A Wartime Family

by Lizzie Lane

  It was like being socked in the jaw – and she’d had some of that from Henry in her time so she knew how it felt. In fact this was worse. Daw was so different from her other daughter, Lizzie, but she’d never been downright vindictive. And yet, if what Maria said was to be believed, she was being so now.

  ‘That’s not true! I’m living in Harry’s flat. She knows Harry has a flat he shares with his friend, Edgar. And Stanley is there with me. He can swear that I’m telling the truth.’

  Maria tutted and shook her head. ‘Daw tends to pick the bits of truth that she wants to believe. When she sets her mind on something, nothing anyone else says can make her change it.’

  ‘Just like her father.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And yet this friend is influencing her judgement. I’m surprised.’

  Between sips of tea, Maria took down the baby clothes from the line, folding then caressing each item to flatness.

  ‘This friend seems a right know-all and I for one do not like this person even though I have never met them.’

  Mary Anne sighed deeply. ‘And I suppose this friend told her I’d lost Mathilda that day.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She frowned. ‘But who is this friend?’

  She ran through all Daw’s old friends in her mind. School friends, friends in the same street, friends where she’d worked in the tobacco factory; all different characters, but were any of them nasty?

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Mary Anne, shaking her head. ‘Who could it be?’

  Maria spread her hands, palms upwards, her shrug signifying that she did not know.

  ‘I tried asking her, but she was very closed about it. Said it was none of my business. I’ve got a feeling he may be an air-raid warden.’ She patted Mary Anne’s hand. ‘Up until this war started, this world was ruled by men. I think it will be different once it is over. Us women are entitled to live a happy life. I understand what you did and why you did it. Visit me on those days when I look after Mathilda when Daw attends the First-Aid Centre. It is cruel to try and separate you from your grandchild. I will not have it.’

  Eyes brimming with tears, Mary Anne kissed the top of Mathilda’s head and thanked her good fortune for the likes of John Smith’s Auntie Maria.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  Maria raised both her hands and signalled that Mary Anne should sit back down. ‘Not so quickly. How about we go for a walk in the park? It’s windy out, but it’s dry.’

  Mary Anne jerked her head towards the door dividing the living accommodation from the shop.

  ‘What about Daw?’

  Maria’s face lit up with childish wickedness. ‘Wait a moment.’

  She got up, opened the door just a crack, and peered through. Noiselessly, she shut it again.

  ‘She’s still serving Mrs Draper. The woman takes forever to make up her mind, and even once she’s bought all she wants, she watches like a hawk as you cut out her coupons. Come on. Wrap up the baby. The pram’s out the back. I’ll get my coat.’

  Mary Anne couldn’t help giggling as the two middle-aged women ran along the pavement away from the shop, the child chortling with glee as the pram bounced over the kerb and on to the cobbles.

  Victoria Park was not as it used to be. The smell of turned earth and growing vegetables had replaced the smell of pre-war flowers, but the trees were still there, the first buds of spring bright green on their branches. Men in navy-blue dungarees were digging or watering fresh green vegetables. Even children were helping out, picking sprouts or using a trowel to pull weeds from around the precious plants.

  The fresh air was exhilarating and John’s aunt chatted merrily about times gone by and what Italy had been like when she and John’s mother were children.

  ‘But that was before the war,’ she sighed. ‘It is far behind us.’

  As Mary Anne pulled Mathilda’s blanket a little higher around the cherry-pink face, a thought occurred to her.

  ‘I think I have something that used to belong to your sister – perhaps to you too.’

  ‘Oh?’ Maria eyed her quizzically.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Anne, and went on to tell her about the time John had come to borrow money against a silver crucifix that she’d guessed had belonged to his mother.

  ‘He’d wanted the money for Daw’s engagement and wedding ring. I gave him the money but never sold the cross on. I couldn’t do it somehow. I kept thinking that one day he might want it back.’

  ‘You have this?’ said Maria, her eyes shining.

  ‘You remember it?’

  Maria clapped her hands together. ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘Michael found it in the ruins of the pawn shop. I still have it.’ She turned and looked with gratitude into Maria’s dark eyes. ‘You’ve been so kind to me. You must have it back.’

  Maria’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It is a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough.’

  They sat on a park bench. Mathilda was sitting up, observing everything with unusual interest.

  ‘She’s a lovely child,’ said Maria.

  Mary Anne murmured a reply. Her eyes were elsewhere, her attention caught by a man in a trench coat walking along the path at the side of the bowling green. She fancied he had been staring at them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lizzie and the wing commander had been travelling between airfields, ‘co-ordinating events’ as Hunter liked to call it, when he’d spotted a dog fight in the distance.

  Streaks of white vapour trail criss-crossed the sky as the Messerschmitt and the Spitfire locked horns above the English countryside. In their midst was a low-flying bomber, the bone of contention between the two.

  Hunter got out a pair of binoculars. Lizzie shaded her eyes with her hand.

  ‘They’re chasing the bomber.’

  ‘Correction,’ Hunter said slowly. ‘The Spitfire is chasing the bomber. The Messerschmitt is trying to protect it.’ He paused, mouth slightly open, eyes glued to the binoculars.

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Is he down? Have the Germans got him?’

  ‘No.’ Hunter sounded surly. ‘There should be more up there protecting him. We need more planes. More men.’

  His voice drifted away. The bomber flew overhead, the German in hot pursuit, determined to protect his charge. The RAF Spitfire harried him all the way.

  The planes flew some way distant. There was a staccato burst of gunfire, and then a plume of white as one plane hit the earth. It was hard to tell which one. For a moment they both stood there, each wrapped up in their thoughts.

  ‘Well,’ said Hunter. ‘That’s it. There’s nothing we can do. Ground forces will deal with it now. Let’s find a pub.’

  ‘I hope the pilot’s safe,’ said Lizzie, the gearbox making a crunching sound as she pushed the stick into first gear.

  ‘I hope he is too. Good pilots are hard to find – and so, may I point out to you, are good gearboxes. Treat it gently, will you?’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Things between she and Wing Commander Hunter had changed since his knight-in-shining-armour act outside Lavenham guildhall. He’d taken her to a village pub afterwards and bought her a brandy to steady her nerves.

  ‘I should have put him on a charge,’ he’d said at the time.

  Lizzie had gulped at the brandy and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I should have put you on one as well.’

  ‘Me?’ She’d stared at him in amazement. ‘What are you saying? That I was partly to blame?’

  ‘Of course you were. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d come to collect me as I’d requested.’

  That was when their relationship had changed. His eyes had twinkled when he’d smiled. He’d made her feel like a very weak-kneed Scarlett O’Hara to his rakish Rhett Butler. His smile was like that. His looks were even better. What was it about blue eyes and dark hair? Such a contrast. And that voice, that husky sound from deep down in the throat, allied with a
n accent that was American and yet at the same time not quite American.

  He’d walked her back to the dorm that night and told her he’d made arrangements for her to be billeted at Ainsley Hall.

  ‘For my convenience,’ he’d said with a smile.

  Her heart had fluttered like a butterfly trying to escape a glass prison. Convenient for her as his driver, or for something else entirely? And of course, she would miss Margot and the others.

  There was no point in protesting; at least, that was what she told herself. The plain fact was that she had no compunction to protest. Wicked though it seemed, the war was proving to be an adventure. Where would she be now if not for the war? Someone’s wife? A mother? Or still in service and seeing Peter Selwyn Kendall on Wednesday afternoons?

  The pub they found today was called the Robin Hood.

  ‘Do you think he drank here?’ asked Guy, scanning the bar as if half expecting the outlaw of Sherwood to be sat sipping a beer.

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Possibly. I shouldn’t have thought it’s changed much since his day.’ She took off her cap and slid on to the seat of a high-backed oak settle that was scarred with age. It was hard to tell exactly what was burning in the huge inglenook fireplace – logs mostly – but fuel being hard to come by, it could be peat and even dried cowpats, judging by the smell.

  ‘So,’ he said, returning with two halves of farmhouse cider. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  The boldness of his look made her blush and lower her eyes.

  ‘There’s not much to tell. I mean, where do I start? In my childhood, with my parents?’

  ‘If you like. Tell you what, let me tell you about mine. My father is the manager of a canning factory in Hamilton, Ontario – that’s just a spit and a hop from the Great Lakes and the border with the United States. My mom used to be a nurse, but she stays home now. She’s collected a menagerie of animals over the years and they take up most of her time. The nursing experience comes in handy – you know, pregnant pussy cats and chickens with ingrown toenails.’

  Lizzie’s jaw dropped. ‘Chickens haven’t got toes.’

  ‘True,’ he said, grimacing after taking a sip of the greenish liquid which seemed to be laced with splinters of wood and apple pips. He lowered his voice. ‘Is this really for drinking or should you be cleaning the car with it?’

  Lizzie giggled. ‘Farmhouse cider is always strong and rough. It’s the way they make it. I’ve heard some grim stories regarding the ingredients. Really grim!’

  He eyed her enquiringly. ‘Like what?’

  She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Rats!’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No. It’s said to add flavour if a rat falls in.’

  He’d only just taken another sip. With a rueful expression he put it back on the table and pushed it away.

  ‘I think I’ll pass.’

  Like two adolescents they made faces and spoke in quiet whispers. Lizzie couldn’t believe the difference in their relationship since they’d first met. He’d been cold and standoffish; she’d reacted by putting his attitude down to class, rank and his being foreign. Did being a Canadian count as foreign? She supposed it did in some quarters, but to her Guy Hunter was becoming far from foreign – in fact he was getting too close for comfort.

  ‘Do all the animals have names?’ she asked now.

  He nodded. ‘Milly, Molly and Mandy.’

  She laughed, recognizing the characters from much-loved childhood books.

  He talked a lot about the lakes, the forests and a trip he’d done to Niagara.

  ‘Thunder falls. That’s what it should be called,’ he said. ‘The sound of the water tumbling over the rocks is deafening.’

  ‘It all sounds wonderful,’ she said, her imagination racing with visions of high mountains, vast lakes and wide blue skies. He told her of the snow in winter, far deeper than even Scotland ever had.

  ‘This land is too flat,’ he said, jerking his head towards the tiny windows to the flat expanse of fields, ditches and sky.

  Not for the first time in her life, Lizzie was mesmerized by a man from a different background than she.

  But this is different.

  The affair with Peter was in the past. She wasn’t really sure that Peter had considered himself better than her, but his mother certainly had. It had taken a war, a blizzard and time apart to open her eyes to the truth. The other obvious difference between Peter and Guy was that the former had hidden away rather than join the armed forces. Guy had already been a flier; he’d told her so and his rank was emblazoned on his uniform.

  ‘And you? Is it flat where you come from?’

  She lowered her eyes and fiddled with her glass as she thought of her home town. Row upon row of red-brick terraces, the chimneys of W. D. & H. O. Wills, the soap factory, the trams rattling along East Street where the buildings blocked out the light. In her mind’s eye she hurried along past the shops, over Bedminster Bridge and up Redcliffe Hill.

  ‘We have a lot of historic buildings in Bristol – or at least we did until the Luftwaffe dropped bombs on it. A lot of the buildings were black and white and dated from Elizabethan times – nearly five hundred years ago. But there are still a lot of old buildings clustered around St Mary Redcliffe Church. It was the favourite church of Queen Elizabeth the First, you know.’

  ‘Was it really?’

  She paused. Was that mockery she detected in his voice? She looked into his eyes. It seemed that he was looking at her with great interest. A sudden spark seemed to ignite between them and history had nothing to do with it.

  ‘I think we should see each other socially,’ he said, the timbre of his voice turning her legs to jelly. ‘We work together. Why not play together?’

  Never in a month of Sundays would she ever have envisaged something like this happening. It was like being struck by lightning – not that she ever had been, but there was always a first time. And this was it. She was sure of it.

  ‘We’re both far away from our families,’ Guy went on. His smile was wide and warm. ‘What’s the harm in going for a picnic or a pint?’ He grimaced suddenly and tapped a brawny finger at the remains of his drink. ‘Unless you’re drinking this stuff,’ he said with a grin.

  Lizzie’s gaze stayed fixed on his fingers, especially his ring finger. There it was, a band of gold that she’d never noticed before, a blatant declaration that he was married and had no business meeting her socially. Her spirits took a dive. Then the old wartime mantra came back to save them.

  But we could be dead tomorrow.

  There were considerations, but she shoved them to one side. Her mind was made up. Their eyes met. His smile lessened, becoming almost quizzical as though he too were asking himself a question and deciding on the best reply.

  ‘Yes. I’m married. I’ll make no bones about it.’ He looked down at the table top before taking her hand in his. ‘This war is set to get worse. Who knows where we’ll be one year from now. The lives of thousands of people are in my hands. I need some kind of solace. If you allow me to lean on you, I’ll allow you to lean on me. Do you agree?’

  ‘I’m engaged,’ she blurted suddenly.

  It wasn’t quite true, but in a strange kind of way, she was meeting him halfway. They both had other lives, other people who figured strongly in them. But they’d been thrown together. Here, in this place, there was just the two of them.

  ‘But I think we both need someone,’ she said.

  He nodded and reached for his glass. ‘Let’s drink to that,’ he said, forgetting just how potent – and disgusting – the cider tasted.

  Lizzie took a gulp and made a face. They’d both swallowed too much of the strong brew and ended up spluttering and laughing at each other across the table top. Suddenly, he leaned across and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Champagne next time.’

  Taken by surprise, she stared at him, her face warm and red from the fire. ‘I’ve ne
ver drunk champagne.’

  ‘Then it’s about time you did.’

  Lizzie’s new billet at Ainsley Hall had wooden shutters on the inside, a window seat and the most glorious furniture she’d ever seen. A large number of the rooms most suited for office space had been stripped of valuable furniture. Except for the attic rooms that had been turned into dormitories, the bedrooms had been left intact.

  Her mouth had dropped open when she’d seen the fourposter bed, the heavy coverlets and the tapestries hanging on the panelled walls.

  ‘You should see it,’ she said to Bessie when they met up in the mess back at base. ‘It’s big enough to sleep a family.’

  ‘Or just two people,’ said Bessie. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’

  She didn’t sound as though she really thought it nice. In fact she sounded very gloomy.

  It wasn’t instinct or insight that prompted Lizzie’s conclusion as to why Bessie was acting this way. It was just a guess – the right one as it turned out.

  ‘It’s Arthur isn’t it?’

  Bessie nodded and buried her face in her hands. The pancakes on her plate dulled as they cooled. Wartime flour wasn’t quite what it used to be – a bit like them really, she supposed.

  Fearing he’d been shot down or bombed, Lizzie reached for her friend’s hand. ‘Oh, Bessie. I’m so sorry.’

  Bessie shrugged.

  ‘Is he …?’ She looked to Margot for explanation. Margot rolled her eyes and regarded Bessie as though she were the daftest person she’d ever met. ‘Married,’ she said with an air of finality.

  ‘Married!’ Lizzie could hardly believe it. ‘Oh lordy!’

  ‘I tried to tell you, Bessie. I told you I’d heard rumours,’ said Margot.

  Bessie looked at her with blazing eyes. ‘Oh, yes! You told me! You told me he already had someone. But you didn’t tell me he was married!’

  Margot shrugged. ‘I hardly thought a man who proposed getting engaged and therefore married had already tied the knot. I just said I’d heard rumours. Anyway, why didn’t you ask him yourself? Why get in the family way first then ask questions afterwards?’