Instead, Ethel woke one night to the sound of her baby crying, got up, packed a few things, and quietly left her parents’ home.
3
MRS TAYLOR
Ethel went out into the street, and walked. She didn’t care which direction she went, she just walked in the cool air as briskly as she could. It felt good after being cooped up in her room all that time. At first light she slowed and pulled up at the first open café she came across, collapsed into a chair and ordered a cup of tea.
She had never felt so directionless. All her energy seemed to have gone; all she felt was sadness. She had lost her husband, she didn’t want to go back to her parents and face her baby, and she certainly couldn’t go to her in-laws.
She sat quietly with her hands around the cup of tea on the table, having to lift it to her mouth with both hands because they were shaking so badly. The tea revived her, but when she’d finished and pulled out her purse to pay, she realised she didn’t have much money, and no way of getting any more until the post office opened. Then the realisation hit: her husband was dead—would she still get his pension?
Rising from the table, she straightened her coat and went to the counter to hand over the coins for her tea. The lady behind the counter looked as tired as she herself felt.
‘Are you alright?’ the lady asked.
Ethel looked towards her, and then started to sway. ‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to clear her throat, ‘I, uh, I …’ When she couldn’t get the words out, the lady looked at her in genuine concern. ‘No, no, I’m not,’ Ethel corrected herself quietly, and the lady’s tired eyes softened. ‘My husband is dead. I don’t, I don’t know what to do.’ She was holding back tears now. ‘And I, I, don’t have much money, I …’ and the tears fell.
The woman came out from behind the counter and placed her arms around Ethel. ‘There, there love,’ she said, gently holding her. ‘It’ll be alright.’ As she held Ethel and wiped away her tears with the edge of her stained apron, she said with a smile, ‘Tell you what love, the tea’s on me—you just get home and look after yourself, eh?’
Ethel nodded and looked down at the faded lino floor. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. She pulled back her shoulders and looked at the kind woman, ‘Thank you.’
Going back out into the cool morning air, Ethel felt momentarily elated. The woman had given her the cup of tea for free, it hadn’t cost her a penny. Her mood changed when she thought about her lack of cash. She still had money, but not much. Where was she going? What was she going to do? How could she get money to live on? In the early morning light she stood on the pavement and twirled the thin gold wedding band on her ring finger, unsure what to do. She heard a train in the distance and just headed towards the sound; trains had always been linked with fun and adventure ever since she was a little girl, when her parents would take her to Blackpool for a week’s break each year. The sound drew her like a magnet.
The railway station was on the Manchester–Liverpool line. Using the same skills she had picked up when sneaking into movie theatres, she avoided buying a ticket by attaching herself to a group of three women and their combined brood of young children as they moved onto the train. The women sat down and fussed over their kids and Ethel sat a couple of seats away. But she found she couldn’t look at the kids, and when one of the babies began grizzling and then started to cry, she got up and walked to the other end of the carriage and leant against the window, closing her eyes in exhaustion.
‘Tickets!’ The command woke her with a start. Ethel looked up to see a conductor entering from the front carriage. It took a moment for her to figure out where she was; her brain felt like it was filled with glue, slowing everything down.
Hearing the screech of the train’s brakes being applied, Ethel grabbed her bag and made her way to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the conductor punching one of the mothers’ tickets and looking at her as he continued making his way down the carriage. She opened the door as the train slowed and halted, and stepped out into the cool air.
Standing on the platform for a moment, she watched as the train pull away. She felt herself sway, and felt hot despite the cool air, but knew she had to keep moving. She had to get away, from everything. She stumbled towards the raised walkway over the tracks. Each step was tough, the stairs felt so steep. Weak and out of breath, she stopped at the top of the stairs and steadied herself as she again felt herself sway.
‘You right, love?’ a voice asked. She looked up and saw a bloke in an army uniform leaning against the rail, watching her. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked her again; moving towards her as she half fell onto the railing.
The sight of the uniform, and the feeling of being unwell, made her want to cry. ‘I, I … no I don’t feel well,’ she blurted.
He came up beside her and grabbed her as her knees buckled. ‘Whoa there!’ he laughed. ‘Come on, there’s a seat this way. Think you’d better sit down for a while.’ He steered her off the walkway, then helped ease her down onto a bench.
Ethel looked down at the ground and thanked him. She couldn’t help but feel his eyes roaming over her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Ethel,’ she replied, ‘Ethel … Smith.’ She didn’t know why she didn’t give him her real name. This way just felt right.
‘Pleased to meet you, Ethel. I’m Billy—Billy Taylor. You from around here?’
Ethel shook her head as tears escaped and fell to the ground.
‘There, there, love. Come on—tell Billy what’s wrong,’ he said, gently gripping her hand.
Still looking down she stifled a sob, not trusting her voice. She looked up, but the sight of his uniform once again made her cry. ‘My husband, my … he’s dead,’ was all she could get out before her head fell against his shoulder in sorrow.
Billy patted her shoulder and held her for a moment before she pulled herself away, took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes.
He looked at her for a moment, then stood and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on Ethel, let’s go get a drink. We could both do with one, there’s a pub up the way.’ He gave her a smile and she nodded her head in reply—maybe a drink would help. They walked slowly up the street, Ethel leaning on Billy, who hobbled along.
She suddenly stopped and looked down at his legs. ‘You’re hurt!’ she said quietly.
‘A bit. Getting better. I’m up at that convalescent camp, at Knowsley. Decided to go out for an explore, exercise this gammy leg of mine—and look what I found!’ he grinned. ‘Come on, let’s get that drink,’ he said, leading her up the road.
Ethel woke with a thumping head and dry mouth, the light through the window hurting her eyes.
‘Good morning, Mrs Taylor.’
She looked over at Billy in surprise: he was leaning beside her on one elbow, grinning. ‘Wh-at?’ she asked him, taking in the room and the bed, in which the two of them were lying.
He laughed. ‘Just kiddin’, love, but that’s what I told the landlady when I knew you couldn’t go anywhere. You’re Mrs Billy Taylor while you’re here.’
Ethel looked around her—at the dirty curtains, the paint peeling off the ceiling. She had no idea where she was and she had to ask.
‘The Black Horse Inn,’ Billy stated. ‘In Rainhill. You don’t remember?’
She felt ill, and it wasn’t just the fever. She looked up at Billy and slowly shook her head from side to side.
‘Not surprised,’ he replied, reaching across to push some damp hair from her face. He looked at her with concern. ‘You do have a bit of a fever—I’ll go downstairs and see if I can get us some food and drink, eh? That’ll perk you up.’
She looked at him and nodded. As he climbed out of bed and started to dress back into his uniform, she scrutinised him carefully. Down his right leg was a series of big, red, raw scars, with smaller ones peppering his left leg.
Ethel closed her eyes. What had she done?
She heard the door close and tried to sit
up, but a wave of nausea hit her; she pulled the duvet up around her head and felt herself shiver. She was in no state to go anywhere.
She must have nodded off, because she woke to the sound of a tray clattering.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,’ Billy said as he limped towards her.
She hadn’t realised she was so thirsty. Reaching up to the glass of water on the tray, she grabbed it and unsteadily brought it to her mouth, took a gulp, and then another. Concentrating on drinking the water meant she didn’t have to look at Billy.
He placed the tray down and sat on the bed beside her, stroking her arm. ‘Better?’ he asked. Ethel nodded in reply, still not wanting to look at him.
She leant back against the pillow and closed her eyes, but the bed seemed to sway beneath her and she quickly opened them again.
Billy was looking at her with such concern that she started to cry. He scooped her up and held her against his chest, gently rocking her backwards and forwards. Despite the nausea and dread, she liked being held close when everything seemed to be going so wrong.
She wasn’t sure how many nights they stayed in that room, but after horror sweats on the first couple of days, she felt her strength starting to return. Billy wiped her fevered body down with a towel; fed her, held her, cared for her and helped her across the hallway to the bathroom whenever she asked. In between he held her close, kissed her and looked after her. She was dependent on him, but didn’t care. He had swept her away from the pain of losing her husband, of leaving her baby.
On what was to be their last day at the Black Horse, they lay together on the bed and Billy turned to her.
‘I have to go back,’ he began, stroking her arm. ‘I’m absent without leave. I need to go back,’ he repeated, looking down at her arm. ‘But I didn’t want to leave you when you were so ill,’ he added quietly.
Ethel looked at him expectantly—there were plans to make, things to organise.
But before she could reply, there was a knock at the door. They looked at each other in surprise, and then to the wooden door as it opened. When two policemen and the smirking manageress walked into the room, Ethel shrieked.
‘You’re both under arrest,’ the older officer stated.
‘What for?’ Billy asked, sitting up.
‘You’re not married are you?’ he stated, looking at them as Ethel tried to hide under the duvet. ‘You’re both under arrest for giving false information to a lodging-house keeper.’
4
MRS SMITH
It was the first time Ethel was to appear in a newspaper, and she was glad she hadn’t given her real name—there’d be time to explain all of that to Billy later. She felt sure no one would recognise her as ‘Ethel Smith’ when that name was printed in the paper.
She and Billy were taken to the police lock-up at nearby Preston. Ethel complained to them of a fever, which she still had a touch of, so they packed her off to hospital, where she was admitted. Two days later she was discharged from hospital and told to appear at the Preston Petty Sessions. She thought about not going—there were no police around to make her—but she wanted to see Billy again. They hadn’t even talked about what was going to happen next … maybe he could get a ring paper she could use.
Arriving at the courthouse, she went into the office. There, behind a big wooden counter, stood an elderly man carefully filling out a ledger. Several other people waited patiently on her side of the counter until the old clerk told them what to do and where to go. She leant against the wall as she waited, until the clerk looked up at her expectantly.
‘My name is Ethel Smith—I, I had to come here,’ she said uncertainly.
The clerk looked at her, then referred to the ledger in front of him.
‘You’re not a witness—you’re a defendant!’ he exclaimed. She looked back at him in surprise, not knowing what that meant. ‘You’re supposed to be out the back!’ He looked at her sternly.
Ethel didn’t know what she was supposed to do. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered, raising one section of the counter and beckoning for her to come through. ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ he demanded before turning away. ‘John? John, I got one for you,’ he called out down the hallway that loomed behind them.
Another older man, the warden in charge of the lock-up came down the dark hall towards them, looking at them questioningly. He and the clerk had a brief conversation before the warden indicated with a gesture for Ethel to follow him. They weaved their way through the back of the building and down some stairs until they came to a row of cells near the basement.
Ethel didn’t want to go into one of those!
‘Please,’ she began. The warden stopped and turned to look at her.
‘Do, do I have to go into one of those? I mean, I came here of my own free will. And I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she implored. ‘Please,’ she tried once more, reaching out and touching the man’s upper arm.
He looked her up and down—a nicely turned-out dame, dolled up and speaking nice. ‘You can sit by the door,’ he suggested. ‘But don’t go anywhere,’ he warned. ‘We’re full anyway,’ he mumbled as he went to sit at his desk, then busied himself filling out papers that Ethel assumed were for her. As she sat quietly by the door she could hear the murmurs and movements in the dark cells and shuddered—she couldn’t imagine herself in one of them.
Before long, a policeman came down from the court. ‘William Taylor and Ethel Smith,’ he called out in a loud, almost bored, tone. She stood and turned to watch the warden walking down towards the cells.
Down the dark hallway she heard the clunk of a key turning in its lock, followed by a shuffle of feet—then Billy came around the corner towards her. He looked older and seemed to limp more than she remembered. Had it only been two days since she last saw him? She wanted to go towards him, but the presence of the warden and policeman, and the warning look Billy gave her, held her back.
‘You haven’t got a lawyer?’ the policeman asked. Ethel looked at him blankly and Billy shook his head. ‘You don’t need one. Just state your case to the magistrate,’ he said gruffly to them both. ‘Follow me,’ he ordered, then headed up the stairs with his two defendants in tow.
Ethel kept trying to catch Billy’s eye, but he refused to look at her. The warden followed close behind, herding them into the court.
Those assembled inside the court looked at them with open curiosity as the policeman motioned towards the defendant’s box and told them to take a seat. Ethel scanned the scattered faces before her, surprised by the animosity behind one woman’s hateful gaze.
They had barely sat down when a door opened and the court clerk called out, ‘All rise!’ With a shuffle of feet the court rose almost as one, then watched as an elderly man dressed in a dark cloak entered and seated himself on what appeared to be a wooden throne in the middle of a raised box. He looked down at the court as the lawyers and the gallery followed his lead and sat down. Ethel was fascinated.
The clerk stood with a piece of paper in front of him. ‘Private William Taylor and Miss Ethel Smith, you are charged under the Aliens Restriction Order for giving false information to a lodging-house keeper where you resided as a married couple.’
The magistrate looked at them, before asking in an almost bored tone, ‘How do the defendants plead?’
Billy stood and said, ‘Not guilty!’ The magistrate frowned at him.
Ethel noticed the clerk motioning for her to stand, which she quickly did, loudly stating, ‘Not guilty!’
‘Do you have anything to say for yourselves? Private Taylor?’ the magistrate turned first to Billy.
Billy stood in the defendant’s box, not looking at Ethel but towards the assembled audience, watching one woman slowly weeping—the same woman who had looked at Ethel with such venom minutes before.
‘Your Honour,’ he began tentatively, ‘I’m just back from the Front, where I’ve been with the King’s Own Royal Regiment since the start of the war. I’ve been in Salonika and France, a
nd was wounded two months back. Almost lost my leg. What I did was wrong, I shouldn’t have been absent without leave, but this girl was ill and I was looking after her. It was just a moment of weakness.’
‘Hardly a moment, Private Taylor, from what I have here,’ the magistrate said, looking down at his notes. ‘It was close to a week!’ he added, to the amusement of those watching on.
‘I couldn’t leave her,’ Billy responded, ‘she was sick!’ The magistrate raised his eyebrows.
‘She’s not Miss Smith either—she’s a Mrs,’ Billy stated, prompting murmurings in the small crowd, which was beginning to enjoy the drama.
‘The fact is, if I am not mistaken, Private, that you are also married …’—Ethel, hearing herself gasp, looked at Billy—‘to someone else,’ the magistrate continued. ‘And I understand there are children?’
‘Yes, Your Honour—three,’ he replied meekly.
Ethel felt her face warm as she looked at him. Married? Children?
‘Be seated, Private Taylor,’ the magistrate ordered.
‘I’m sorry, Your Honour,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said looking towards his sobbing wife.
‘Ethel Smith, do you have anything to say for yourself?’ the magistrate asked as Billy sat heavily down beside her.
Ethel looked at her former lover in confusion as she tried to compose herself and answer the question, but Billy refused to return her look.
‘Your Honour,’ she started, rounding her vowels and distancing herself from Billy. ‘Your Honour, I would like to state that this man took advantage of me!’
‘Lying tart!’ the wronged wife yelled at her, before collapsing into sobs.
The magistrate glared at the outspoken woman as Ethel tried to ignore the interruption. Her shock at hearing of the existence of Billy’s family had now changed to anger, and she was going to let him have it.
The Amazing Mrs Livesey Page 2
