by Lizzie Lane
It was a week after that when Stanley blurted out the truth. He’d come in upset because someone had stolen his roller skates. He blamed his father then went on to tell her the reason why he suspected him.
‘It’s Dad!’ he wailed. ‘Harry called him a pig ’cos he was dancing with Mrs Young and drinking again. I was there. I saw it all.’
After seeing him on Christmas Day, it came as no surprise to Mary Anne to be told that he was back on the booze. To be told that he’d been dancing with Biddy was a little harder to swallow.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she’d said, bending down and shaking him by the shoulders.
Everything about that day had come tumbling out. Harry had sworn Stanley to secrecy, but the young lad, not quite eleven, couldn’t keep it in – not once he was questioned by his mother.
Mary Anne had immediately taken pen to paper. Late at night, a time when she could think straight and there was no one else around, she sat down and wrote an apology and an explanation to her eldest son. At the same time she did the same to Daw and a third letter to Lizzie. They all had to know. What point was there in doing otherwise? And so she’d explained about Edward going off to war, leaving her in the family way, and then how she’d been sent away to give birth, and forced to give the baby away and marry an oblivious Henry.
After turning the gas off and taking off her apron, she made her way to where a handsome wickerwork chair caught the light from the window. Fearfully, she prodded the paper until the letter lay in her hand. Merely unfolding it sent shivers down her spine. Her heart was in her mouth.
The letter contained three paragraphs. She read through quickly, finally returning to the second paragraph, the most important of all.
It felt strange being the eldest son one minute, and the next being the second son. A few words describe how it was: cheated, abandoned, unloved, untrusted. All of those words count towards my feelings, but when I wrote them down and reread them again and again, only one word described my behaviour – selfish. It was selfish of me to react as I did, not to think how you must have felt when Edward did not return. I cannot even begin to imagine how it must have felt to give your firstborn away. You have loved and lived through all our growing pains, never condemning us for what we had grown into – me most of all.
Lizzie had already written back telling her about her friend Bessie who was pregnant and engaged. A wedding date had been set before the bridegroom got his marching orders. She said little about having a sibling she’d known nothing about, except to say that there would probably be a lot more women left in that state if this war went on for much longer. She could say little about what she was doing, but just enough to let her mother know that she was doing fine and had met some very interesting people.
Before we know it, thousands of American troops will be over here as well. Imagine the birth rate when they arrive! I’ve met a Canadian, but that’s not quite the same thing is it. But he’s very nice.
Strangely enough, those few words were enough to worry Mary Anne. There was so much that could not be said and her thoughts turned to Patrick. Patrick loved Lizzie. She was in no doubt about that. Lizzie hadn’t really said anything in her letter about being enamoured of this ‘very nice’ person. In fact all she’d said was that he was nice. That was what fuelled Mary Anne’s imagination.
Suddenly wearied by all the disturbance around her, she lay her head back against the cool leather and closed her eyes. Everything was so unsettled. With the exception of Stanley, her children were scattered to the four corners. Of course Daw wasn’t that far away, but there had been an atmosphere between them ever since Mary Anne had left her father and set up home with Michael. Daw liked the world around her to be at peace with itself. She easily turned a blind eye to things she didn’t want to see – hence she had never accepted that her father had acted violently towards her mother. She never would.
Behind her closed lids, she dreamed of the day when she would have her own home again. Michael would be in it and so would her children.
Her son’s flat was exquisite, but although Edgar was kindness itself, she was not at home here. It was too crisp, too clean, without the gathered clutter of a lifetime – of more than one person’s lifetime.
A frown creased her forehead as she thought about Henry. She’d been right not to believe that he’d changed. The thought of what might have happened, of the life she would have returned to, sent a shiver down her spine.
If only, if only … It would be so easy to break down and cry, but she couldn’t. She had Stanley to consider. He hadn’t always been a healthy child. He still needed looking out for and she knew from experience that he wouldn’t rely on his father.
She remembered one terrible time when Henry had been brutalizing her in the privacy of their bedroom. He’d ripped at her clothes and taken her forcibly and in a bestial fashion. Only they hadn’t been doing it in private; Stanley had been watching from the doorway.
The sudden clump-clump of Stanley climbing the stairs brought her back to the present.
She could see from his pained expression that something bad had happened.
‘I took off me roller skates so I could play football with me mates. Brian was going to be in goal because he’s got his leg in plaster and he can block the goalmouth, so I put me skates behind him. And someone took them! Someone took them!’ He looked and sounded totally distraught.
Mary Anne sighed. ‘This war. It’s making saints of some and sinners of others.’
Stanley looked at her in disbelief, not quite understanding what she was saying. He screwed up his face and rubbed his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Why are so many bad things happening, Mum? Is it me dad doing it all?’
Mary Anne’s answer caught in her throat. Many bad things had happened, but were they really down to Henry? Or were some of the things – like mislaying Mathilda in her pushchair – purely coincidence?
She got up from the chair. ‘We’ll go out and look for them. Someone might have picked them up by mistake.’
Deep down she knew there was little chance of finding them, but she had to do her best for her son, just as she tried to do her best for all her children. She’d spent years trying to please Henry, but all to no avail. Michael had been her departure from living for others, but there were still occasions when they took precedence.
They passed Edgar on the stairs. He had a flower shop not far from Eastville bus depot. He was young but had a bad heart, one reason why he did not participate in very strenuous war work, but instead ran first-aid courses and rolled bandages for the Red Cross.
‘Good evening, Mrs Randall. I’ve brought you these.’ He handed her a bunch of snowdrops and crocus.
Mary Anne bent her head to smell them. ‘That’s very kind of you, Edgar. They’re lovely, really lovely.’
He looked from mother to son. ‘Are you going out somewhere? If you are, I can put them in water for you until you get back.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Someone’s taken Stanley’s roller skates.’
Edgar sighed. ‘A sign of the times. You wouldn’t believe what people get up to in the blackout. I’m surprised more people don’t get murdered. And the thieving!’ He rolled his eyes dramatically as he took back the flowers that he’d only just given her. ‘I’ll deal with these.’
The door had slammed shut, so she left him rummaging for his keys. ‘Oh no! I’ve lost them.’ He continued to hunt in each pocket.
Mary Anne stopped and turned round. Stanley tugged at her sleeve. ‘Come on, Mum. It’ll be dark soon.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Mary Anne. ‘I’ve got my key handy.’
Edgar continued to mumble and search his pockets, his right hand diving from one side to the other, his left holding on to the bunch of flowers.
‘We won’t be long,’ Mary Anne called to him over her shoulder as she followed Stanley down the stairs.
Twilight was fast turning into night by the time they were out in the street. Fifteen minu
tes or so and total darkness would descend.
They searched where Stanley had been playing football and asked the few people still out and about whether they’d seen anyone carrying such objects. No one had.
Finding them was always going to be a fruitless task, but Mary Anne couldn’t let Stanley know that. She was determined to do her best, to make up for … The thought came unbidden into her head, yet she knew beyond doubt that it was always there. She was always trying to make up for the fact that she’d taken up with Michael. She’d run bleeding and battered from Henry and fallen into Michael’s shop doorway. It had been months before she’d seen Stanley again. The guilt had never quite gone away, and yet Stanley showed no sign of condemnation – on the contrary he had seemed to accept the situation totally.
A thick fog began to descend. What with that and the blackout, it wouldn’t be long before they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces.
Mary Anne put her arm around Stanley’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, pet, but we have to go back. This is hopeless.’
With slumped shoulders, his hands slung hopelessly in his pockets, Stanley dragged his feet all the way back. Darkness came down like a thick blanket. Mary Anne firmed her grip around Stanley’s shoulders. A few feet apart and they wouldn’t see each other at all.
Southern Mansions, where Harry had his flat, had an apron frontage of black and white tiles and pillars on either side of the door. The white tiles gave them some idea of where they were. Mary Anne kept looking downwards ahead of her feet. The tiles must be here somewhere.
Just as she spotted the small white squares, the door ahead opened. Someone rushed out, almost knocking her over. Still clinging to Stanley, she gasped as the figure swept past. She narrowed her eyes in an effort to see who he was and where he was going. It was useless. The blackness swallowed him as though he’d never existed.
‘Quickly,’ she said to Stanley.
There was no obvious reason for them to ascend the stairs at break-neck speed, just an inner feeling that something was badly wrong.
‘Wait here,’ she said to Stanley once they were on the landing. He didn’t argue for once, perhaps because her fear was apparent on her features.
The door to the flat was open. Light should have fallen out on to the landing, but it didn’t. All was darkness.
Heart racing, she stepped inside.
‘Edgar?’
‘Here.’
His voice quivered from the direction of the sideboard, but she couldn’t see him. She reached for the light switch. Edgar was crouched against the front of the sideboard. Blood was streaming from the side of his head.
‘Oh my God!’
She raced for the bathroom and ran a scrupulously white flannel beneath the tap.
‘Who did this?’ she asked, dabbing at the cut in his temple.
‘A very masculine man, no doubt. It’s nothing new, but at least he didn’t call me Nancy Boy or any of the names I’ve been called in the past.’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘I quite expected him to. But he said nothing. That was what was so strange. He just came up behind me, punched me in the kidneys and hit me over the head.’
‘A robber!’ said Stanley, his eyes shining with gruesome excitement. ‘He saw us go out and thought nobody was here!’
Mary Anne glanced around the apartment. No drawers or cupboard doors hung open, the tasteful watercolours still hung on the wall and the elegant porcelain and silver candlesticks still graced the mantelpiece.
‘It doesn’t look as though anything is missing.’
‘He wasn’t here long enough for that,’ said Edgar, wincing as he shook his head.
It was then she noticed something poking out from beneath his ankle. She reached forward and picked up his door key. ‘At least you found your key.’
‘No. I didn’t find it. He let himself in with it. And I didn’t drop it, Mrs Randall. I know I didn’t.’
She frowned.
Stanley’s eyes shone like they did after a visit to the pictures. ‘He stole it when you weren’t looking. He knew where you lived and planned to break in and take all your money …’
‘Stanley!’
‘But Mum and me foiled him. We came back and—’
‘Stanley! That’s enough.’
‘But it’s exciting …’
Mary Anne gave him a good shaking. ‘This isn’t a Saturday-morning serial at the pictures, Stanley. It’s for real. Edgar’s been hurt. We need to call the police.’
Edgar became agitated. ‘No! No. Don’t do that.’ He looked sheepish suddenly, his eyes full of sadness. He lowered his voice. ‘You know what they’re like with blokes like me.’
‘That’s silly,’ said Stanley, reanimated now his mother had let go of him. ‘We could tell him about that man we bumped into outside. We could describe him.’
Mary Anne felt goosebumps break out all over her body. The man they’d bumped into had been in such a hurry he had almost knocked them over.
‘Stanley’s right. We did bump into a man, but it was dark.’
Suddenly Edgar grabbed her hand. ‘Please. Don’t go to the police. I’ll be alright. Honest I will.’
He winced as she helped him to his feet, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His fist was spattered with blood.
‘You should see a doctor. You said he hit you in the kidneys.’
Edgar shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I’m alright.’ That weak laugh again. ‘It’s just one of life’s little troubles.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Mary Anne, a sudden thought crossing her mind. ‘Do you get these little troubles when Harry’s around?’
A warm smile spread across Edgar’s face; admiration for Mary Anne’s son shone in his eyes. ‘Never. Harry has powerful business partners – if you know what I mean.’
Mary Anne nodded. It wasn’t often she admitted, even to herself, that Harry was not quite as upright and honest as she would have liked him to be. She wouldn’t be wearing new stockings and eating brisket on Sunday if that was the case. Harry knew people and some of them were downright dangerous to know.
Chapter Eighteen
The bell above the shop door jangled as Mary Anne entered. Daw was behind the counter sorting out ration coupons. She looked surprised and also less than happy to see her mother.
‘Busy then?’ said Mary Anne as brightly as she could.
Daw frowned and held her head to one side. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Mary Anne shrugged and held on to her smile. ‘I haven’t seen Mathilda for a while. I expect she’s grown.’
Daw nodded. Her lips were tightly pressed together and she was having trouble meeting her mother’s eyes.
It had been a few months since Mary Anne had last seen her granddaughter. The thought of holding that soft little body sent a thrill through her own.
‘If you’re busy I can take her for a walk in her pushchair.’
Daw jerked her attention away from the coupons. ‘And lose her like you did before?’
Mary Anne’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t told Daw about what had happened. No family member had done so, because no family member knew. ‘Who told you?’
‘Never mind who told me,’ said Daw, her tone totally devoid of warmth.
A sick feeling came into Mary Anne’s stomach. ‘Can I see her?’
‘She’s asleep,’ Daw snapped.
Mary Anne hung her head and a tear squeezed out from the corners of her eyes.
‘Daw, I haven’t seen her for quite a while. I’m really missing her.’
Daw glared. ‘And you think I should consider your feelings?’
And this is my daughter, thought Mary Anne, eyeing the dark hair and eyes. Henry’s daughter, her father through and through.
Just as Mary Anne turned to go, the shop door was pushed open. A woman in a tweed coat went straight to the counter demanding a piece of cheese and waving her ration book.
At the same time John’s Auntie Maria came through fro
m the living accommodation at the back of the shop with Mathilda in her arms.
‘Ah, Mary Anne,’ Auntie Maria cried, her round, dark features creasing with joy. ‘Look,’ she said, turning to the cherubic child in her arms. ‘It is your grandmother.’
‘I’ll take her,’ snapped Daw even though she was halfway through serving the woman with cheese.
‘You carry on,’ said Auntie Maria in her firm, unflappable manner. ‘I want to talk to your mother and Mathilda wishes to see her grandmother.’
Mary Anne almost cried with joy as she took the child from the warm woman’s arms. For some reason, Daw rarely contradicted John’s aunt and uncle; perhaps it was because she lived on the premises. Whatever it was, Mary Anne had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth.
‘Come on, my sweet,’ she said to Mathilda, cooing in her ear and kissing her cheek. Carrying the child in her arms, she followed Maria into the back of the shop.
Behind the counter, where the till tinkled with coins and the bacon sheer took up most of the room, was the cosy living room where they’d eaten their Christmas dinner.
Knitted cardigans and smock dresses hung drying on a line suspended above nuggets of glowing coke. The mantelpiece was high and decorated with a length of red chenille trimmed with matching bobbles.
Maria went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘I wanted to have a little chat with you,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I think Daw is being led astray.’
Mary Anne heard her but was too engrossed with her granddaughter to fully take in what exactly Maria had said. The big blue eyes and the winning smile had captured her full attention.
‘What was that you said?’
Maria repeated it and added, ‘I’ve tried to reason with her, but she’s having none of it.’ Maria shook her head. ‘It is not right that a daughter should be that way with her mother.’
As the words began to sink in, Mary Anne’s attention was diverted from the lovely child she held in her arms and she had to ask Maria to repeat herself again.
Maria sighed and took a sip of her tea. ‘I was saying that Daw is being influenced by some “friend” who is saying that you have a bad reputation and should not be bothered with. She says that not content with living in sin with one man, you are now living in sin with another.’
