The Back of Beyond

by Doris Davidson

  ‘It was as much my fault as yours.’

  Lexie drew in her breath. She’d know that voice anywhere. Alistair Ritchie’s wife! Up at the tower, making love with a soldier!

  ‘It just happened because you’re going away.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. Can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive. We’d better go back now. It must be late.’

  Lexie didn’t wait to be caught eavesdropping. Stepping off the stony path, she padded as swiftly and silently as she could until she reached the trees and was sure she wouldn’t be seen. Making her way obliquely towards the road, she could hardly believe what she had seen and heard. Gwen Ritchie with a soldier? It was manna from heaven!

  It didn’t matter that she’d have to wait till Alistair came back from overseas. What she had to tell him would blast his marriage apart. To be absolutely sure, she would say she had seen the couple making love. It was only half a lie, for that was what they must have been doing. Why else would the man have been pleading for forgiveness? Not for just a few kisses.

  Lexie breathed a long, contented sigh. Everything comes to he – she – who waits. God bless old Mary Johnston’s varicose veins! God bless the dear old soul for having a dog that needed to be walked at nights! God bless everything and everybody, especially Lexie Fraser!

  Chapter 18

  It was on the Wednesday of the following week that Sandy Mearns said, as he handed a buff envelope to Gwen, ‘Is your sister in? If she’s nae, you’d best wait till she comes back afore you open that.’

  It took a moment for the meaning of his remark to penetrate, then she muttered, her voice quivering a little, ‘It’s OK. She’s in the kitchen.’

  When she went inside, Marge said, ‘Is something up? You look kind of … funny.’

  ‘The postman thinks it’s bad news.’ Gwen was fumbling at the flap of the envelope.

  Understanding now, Marge said, softly, ‘D’you want me to open it?’

  ‘No, I want to do it myself.’

  Marge didn’t have long to wait to satisfy her curiosity. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, when her sister passed the single sheet over without a word. ‘But … it’s not as bad as it could … it just says he’s missing. That means they must think he’s OK. If they didn’t, they’d have said “Missing, believed … killed.”‘

  ‘I knew something was wrong! I just knew it!’

  ‘Don’t give up hope, Gwennie. I’ve read of some men going missing for weeks, months sometimes, and then they turn up again – maybe lost their memory, or been wounded and taken in and cared for by some family, or … oh, there’s lots of reasons.’

  ‘But there’s always some who don’t turn up,’ Gwen pointed out, her voice flat.

  Forced to concede that this, too, was true, Marge happened to glance out of the window. ‘Sandy’s still fussing about at his bike. He’ll be waiting to hear what was in the letter. I’ll go and tell him.’

  When she came in again, she said, ‘He’s a nice old stick. He said to tell you he’ll be praying for your husband’s safe return. Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?’ She paused, then asked, ‘Are you going to tell Leila and David?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t want to upset them. The thing is, if it gets round the village, one of their friends at school might tell them.’

  Marge’s nose crinkled. ‘I asked Sandy not to tell anybody.’

  ‘He’s bound to tell his wife, and Mrs Mearns is a real gossip. I know, I’ve heard her in the shop.’

  Marge couldn’t hold back a slight smile. ‘He knows that. He said, “I’ll nae tell a soul, lass, specially nae my Aggie.” But I suppose it would be best not to tell the kids – not till … we hear something definite.’

  And so, every morning around nine fifteen, whether he had a delivery to make or not, Sandy Mearns was to be found in the kitchen at Benview, making droll comments in the hope of cheering up the ‘poor English lassie’. Marge would laugh hilariously for a moment at something she thought was comical, then quieten down when she noticed that Gwen, the true object of his wit, was scarcely smiling.

  It was quite an effort for the two young women to keep up an appearance of normality in front of the children, whose first question when they came in from school was always, ‘Is there a letter from Dad?’, but Marge managed to paper over any cracks in her sister’s manner that might have caused them to fret.

  It was an afternoon almost six weeks later – with Gwen’s limbs becoming more and more leaden, her face more and more peaky, her temper shorter than even the more volatile Marge’s had ever been – before the telegram came, the telegram which Gwen was powerless to bring herself to open, but Marge seized as soon as the door was shut on the telegraph boy.

  ‘He’s all right, Gwennie!’ she screamed, in a second. ‘He’s been taken prisoner.’ She grabbed her sister’s arms and pulled her to her feet to waltz her round the room.

  But Gwen was not yet in a dancing mood. ‘I want to read it for myself,’ she protested, picking up the scrap of paper with the information pasted on in narrow, typed strips. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she sighed after a while. ‘I know it means he’s alive, but aren’t prisoners sometimes badly treated?’

  Tutting at this, Marge said, perhaps more snappily than she meant, ‘Stop going on, Gwen, for goodness’ sake! At least you know he’s alive, and he’ll be safer in a prison camp than anywhere else, won’t he?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She sat pensively for a few moments, then burst out, ‘Yes, I’m being silly. Of course I’m glad he’s a prisoner, and now all we have to worry about is Dougal’s safety.’

  ‘It’s hellish, isn’t it?’ Marge commented, bitterly. ‘I’d feel much better if I could be doing something, instead of being stuck up here at the back of bally beyond.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of going back to London?’ Gwen asked, looking worried.

  ‘No … no, I’m not. I promised Alistair I’d never leave you here on your own.’

  The children came home at the usual time, David bursting in like a wild animal to let them know what he had been told. ‘They’re all saying our Dad’s been taken a prisoner. It’s not true, is it?’

  Marge jumped in. ‘Yes, isn’t it good news? We just heard this morning, how did your pals hear?’

  ‘Petey Rae said Dad’s name was on the list of prisoners Lord Haw-Haw read out last night on the wireless. His Mum listens every night, and she said she was sure it was the same Alistair Ritchie she was at school with.’

  He lapsed into silence now, making Marge realize that he, like his mother, was not sure whether to regard this as good or bad news. ‘He’s out of the fighting now, that’s the main thing, David, and there are rules laid down about how prisoners of war should be treated. He’ll be all right, dear.’

  In the background as usual, Leila made a sudden mewing noise, and flung herself at her mother. ‘I knew something was wrong,’ she sobbed. ‘Dad hasn’t written to us for weeks and weeks and weeks, and I thought he … I thought he’d been killed.’

  Watching Gwen comforting her daughter, Marge marvelled at how quickly a mother could summon up such strength. Having her children to consider would help to take her mind off herself.

  Sandy Mearns’s smile was a little wry the next morning. ‘The news is out, Mrs Ritchie, and it wasna my doing. It seems …’

  She smiled to put him at ease. ‘We know. Somebody listened to Haw Haw.’

  ‘That bloody traitor!’ His hand jumped to his mouth. ‘Ach, I’m sorry, ladies, but if I got my hands on him, I’d … damn well throttle him. But at least you ken your man’s safe, Mrs Ritchie. It must have been real hard on you when you was tell’t he was missing.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ she agreed – a vast understatement if ever there was one.

  * * *

  Another few weeks passed before a guilty Gwen suspected that she might have more to worry about than her husband’s and her brother-in-law’s wellbeing. The first time she missed,
she had put it down to the ordeal of waiting to hear about Alistair, but this second time, well, there was no excuse. Feeling that she couldn’t confide in anyone, not even her sister, she became withdrawn and tearful.

  ‘Luv-a-duck, Gwen!’ Marge exclaimed when the children left for school one morning another month later, after a somewhat fraught breakfast. ‘You’ve been snapping their heads off since they got up. What’s wrong? It’s not as if you got out of bed the wrong side today, it’s been going on for weeks.’

  That was enough. Gwen burst into a torrent of tears.

  ‘Oh, come on, now. I know you’ve only had one little card from Alistair since he was taken prisoner, but surely …’

  ‘I’m … pregnant.’ The whispered words were almost lost in the weeping.

  Marge’s head jerked up as her eyebrows shot down. ‘You’re what? You can’t be! It’s months since Alist …’ She broke off, comprehension hitting her like a punch in the face. ‘Oh no, Gwen, tell me you didn’t …?’ Her sister’s bent head, bobbing in time with her sobs, told her all she needed to know. ‘Dear God! I trusted Ken! I never dreamt he’d take advantage of you! Did he rape you?’

  Getting no answer, she continued, ‘Obviously not! So you let him! How could you?’

  Gwen looked up, her eyes dark with shame. ‘I … I can’t … it was … his last … night, and he was missing his wife, and I was missing Alistair, and we were … it just happened.’

  ‘But servicemen are issued with thingummies. Why didn’t he use one?’

  Her sister shook her head. ‘It wasn’t planned … it happened so quickly …’

  ‘But you must have known the risk? Good Lord, you’re not a child!’

  Gwen dissolved into a fresh bout of weeping, and Marge shook her head hopelessly. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I … can’t think. Alistair’ll kill me when he finds out.’

  Marge pulled a face. ‘He’s not that type, but he’s bound to … oh, what a thing for a man to come home to. His wife with another man’s child.’

  ‘Stop it, Marge! I feel bad enough without you making it worse.’

  There was an uneasy silence, broken only by Gwen’s hiccuping sniffs, until Marge said, ‘Have you tried to get rid of it?’

  ‘I’m too scared. I’ve heard it’s dangerous, and anyway, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Poking things up’s dangerous, but there are other ways. Drinking gin’s supposed to do the trick. Or a good dose of castor oil or liquid paraffin, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘I … don’t think …’

  ‘It would be difficult to get any of that, in any case. We’d have to go to the pub for gin, which would start tongues wagging, and if you ask in the shop for castor oil or liquid paraffin it’d be a dead giveaway.’

  ‘Oh, Marge! What am I going to do?’

  ‘It’ll be OK, Gwennie. I’ll think of something, but I need absolute peace for my little grey cells to work, as ’Ercule Parrot says, so I’ll make a start on tidying up David’s room for you. He leaves it like a pigsty. Just give me a shout when it’s dinner time.’ An idea had already occurred to Marge, but it would have to be well planned, every wrinkle ironed out, before she mentioned it to her sister. Gwen had a more analytical mind than she had, and would be sure to pinpoint snags if there were any to be found.

  While she gathered up the clothes David had dropped on the floor the night before, and arranged things so that drawers would shut, she looked at her idea from every angle, explored every avenue where there could be a trap for the unwary, and eventually decided that it was quite feasible … if they were careful. The main problem, of course, was Gwen herself. Would she agree, or would she think that her sister was taking advantage of her plight? In fact, Marge mused, was that what she really was doing? Her solution would benefit herself as much as … no, more, a thousand times more, than Gwen. But it was the only way.

  When she was called downstairs, she burst into the kitchen and sat down at the table with a thump. ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’

  Gwen regarded her miserably. ‘Not one of your silly ideas, please. I’ve done some thinking, too, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll just have to face up to it, but I won’t tell Mum till it’s all over. She’ll be so disappointed in me.’

  Marge said nothing until she had forced down a few mouthfuls of the detested, not rationed, corned mutton. ‘My idea isn’t silly, Gwen, and you won’t have to tell anybody anything. Not Mum, not Peg, not Alistair when he comes home, not a soul.’

  Her sister’s face blanched. ‘You’re not going to tell me to get an abortion? I couldn’t do that, Marge, not even if you found a woman who’s done dozens.’

  ‘You know this? You’re a blinking pessimist, Gwen Ritchie! Maybe you can’t see a way out of the mess, but never fear! Marge is here!’

  ‘Stop fooling! I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘I’m not fooling, believe me! Just listen.’

  Over the next twenty minutes, Marge laid out her plan and satisfactorily, she hoped, fielded off each attempt to pick holes in it. ‘It’s foolproof!’ she crowed at last. ‘I’ve thought of everything, and though we wouldn’t get away with it in London, it’ll be a cinch here. Nobody near us …’ she broke into song, ‘… to see us or hear us. Gwennie, it’s perfect, so why can’t you look happier about it? I’ve nearly worn my brain to the bone for you, and I get no thanks for it.’

  ‘I am grateful, Marge, but d’you honestly think …?’

  ‘I don’t think, I know. We’ll have to take things stage by stage, of course, so we don’t raise any suspicions, but I’m a good actress and I’ll carry it off.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ Gwen muttered, ‘it’s me I’m worried about. I can’t tell lies, you know that. I get all guilty and flustered, and people know …’

  ‘You won’t have to tell lies, just go along with the lies I tell. I’m going to leave it for now, and we’ll discuss it again tomorrow. That’ll give you all night to think it over and to … realize it will work. In the meantime, don’t let Leila and David see there’s anything up. We don’t want them upset, as well.’

  For the rest of the day, Gwen went about her usual chores silently, only opening up when her children came home from school and apologizing for being so bad-tempered in the morning.

  David nodded vigorously. ‘Bad-tempered? I’ll say! I was scared to open my mouth in case you jumped down my throat.’

  Marge jollied them along. ‘It’ll maybe teach you to keep your mouth shut, then,’ she chuckled. ‘You should know by this time it’s not sensible to argue with anybody who’s in a bad humour. Your mum and me keep well away from you when you’re in a paddy.’

  ‘I only get in paddies ’cos it’s always me you and Mum pick on.’

  ‘Because you’re the only one who needs to be picked on.’

  David saw the truth of this and grinned mischievously. ‘We calling pax now, are we?’

  Marge pretended to punch his arm. ‘Till the next time.’

  Gwen gave Marge’s plan a great deal of consideration that night. At first, it had sounded so outrageous that she’d been sure it couldn’t possibly work, that it was just another of her sister’s harebrained schemes, but the more she mulled it over, the more she came to think that it might work, with any luck. The one big snag as far as she could see was that, although it would be Marge who was supposed to be expecting, she’d be the one growing fat. But Marge had thought of that, too, positive they could overcome even that hurdle.

  Having their usual, most appreciated, cup of tea after the children went off to school next morning, Gwen broached the subject first. ‘I’ve decided to play along.’

  Marge clapped her hands. ‘Thank God for that! I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t. Now, the first thing to do is for me to tell people you’re not very well. I’ll do all the shopping from now on, and as you get bigger, you’ll have to keep out of the postman’s sight, and young Barry’s. They’re the
only ones who come here. And you’ll have to keep me right on how fat I’m supposed to be at the different stages.’ She beamed expansively. ‘You know something, Gwennie? I’m looking forward to this. It’s a real challenge to my ingenuity.’

  ‘There’s just one thing we’ve never mentioned,’ Gwen said, cautiously. ‘When we go back to London, who takes the baby?’

  Marge looked a little uneasy. ‘If you don’t want Mum and Alistair to know …’ She came to an abrupt decision herself and took the bull by the horns. ‘It’ll be best all round, Gwennie. Dougal went back off his last leave just a week … no, two weeks before you and Ken … He’ll be jumping his own height thinking he actually hit the jackpot after all these years, so there’ll be no doubts in his mind that he’s the father.’

  Eager to make a start to the long series of deceptions she was instigating, Marge cycled to the village that morning to cash her army allowance. ‘Is it possible for me to collect Gwen’s as well?’ she asked Lexie.

  ‘Is she not feeling well?’

  ‘She’s got a blinder of a headache, and I told her to go back to bed. Migraine, likely.’

  ‘Tell her I hope she gets over it soon, and … well, I suppose it’ll be all right.’

  While she served her customer with the groceries she needed, Lexie said, a little slyly, Marge thought, ‘I thought I saw her with a soldier up at the tower, one night a few months ago. About half past nine, it would have been.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been Gwen!’ Marge stated firmly. ‘She never goes out at nights, just with me and the kids, and they’re in bed by nine.’