When she got home, she would compare scars with her father. As a little girl, she’d always been fascinated by his – although he always told her a different ridiculous story about each one. Yet he never would tell her how he got the one on his cheek. But she would make him tell her the truth about it when she got home.
If only she could go home. She had nothing to keep her here now – well, apart from seeing Ian and Sandra. She had her job, of course, and they would always want help in the rest centre at the old factory. In fact, she would have to go there for herself now and see if someone could help her find somewhere to live and give her some clothes. All the times she’d helped other women sort through the dresses, cardigans and shoes, she’d never imagined she would one day be doing that for herself. To think the diamond bracelet Noah and Lisette had given her for her twenty-first was buried in the rubble of Joan’s house! And all those other little things she had once owned that defined who she was.
Everything gone. Photographs, letters from her parents and Mog, little things Rose had given her. Clothes could be replaced – though they would never be as nice as her old ones – but she was, in fact, destitute. Even her savings account book, ration book and passport were lost.
22
The following morning, thanks to the ward sister’s intervention, Mariette had a visit from Miss Coates, the hospital almoner. She was a briskly efficient woman with a plummy upper-class voice, and her manner suggested she was more used to dealing with duchesses from Mayfair than ordinary people.
Mariette was wrong, though. Miss Coates was not only very used to offering advice to people who had been bombed out but she was also very sympathetic.
Mariette’s immediate concern was that Mr and Mrs Harding, who cared for Joan’s children, should be notified of her death, but she explained to Miss Coates about the message left by Joan that the children weren’t to be told until Mariette was present.
‘I don’t know their telephone number or their address,’ Mariette explained. ‘I could, of course, find the house if I went there. But I can’t go yet, and the Hardings need to know.’
‘Their address and telephone number will be on record,’ Miss Coates said. ‘And I am willing to break the news to the Hardings myself and explain what Joan wanted. I am quite sure they will want to respect her wishes and wait until you are on your feet again. Now, would you like to tell me everything else about your circumstances so I can see what problems I can help you with?’
Miss Coates stayed with Mariette for about an hour. She offered to telephone Mr Perry and explain where she was, and gave her advice on getting a new identity card and ration book. She also told her she was entitled to some money from an emergency fund to tide her over. She asked about friends who could put her up as a temporary measure, but the only people Mariette could think of who might be willing to help were Henry and Doreen Fortesque. Miss Coates said she would find their telephone number and ask them, and she’d come back later that afternoon with any news from both the Fortesques and the Hardings.
She was as good as her word, and returned at four o’clock.
‘First things first. I traced the Hardings and spoke to Mrs Harding. She was, as you can imagine, terribly upset, but she agreed readily that she will abide by Joan’s wishes. She said you struck her as a level-headed and kindly person. She also said that the children liked you and would feel comforted that you were there with their mother when she died. You will be very welcome to stay with her and her husband and the children for a few days. But she hopes this will be very soon as the children are used to getting a letter each week from their mother, and when one doesn’t come they will start to worry.’
‘I’ll go as soon as I get out of here,’ Mariette assured her. ‘But what about their father? Will he even be able to get home in time for Joan’s funeral? And where will we bury her?’
Mariette knew that many people who had lost loved ones in an air raid became very upset about the use of mass graves, seeing it as a pauper’s funeral. But Joan had always taken the view that she’d rather be buried with people she knew; she even used to joke about it. ‘Just bung in a few bottles of beer and we’ll have a party,’ she had said more than once.
Mariette told Miss Coates this, and the woman smiled. ‘I think a local undertaker would see putting all the victims from Soame Street in one grave as both sensible and appropriate,’ she said. ‘They lived side by side, died together, and it is rather fitting for them to be buried together. But that will be sorted out by the undertaker, Miss Carrera, you don’t need to worry yourself about it. Likewise, whether or not Mr Waitly can get home in time isn’t your worry.’
‘I suppose so,’ Mariette agreed.
‘Now, let’s get back to what is yours to worry about. A place to live. I telephoned Mr and Mrs Fortesque, and they were horrified to hear what had happened. Without my even asking, they volunteered to put you up. So we are left with your lack of clothes.’
‘I can’t go anywhere in this.’ Mariette indicated her white cotton hospital nightdress. ‘I haven’t even got any shoes.’
‘I have a little supply of clothes,’ Miss Coates said. ‘People often donate things here. I’ll sort them tonight. What size are you?’
Mariette was fairly certain they were dead people’s clothes. But, as Mog would have said, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘Thirty-four bust, size four shoes … and thank you,’ she replied.
‘I’ll try to find something pretty to go with your hair.’ Miss Coates smiled. ‘How are your injuries now?’
‘Sore.’ Mariette winced. ‘And I’m going to be left with nasty scars. But I’m lucky to be alive, aren’t I? Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it.’
Four days after Joan’s death, Mariette was on the train bound for Lyme Regis. She knew she looked terrible, but perhaps it was better for Ian and Sandra to see her like this. It might help them understand that she hadn’t got off scot-free.
The dress Miss Coates had found for her was hideous, a brown and white spotted dress which looked like a school uniform. It was too long, but she hadn’t attempted to shorten it as it did at least partially cover her injured legs. They looked terrible, black and blue with bruising and criss-crossed cuts and scratches.
The straw hat with a turned-up brim was quite nice, and it covered her bald patch; the brown sandals with wedge heels were passable. A dressing hid the big scar on her forehead, but bruising had come up all over her since the bombing, and any bits of skin which weren’t cut or scratched had turned purple.
She had to be back in London on Monday 4th August to have her stitches removed, and it was likely that Joan and the other people from Soame Street would have their funeral the following day. But that would all be arranged while she was away.
Henry and Doreen had been very kind. They’d used some of their precious petrol ration to come and collect her from hospital, and had made her feel so welcome at their house. She had only spent one night there so far, but in many ways it was like being back with Noah and Lisette. There was the same order and cleanliness, with light, bright rooms and a real bathroom. Not that she could sit in a bath until her stitches came out, but it would be wonderful when she could.
They insisted that she could stay as long as she liked, and meant it. But that old feeling she’d had about wanting to get out of London had come back stronger than before. It wasn’t just the fear of another air raid, or even running into Johnny, more a feeling that she needed to try to make a new life for herself.
She felt ashamed she’d told Johnny the way she had – although, in her own defence, she couldn’t think of a kinder way to tell him – but if she’d said nothing, she would only have been sucked in deeper. She had nowhere to stay, and no money or clothes. Surely it was more honourable to leave than to hang on to him just so he would take care of her?
Mrs Harding’s lips trembled when she opened the door to Mariette, and she lunged forward to embrace her, quivering with emotion. ‘The chi
ldren are playing in the garden. I’ve felt such a terrible fraud, knowing and not telling them. Sandra has asked me why I was crying several times,’ she said, her words falling over themselves.
Mariette hugged her back. ‘I still can’t quite believe Joan’s gone. We were such good friends, and I thought we’d stay that way for ever. It must have been so hard for you and your husband to say nothing, but we had to do what Joan asked, didn’t we?’
‘Bert thought it was the right thing to do. So we’ve struggled on, trying to make sure they didn’t realize something was up.’
‘Have you heard from their father yet?’
‘We had a call from an officer to say he was on his way back this weekend in a cargo plane. He’ll go to the funeral first, before coming here, poor man. They go away thinking it might be them who die, I doubt they ever think it might be the other way round.’
‘Will Ian and Sandra be able to stay on with you?’ Mariette asked. ‘I don’t know what happens in cases like this.’
‘Of course they can stay with us – for ever, if they want that,’ Mrs Harding said, wiping her eyes on her apron. ‘We’ve loved them right from the start. To tell the truth, we were always afraid Joan would take them away, she missed them so much –’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my days, that sounds terrible.’
‘It didn’t sound terrible at all,’ Mariette assured her. ‘Joan knew how you felt about them, and it made her happy. But let’s get it over with, shall we? I can’t do chatter and small talk with them not knowing what I’ve really come for.’
Mariette knew, if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget that moment when she walked through the back door and saw the two children playing tennis with two old racquets and the washing line as the net.
It was a hot, still day. Sandra was dressed in a pink cotton sundress with elastic ruching around the bodice, Ian in just a pair of shorts. They were both very suntanned, the picture of health and vitality, so very different to the whey-faced children still living in London.
Sandra saw her first, shrieked with delight and dropped her racquet to come running over. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ she shouted.
Ian clearly sensed something. He began to run over, but stopped halfway, looking at Mariette suspiciously. ‘Hasn’t she come with you? What’s happened to your legs?’
‘Come here and sit down,’ Mariette said gently. Taking their hands, she led them over to a blanket laid out on the ground under a tree. Mrs Harding was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her knuckles to her mouth.
‘Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?’ Ian said as they sat down. ‘You wouldn’t come alone without Mum, unless …’
‘Yes, Ian,’ she said gravely. ‘I’m afraid the very worst thing had happened. There was an air raid. Your mummy and I went to the shelter together, but a bomb hit it.’
The children just looked at her, almost as if they didn’t believe her.
‘Mummy was killed, and lots of other people,’ Mariette went on, but her voice was wobbling and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back her tears for long. ‘I was sitting right next to her, but she got the worst of it.’
‘Did the bomb fall on your legs?’ Sandra asked, looking at the bandages around both her legs.
‘Not the bomb, a beam in the shelter ceiling, but it didn’t hit me as hard as it did your mummy. They took her to hospital, and tried to make her better, but they couldn’t. She asked me to come and tell you what had happened, and to tell you she loved you.’
‘And she’s not coming to see us then?’ Sandra asked, her lips quivering.
‘She can’t if she’s dead, silly,’ Ian said. But then he began to cry.
Sandra had looked bewildered until that moment, but seeing her elder brother cry must have made it clearer. Mariette put an arm around each of them, drew them close to her and cried with them.
‘Your daddy is on his way home,’ she said. ‘I wish I hadn’t had to tell you something so dreadful, but Mummy wanted me to be the one to explain because we were such good friends. And because I know how proud she was of you.’
Mrs Harding came over then with glasses of water for them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the children, her voice cracking and tears rolling down her face. ‘Your mummy was a lovely, good woman, and it isn’t fair she should go so young.’
Sandra got up and put her arms around Mrs Harding’s middle. ‘Can we stay here with you?’ she asked.
‘Or do we have to go back to London?’ Ian asked, a look of panic in his eyes.
‘No, Ian,’ Mrs Harding said quickly. ‘You will stay here with us.’
‘For ever?’ Sandra asked, looking up hopefully.
‘Until the war is over, at least,’ Mariette said. She knew Joan had been brought up in an orphanage, so there was no one on her side to come forward to claim the children. As far as she knew, Rodney had no close relatives either, and he’d have to go back to the army too.
‘Well, that’s good then,’ Ian said.
Mariette knew exactly what he meant – that having to return to London without his mother would be too awful – he just hadn’t yet learned to be careful how he phrased things.
Mariette remembered her mother saying that children were very resilient, and she found that to be true of Ian and Sandra in the three days she spent with them. They cried a great deal at first, then they asked about the house and the neighbours. But once that was done, it was almost as if they were closing a door in their minds on their life before coming to Lyme Regis.
By the second day, they were merely subdued, occasionally asking Mariette a question about their mother, or how it had been in the shelter. Ian asked if she had been in pain, and at least she was able to say no, which seemed to satisfy him. She found Sandra looking at a family photograph of her parents, Ian and herself. It had been taken in a studio, before Rodney left for North Africa, because he was in uniform.
‘That dress is too small for me now,’ Sandra said. ‘Mummy made it, it was pink with smocking.’
‘Have you still got it?’ Mariette asked.
‘Yes, it’s in the drawer with all the things that are too small now,’ she replied.
‘Well, you must keep it, and that photo. When you are a big girl, you’ll like to look at it. One day you might have a little girl of your own, and you can show the dress to her, maybe she’ll even wear it. You see, things made by someone who loves you are very special. They make you remember good things, and make you happy.’
‘We can’t be happy without Mummy, though, can we?’ she asked.
Sandra’s tawny-coloured eyes were very like Joan’s, bringing Mariette up with a start.
‘Oh yes, you can,’ she said. ‘Your mummy was the happiest person I ever knew. She would hate it if you and Ian were sad.’
On the third day, Ian asked if she was their auntie.
‘Not a real auntie – I’d have to be your dad or mum’s sister to be that. But I’m your auntie in my heart. I’ll always care about you and keep in touch. Will you write to me, Ian?’
He frowned, as if considering whether he could promise that. ‘Yes, I will,’ he said. ‘But will you visit us too?’
‘Of course I will,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll be going back to New Zealand, when the war is over. But by then you’ll be such a big boy, you won’t mind.’
‘I think I will. Mum said in one of her letters that you were a special friend, so that makes you special to me too.’
Mariette felt a surge of emotion and hugged him tightly. ‘And you and Sandra will always be special to me.’
‘How was it?’ Doreen asked as Mariette returned from the funeral, just after seven in the evening, on Tuesday. It had been raining all day, and Doreen took the black coat and hat a neighbour had lent Mariette and hung them up to dry on the hall stand.
‘Terribly sad,’ Mariette said, her voice flat and her expression strained. ‘The vicar said some lovely things about the people who died, but seeing all those coffins together was too
much for everyone. Rodney – that’s Joan’s husband – was in a bad way. When we went over to the pub afterwards, he got very drunk with Brenda’s husband. Brenda won’t ever walk again, and when her husband overheard someone say it would’ve been better if she’d died too, he got very nasty.’
‘People mean well, but they can be so tactless sometimes,’ Doreen sighed. ‘I’ve heard some terrible things said at funerals. When my mother died, her neighbour asked straight out if she could have her clothes. I would’ve given them to her anyway, but to ask like that was like being a vulture.’
They went into the kitchen, and Doreen made a cup of tea. ‘Did Rodney say when he was going down to see the children?’
‘Tomorrow. That is, if he’s sober enough to get the train.’ Mariette grimaced. ‘Poor man, I tried to talk to him about Joan and the children. But I don’t think he was taking anything in.’
‘These things take time,’ Doreen said. ‘He’s confused and hurting. I just hope he doesn’t upset his children.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Mariette said. ‘I told him they were very happy with the Hardings, but he was nasty and said I knew nothing about his kids.’
That had been the most upsetting thing about the funeral. She had hoped that Rodney would want to talk to her about Joan and his children. She had intended to assure him she would keep in touch with them while he was away and be like an aunt to them. He was a big, opinionated, thuggish man, and one look at him was enough to know she wouldn’t like him. Yet she had tried, reminding herself that he was grieving and that, under normal circumstances, he was probably a very nice man. But it was as if he resented her surviving when his wife had died, and he was suspicious of her interest in his children.
‘The vast majority of men know nothing about their children,’ Doreen said with a disapproving sniff. ‘They go to work before the kids are up, return after they’ve gone to bed. Many of them spend the evening in the pub. Maybe Rodney was different, who knows? But even Henry had very little to do with ours, when they were small. What about your father, Mari?’
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