With Hope and Love

by Ellie Dean

  The last photograph you sent shows you looking as young and pretty as you were on our wedding day, and I can’t believe how much our baby Daisy has grown. It makes me smile every time I look at that snap, for she reminds me of myself at that age. Get Dad to show you the family album, and you’ll see what I mean.

  I’m physically fitter than I’ve ever been, and if it wasn’t for a hacking cough and nasty cold brought on by being constantly wet, I’d feel even better. But at least I haven’t gone down with dysentery or malaria for a while which has to be some sort of blessing.

  I love you, Peggy, and think about you every day. I wish with all my heart that I could be with you and our precious family.

  Jim xx

  Peggy folded the letters and, after dampening down the fire for the night, carried them into her bedroom where she placed them in the latest shoe box for safekeeping. The number of boxes that had accumulated over the years since Jim had been sent away were a sad and painful reminder of how long they’d been apart, and as she closed the wardrobe door on them, the longing for him made her quite tearful.

  Daisy snuffled in her sleep, and Peggy picked up the framed photograph of Jim and kissed it. ‘I love you too, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about Anne and the boys,’ she whispered. ‘But I’ll write tomorrow, I promise. Goodnight, my darling man. Stay safe and come home to us so we can show you just how very much we’ve missed you.’

  18

  Ivy had felt uncomfortable and out of place from the moment she’d walked through the door of Dryden House into the wide, panelled hall with its richly coloured oriental rugs on the tiled floor. A highly polished circular table bearing silver salvers and a vase of perfectly arranged flowers stood in the centre, and she couldn’t help but notice the antique furniture and sweeping oak staircase that rose grandly to a galleried landing – neither of which would have looked out of place in a mansion. A grandfather clock’s mellow chimes announced the half-hour, and she could hear classical music coming from beyond one of the many doors leading out of the hall.

  Upon her introduction to Marjorie Johnson, Ivy’s sense of being in another world had deepened and she’d become aware of how shabby she must appear to the Johnsons in her cheap clothes and down-at-heel shoes beside the elegance of the soft caramel wool twinset, pearls and tweed skirt. Marjorie was short, dark haired, trim, and vibrant with energy. She was every inch the wife of a successful man, and Ivy had suspected she was probably a stalwart member of the church and WI committees. And yet, despite the disparity between them, Marjorie had welcomed her warmly and with great sympathy for her recent loss before showing her around the house and then up to the lovely room where she would stay for the week.

  That week was now almost at an end, and as Ivy sat on the deeply padded window seat in her bedroom and looked out at the riot of colour in the neat back garden, she knew the time for making decisions had come – and once made there could be no turning back.

  She opened the window and lit a cigarette, feeling the warmth of the late May day on her face and wishing she could talk to Andy or Peggy – or anyone who might be able to advise her on the best thing to do. As it was, she had to see this through on her own, for there had been no word from her brothers, who she suspected were spending their leave in the local pubs of whatever port they’d anchored in, and she hadn’t liked to ask if she could use the Johnsons’ telephone to make a long-distance call to Peggy – they might see it as a liberty.

  Thinking back to that first evening, she felt a twist of sadness. George and Elsie had been very polite but somewhat wary when they’d come back from school in their posh uniforms, and when she’d enthusiastically called her little brother Georgie, she’d been told rather coolly that he was a bit old for such a babyish name and preferred to be called George.

  As they’d all sat down to what Marjorie called ‘high tea’, Ivy had tried to make conversation with them, asking about their school, their friends, and what they liked doing for fun. It was hard going, for their replies were stilted and short, giving her little idea of what their lives were like. So she’d given up and concentrated on not gobbling down the bread and jam and delicious cake, or slurping her tea. But all the while she ate she’d been conscious of them surreptitiously watching her over their teacups with a certain amount of puzzled curiosity before they decided to ignore her completely and chatter to Marjorie and Richard about their plans for half-term the following week.

  Ivy had managed to get through the meal without tasting a thing as she’d watched and listened to them. They talked really posh, she realised, and the way they communicated with Marjorie and Richard showed how confident they were in holding an adult conversation. Their manners were impeccable, asking to leave the table when they’d finished and going straight into Richard’s study to do their homework without even being told to.

  Ivy had known then that they’d come a very long way from the tenement slums of East London and, despite all efforts, couldn’t hide their shock at the sudden appearance in their home of this long-forgotten sister; especially when she opened her mouth and the broad Cockney accent rang out. She’d tried desperately to modulate her tone and not drop her aitches, but it came out all wrong and she’d seen the children exchanging knowing looks as they tried to smother their giggles.

  Over the following days Ivy had done her best to get to know them, and regaled them with stories about their old home in London, their parents and the rest of the family. They’d listened politely but shown no real interest or curiosity, and Ivy noticed sadly how little Elsie clung to Marjorie’s side as if afraid she’d suddenly be snatched away from her.

  Now she stubbed out her cigarette against the outside wall and dropped the remains in the flower bed beneath her window. There really was only one right decision, and although it saddened her to make it, she knew without doubt that it was the best one for Elsie and George.

  Leaving the bedroom, she slowly went down the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Richard’s study. At his permission to enter, she stepped inside. ‘Mr Johnson,’ she began, feeling suddenly awkward in the masculine room that was lined with books and redolent with the scent of leather and pipe tobacco. ‘Mr Johnson, I’ve come to tell yer that I agree to you adopting the kids,’ she said in a rush.

  He leapt to his feet. ‘Oh, Ivy,’ he breathed, reaching for her hands, his round face pink with delight. ‘You can’t possibly imagine how happy and relieved I am that you’ve come to this decision – and I know that Marjorie would want me to thank you from the bottom of her heart. The thought of losing those children has been a torture for both of us over these past few days.’

  Embarrassed by his emotional reaction, she gently withdrew her hands from his grasp and folded her arms. ‘Yeah, well, it weren’t easy, ’cos they are family, and there’s so few of us left it didn’t feel like a decision to be made in an ’urry.’ She took a shallow breath. ‘And I’m only agreeing to it on one condition.’

  His delight faded and he frowned. ‘What condition?’

  ‘That I can write to them so they don’t forget who I am and where they come from. If they want to write back, then so much the better – though I don’t expect they will until they get older and can really understand why things turned out the way they have.’

  Richard’s smile was soft with relief. ‘If that is your only condition, then Marjorie and I will be delighted to comply.’ He regarded Ivy who was still standing by the door, her arms folded tightly around her waist. ‘I know it’s been a difficult decision to face, my dear, but you’re clearly wise and generous of heart to realise it’s the best outcome for George and Elsie.’ He smiled. ‘Best for you too, I imagine. As a young woman about to be married, it would have been extremely difficult to take on two children you hardly know.’

  Ivy admitted silently that it would have been a lot to ask of Andy, but that hadn’t been the reason behind her decision. ‘I dunno nothing about wise and generous of heart,’ she muttered. ‘All I know is I
been watching ’em all week, and realised they’d never fit in with me and Andy in a poky London flat above a chippy, and would get an ’ard time of it from the other kids at the local state school with their posh talk and ways of doing things.’

  She gave a sigh and looked round the room. ‘They belong ’ere with you and Marjorie in this lovely ’ouse, not in some back street of Walthamstow. You both done a marvellous job of raising them, Mr Johnson, and you should be proud of that. Them kids love yer, and it wouldn’t ’ave been right to take ’em away.’

  There were tears glistening in Richard’s eyes as he reached once more for her hands. ‘Saying thank you feels inadequate, Ivy, but I want you to know that George and Elsie will be loved and cherished until we draw our last breath.’

  The moment was broken by the rap of the door knocker.

  ‘Oh dear, Marjorie must have forgotten her front door key again,’ said Richard good-naturedly. ‘Let’s go and welcome her home with the good news.’ He bustled out of the study and into the hall leaving Ivy to follow him.

  Richard opened the front door and stiffened in surprise. ‘I think you must have the wrong address,’ he said brusquely.

  A deep masculine voice replied, ‘Are you Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied warily. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re Ivy’s brothers, Stanley and Michael. Is she still ’ere?’

  Ivy nearly fainted when she saw them standing there in their Navy regulation white short-sleeved T-shirts and bell-bottom trousers, for the last time she’d seen them they’d been skinny boys in their father’s hand-me-downs. Now they were over six feet tall and built like brick outhouses with muscled arms covered in tattoos and necks like tree trunks.

  ‘I’m here all right,’ she replied, easing past a stunned Richard to block the entrance and fold her arms. ‘But how did yer know I was ’ere – and what do yer want?’

  ‘A drink wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Stanley, who sported a flourishing beard and moustache. ‘Mrs Reilly told us you was ’ere. Ain’t yer goin’ to let us in, gel?’

  Ivy looked to Richard for advice and noted he’d gone very pale. He nodded reluctantly and stepped back, indicating silently that she should take them into the kitchen.

  ‘Wipe yer boots,’ she ordered her brothers. ‘Them’s Persian rugs and worth a fortune.’

  They dutifully obeyed and, staring agape at the grandness of it all, wordlessly followed her through the hall into the kitchen which overlooked the lovely back garden.

  Flustered by this unexpected visit, and still shocked by their appearance, Ivy put the kettle on and hunted out cups and saucers, noticing that Richard had discreetly left them to it – but probably had his ear glued to the door to hear what was being said. She still couldn’t believe these giants were the same skinny, spotty youths she’d vaguely remembered leaving home all those years ago – and yet there was a likeness to their father in their size and build, and to their mother in their striking blue eyes.

  She braced herself for what was to come, for their timing couldn’t have been worse, and if they didn’t like what she’d decided about the kids there would be trouble.

  ‘You’ve changed a bit since I last saw yer,’ she said once the tea was poured and a plate of digestive biscuits placed on the table before them. ‘The Merchant Navy clearly feeds yer well.’

  ‘You’ve changed a bit and all,’ said Mick, eyeing her up and down as he grinned. ‘Last time I saw yer, you ’ad yer drawers half-mast, a snotty nose and scabby knees.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a long time since then,’ she replied. ‘So what you doing ’ere?

  ‘We come to see the nippers,’ said Stanley, dunking a biscuit into his tea and just catching it in his mouth before it fell apart and dropped into his beard. ‘Now the war’s over, we thought we’d help yer get ’em settled back in the Smoke before we go back to sea.’

  ‘They ain’t going to London,’ she replied firmly. ‘They’re staying ’ere with the Johnsons.’

  ‘That ain’t right,’ muttered Mick. ‘They was only supposed to be ’ere temporary like. It’s time for ’em to go back ’ome and be with family again.’

  ‘There ain’t no ’ome to go to, Mick,’ she replied, battling to keep her patience. ‘Mum, Sis and Dad was bombed out during the Blitz and lived out of suitcases until they was killed in them flats.’ She took a sharp breath. ‘As fer family, there’s just us – and we’re strangers.’

  ‘Yeah, we know about Mum and Dad and Sis,’ said Stanley, dunking another biscuit and losing half of it in his tea. ‘But Mrs Reilly told us you was getting married to that fireman, and ’e’s got a flat what goes with his new job. Walthamstow ain’t the East End, but it’ll do, I suppose,’ he added, chasing the floating bits of soggy biscuit with a spoon.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ she snapped, snatching the spoon from him. ‘It ain’t polite.’

  Stanley tipped his chair onto its back legs, making them creak under his weight. ‘Get you,’ he sneered. ‘Since when did you care about what’s polite?’

  ‘Since I been living with Peggy Reilly,’ she retorted. ‘And fer your information, Andy and I ain’t taking the kids with us. They’re staying ’ere so Mr and Mrs Johnson can adopt ’em.’

  Stanley’s chair righted itself with a thud and Mick’s scraped on the floor as he leapt to his feet and leaned over the table. ‘No one’s adopting anyone,’ he roared. ‘Them kids are our blood and we ain’t signing them away.’

  ‘Mick’s right,’ said Stanley. ‘And if you know what’s good for yer, you’ll listen and listen good.’ He stabbed a meaty finger on the table to emphasise each word. ‘Them kids belong to us. And we’re keeping ’em.’

  Ivy stiffened her spine and refused to be bullied. ‘You mean you want me to keep ’em,’ she retorted. ‘And I ain’t doing it. They ain’t bags of spuds to be owned and passed around, and besides, I already promised I’d sign the adoption papers.’ She could see the storm brewing in their eyes and leaned forward to make her own point clear.

  ‘I know they’re our blood,’ she said, forcing herself to speak in a reasonable tone. ‘But they ain’t really been part of our family for five years. They’re not babies no more, and are big enough to know what they want.’

  ‘They’re still kids,’ muttered Stanley. ‘And as such should leave it to grown-ups to decide what’s best fer ’em.’

  ‘And what if the grown-ups are wrong?’ she countered. ‘Them kids are ’appy and settled here and see the Johnsons as their family now.’

  She sat back, regarded the two silent, frowning men who had yet to be convinced and decided that only straight talking would do. ‘Look around, why don’t yer? This is what they’re used to. This is where they call home. Do you really want to rip them away from it and ’ave them squashed into a poky flat at the arse end of bleedin’ Walthamstow?’

  The brothers remained silent as they took in the large, well-equipped kitchen and long back garden with its swing and summerhouse. ‘Peggy Reilly did warn us this might happen,’ said Mick. ‘But I still think we should talk to the kids and explain why they need to be back where they belong.’

  Ivy exhaled sharply in exasperation. ‘You ain’t been listenin’ to a bleedin’ word I’ve said,’ she snapped. ‘But fair enough. You wanna see ’em, now’s yer chance, ’cos I can ’ear them comin’ back from their posh private schools. Perhaps then you’ll see what I’ve been on about.’

  They made to rise from the table, but Ivy stopped them with a glare. ‘You’ll frighten ’em half to death looking like that, so best you see ’em in ’ere once I’ve prepared ’em,’ she said flatly, eyeing their bulging tattooed biceps and the way the fabric of their T-shirts was stretched over their muscled chests and washboard midriffs. ‘Ain’t you got jackets or somethin’ to cover up them tattoos?’

  ‘We left ’em back at the boarding house in Salisbury,’ rumbled Stanley. ‘Didn’t see no point in them as we’re on leave and it’s a fine day.’

  Iv
y rolled her eyes and pushed back from the table. ‘It’s teatime and the kids will be ’ungry, so the sooner you get this over and done with and on yer way, the better.’

  ‘We ain’t going nowhere until we’re good and ready,’ said Mick stubbornly.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Stanley with a mulish expression as he folded his meaty arms over his chest. ‘They’re our blood, and we got a right to find out what’s goin’ on ’ere.’

  Ivy realised it was the best thing possible to let them talk to the children and see for themselves how they’d never fit in to a life with her in Walthamstow. ‘I’ll go and get ’em then,’ she said. ‘And don’t touch nothing while I’m away.’

  She shut the kitchen door behind her and leaned against it for a moment to take a deep breath and calm down. Then she headed for the chintzy drawing room where she found the little family huddled miserably together on the large overstuffed couch.

  They all looked up at her with fearful eyes. ‘I’m sorry about me brothers turning up like that,’ she said. ‘They do look a bit scary, I know. Fair gave me a fright when I saw ’em, I can tell you that,’ she added, trying to make light of the situation and failing miserably. ‘But for all their size, Stanley and Mick are just as soft under all that muscle as our dad was. Gentle giants, all of ’em, and don’t mean no ’arm to no one ’ere.’

  Her heart went out to George and Elsie who were still in their school uniforms as they clung to Marjorie and Richard. ‘They’re your brothers too,’ she said softly. ‘Though they left ’ome long before you was even a twinkle in our dad’s eye. They’d like to meet you before they leave ’cos they’ll be going back to sea and might never get the chance again.’