again and again when they were alone together, and Edith went over the same ground, skillfully squashing what remained of Helen’s dignity like a bug beneath her shoe.

  “And why would he marry you even if he were free?” Edith had asked, pinning Helen with her self-righteous gaze. “He’s taken what he wanted off you. Had you behaved like a decent woman, you’d still have your good name, but now, you’ve been cast aside like the tart that you are, and he’s no worse off, your precious captain. He’s still got his family, and you are alone, used up, and no good to anyone.”

  Helen had been shattered by her mother’s cruel words, but in retrospect, she’d realized that Edith had her own reasons for wanting to crush her spirit. Her father having mere months left to live, Edith had been terrified of being left on her own after Harry died. Edith didn’t really need the space, but she’d never want Helen and her family to move in. The house was hers, and she would live there, on her own if it came to that, until she died. Helen was told time and again that should she marry, her husband had better be able to provide for her, or she’d end up homeless and penniless, and full in the belly, most like.

  Edith wouldn’t be pleased to know someone had taken an interest in her daughter, so it was best to keep mum. She would tell her mother about David if there was still anything to tell in a few weeks, or a few months, come to that. David might turn out to be a delightful surprise, or just another spark of potential that quickly burned out. It was too soon to tell. She was looking forward to Sunday, though. It’d been a while since she’d been to the pictures and having someone to go with and then discuss the film with afterwards was a rare treat.

  She always envied the couples who looked comfortable with each other and talked nineteen to the dozen as they left the cinema, eager to share their opinion and hear their partner’s thoughts on the film. She wanted someone to talk to, someone other than Sarah, who was always rushing off after the film to give her mother her tea. Helen wanted to walk arm in arm, maybe go out for a meal, and be escorted home rather than take the bus on her own and hurry home in the dark.

  Helen sighed with contentment as the hot water finally reached the tips of her breasts. It was pure bliss and she intended to stay in the bath until she resembled a prune. It was the only physical pleasure she indulged in these days. Helen soaped herself leisurely, running her hands over her breasts and legs. She hadn’t been with a man since Neil—six long years. Perhaps she’d been punishing herself for her bad judgement, or perhaps she’d been afraid to trust anyone that way again, but suddenly, she longed to be touched, to feel loved and cared for, if only for one night. Who was she saving herself for, and what was the point? What if she never married or had children? Would she wind up just like her mother, old and bitter, and jealous of anyone who still had love in their life? Had Edith ever had love in her life? Edith and Harry had got on—or got on with it would be the more accurate description of their marriage—but she’d never felt genuine affection between them.

  Edith hadn’t been particularly affectionate as a mother either. It was Harry who’d doted on Helen and made her feel special. He’d often said that she reminded him of his younger sister, that she had the same spirit and the same kindness Ellen had possessed before she died at the age of twenty. Helen had never felt truly loved by her mother, not even as a child. Edith had smothered her, but not with affection. She was a brittle woman who always needed to be in control. Everything had to be just so, even the fake violets in the bathroom whose green felt leaves cleverly picked up the green of the vines on the wallpaper. Helen had always been beautifully turned out, her hair neatly plaited, and her shoes polished to a shine, and Edith had been equally well groomed.

  She’d been beautiful once, before two wars had robbed her of her health and vitality. Edith still took pride in her appearance. She had the hairdresser come in once a fortnight, a pricy indulgence Helen paid for out of her wages since the woman charged extra for the house call, and a seamstress from whom Edith ordered several new dresses every year. Edith liked real silk stockings, which she guarded jealously and wouldn’t allow Helen to borrow, and wore bright red lipstick, a shade that would be more appropriate on a woman of twenty-five. She believed she looked good for her age, but at fifty-five, Edith hovered on the brink of old age. Her hair was streaked with gray, her face pinched and crisscrossed with tiny lines, and her lips, when not slathered with her favorite lipstick, were pale and thin. She’d put on weight too, despite watching her diet. After Harry’s death, she hadn’t been as strict about avoiding Agnes’s treats and often allowed herself a second helping, a well-deserved treat in her opinion.

  Edith had gone downhill since Harry died. There was no man to compliment her on her looks or escort her to church. There was no husband to impress with freshly baked scones or nearly meatless shepherd’s pie made with vegetables from her victory garden. There was no one to keep her warm at night. Edith was a woman who needed a man at her side, and if she couldn’t have a husband, she’d cast her daughter in the role of companion and try to keep her tied to the house for as long as she could, using any means necessary to assure her compliance.

  The water had grown cold, so Helen got out of the bath. She pulled on clean knickers, followed by her virginal nightgown, and donned her dressing gown and slippers. Suddenly, she felt very old, as old as her mother. If she didn’t find a way out soon, she’d quietly fade away as her mother had done, her life ending before it had ever truly begun.

  Chapter 10

  June 2015

  London, England

  Rhys poured a cup of coffee, added sugar and a splash of cream, and handed it to Katya, who’d just come out of the shower. Her hair was damp, and she had no make-up on, but to him she looked just as beautiful as when she was fully made up. They’d been seeing each other for only a couple of weeks, but he felt more comfortable and settled than he ever had with any woman in the past. Katya was that heady mixture that made her the ideal modern woman: independent, forward-thinking, and undemanding, yet warm, affectionate, giving, and unbelievably sexy. Sometimes, when he saw her walking toward him or when he woke to find her sleeping next to him, his heart melted like butter on a hot skillet.

  He was smitten. He’d lost his heart but found unexpected joy. He wished he’d met Katya earlier in his life, but maybe they wouldn’t have clicked then; maybe they would have had other priorities, or not been as attracted to each other as they were now, having had multiple partners who’d disappointed them in the past. At times, they seemed to be on exactly the same page, or singing from the same hymnbook, as his mother liked to say. He liked that analogy. There was beauty in singing, and harmony, and that was what he felt with Katya—harmony. The feeling was new to him, since he’d never felt truly in sync with any of his previous partners, but he recognized it for what it was—beautiful and rare.

  Katya accepted the coffee and smiled. She wasn’t a morning person and didn’t engage in any serious conversations until after the first cup of coffee and somet
hing to eat. She always had breakfast, and he loved making it for her. She’d taught him to make Russian cheese pancakes with cottage cheese, raisins, sugar, egg, and flour. She always ate them with a dollop of sour cream topping each pancake. Rhys put three pancakes on each plate and set a plate in front of Katya before sitting down across from her with his own breakfast. He watched as she added the sour cream then gave him a questioning look.

  “Why not?” he said and moved his plate toward her. She added the sour cream to his pancakes as well and took a long sip of coffee before refilling her cup.

  “Mm. Delicious,” she said as she took the first bite. “No Russian man would serve me this kind of breakfast.”

  “Russian men don’t cook?” Rhys asked.

  “They do, professionally, but they prefer to be served at home. It makes them feel loved.”

  “Do you feel loved when I cook for you?” Rhys asked.

  “I feel loved even when you don’t cook for me,” she replied, smiling into his eyes. “Do you have plans for the weekend?” she asked as she continued to eat her breakfast.

  “Actually, I was thinking of going to visit my mum. I haven’t seen her in nearly three months, and her birthday is next week.”

  “I always judge a man by the way he treats his mother,” Katya said with mock seriousness. “Go see Mama.”

  “Come with me,” Rhys said. He’d never brought any woman to meet his mum. Not even Hayley. He’d instinctively known his mother wouldn’t approve of the too-young, too-thin, too-preoccupied-with-her-career woman he’d planned to marry, and she would have been well within her rights. Had it not been for the baby, Rhys would never have considered his relationship with Hayley anything more than a fling, always knowing it had a sell-by date.

  “I think you should go on your own,” Katya replied, “but I do appreciate the offer.”