by Lizzie Lane
Guy stirred. Like generations of ‘other women’, she couldn’t bring herself to believe what she’d read and certainly couldn’t tackle him, not at this moment. Not until she’d had time to think about things.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In response to Harry’s letter, Patrick Kelly knocked at the door of the house in Aiken Street. After receiving the letter, he’d phoned Harry to ask if he’d seen Lizzie. He’d also told him about the letter he’d received from her saying she’d fallen in love with someone else but asking if they could remain friends.
‘I suppose I was expecting too much,’ said Patrick with a careless laugh. ‘But I would have liked to see her, just to get things clear in my head.’
It had been obvious from Harry’s tone that he wasn’t fooled. Patrick was hurt. Lizzie was the girl he’d always loved. She’d never commented on his scruffiness or the fact a whole regiment of ‘uncles’ visited his mother on a regular basis. She’d treated him with respect and they’d grown close – but apparently not close enough.
Harry had gone quiet, though Patrick could almost hear his sharp mind ticking away on the end of the phone.
‘Are you still there, Harry?’
‘Yes, mate, and I’ve got a plan.’
That was why he was here knocking on the door of Aiken Street. Harry had explained that his mother was having a string of bad luck – small things, some of it, but the pressure had become such that she’d had no alternative but to move back in with his father. He’d asked Patrick to check things out.
Patrick recalled how easily Harry had slid back into the familiar Bristol dialect.
‘Michael Maurice can’t get leave, and if someone don’t go and sort things out, he’s likely to end up in big trouble. With him living in Germany all they years, they’ll be saying he’s a spy or something. I wrote to ar Lizzie telling her to go home and see what was happening. So with a bit of luck – kill two birds with one stone, eh?’
Heart in his mouth, he leaned close to the door and listened. The door was thick and heavy, but he could hear a heavy tread on creaking boards. Henry Randall perhaps?
Swollen with years of weathering, the door stuck, shuddered, then creaked open.
‘Bless me! If it ain’t Patrick Kelly. Looking for Lizzie, are you?’
He’d hoped to see Lizzie in the doorway. Biddy Young was as dissimilar to Lizzie as anyone could be. She was fatter than ever, her hair still dyed to near whiteness and her make-up applied with a trowel.
‘Yes I am, Mrs Young. I heard from Harry that she was likely to be down here visiting her mother. When’s she back?’
Biddy’s jowls made a flapping sound when she shook her head. Her red lips tightened like a wrinkled rosebud.
‘Ooow, she’s not ’ere, Patrick. She came just as Mary Anne and young Stanley were packing their things and moving out.’ She jerked her head towards the stairs behind her. ‘Henry Randall’s back in his old ways. They was halfway down the street last night when Lizzie came along and caught ’im raising his hand to her mother. She gave ’im a mouthful, I can tell you. Shouted at ’im and called ’im all the names under the sun. I should think the whole street heard.’
Biddy could not have known it, but hearing her talk that way about Lizzie made him proud. In the past she’d stood up to those who’d shunned his company and criticized her being friends with him. Now she’d stood up to her father. She was gutsy and his heart overflowed with love.
‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’
Biddy looked peeved. ‘They wouldn’t tell me where they were going. Can’t understand why, I’m sure. I mean, me and Mary Anne go back a long way. We was neighbours in Kent Street and I was a very good customer of ’er little business. There weren’t a week gone by when I didn’t ’ave something to pawn. Still,’ she said with a derisory sniff, ‘if she don’t want to share ’er secrets, I suppose that’s up to ’er. Want a cup of tea, son?’ she asked, her face suddenly brightening.
Patrick declined. He had no intention of spending the morning listening to Biddy’s gossip. Mary Anne probably had a very good reason for not telling Biddy where she and Lizzie were off to and he could easily guess what it was. The whole street would end up sharing the secret – and that included Henry.
‘She won’t go and stay at Daw’s if she can help it,’ Harry had said.
All the same, with no clue of where else she might be, Patrick made his way to Kent Street.
The street had changed but the shop had not. Six houses had been destroyed in the bombing on the night of November 24th. Patrick felt compelled to walk past the shop and inspect the bombsites first. All that remained was a gaping hole and mounds of rubble where weeds thrived and dirty-faced children played cowboys and Indians.
‘Bang! You’re dead!’
Patrick stopped and looked at the two sets of kids firing pretend guns at each other. He felt a sudden surge of dismay. Wasn’t a real war enough for them? They’re just kids, he reminded himself. You did the same yourself not so long after 1918. He turned away and headed back towards the shop, his thoughts doing a backward flip again at the sight of it.
The same enamel signs adorned the blank wall at the end of the building and beneath the shop windows, advertisements for Colman’s mustard, Cherry Blossom shoe polish and Sunlight soap.
The brass bell above the shop door jangled as he pushed it open. Daw was wiping the bacon slicer. She looked up, a smile fixed on her face ready to welcome a paying customer. Her face dropped when she saw who it was.
‘Patrick. Home on leave, are you?’
No ‘good morning’. No ‘nice to see you’, he thought.
‘Yes. I was wondering whether you’d seen Lizzie. I heard she was home.’
Daw pursed her lips and went back to wiping off the sharp teeth of the circular blade. ‘Well you know more than I do. I’ve had no letter from her for ages.’
‘Oh! When did you last write?’
The question seemed to take her unawares. Her mouth formed a childish pout as she looked at him. ‘When have I got time to write letters? I’ve to help in this shop, I do air-raid duty and I’ve got a kiddie to look after.’
He nodded as though he understood and sympathized. The truth was he thought her self-centred. She’d never been any different and, if anything, she was getting worse. Poor John, he thought.
‘I’m sorry to have troubled you. Any idea where your mother might be?’
She shrugged. ‘Out shopping? Perhaps Dad knows.’
‘No. She’s left …’ The moment those first few words were out of his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything.
Daw’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘What are you saying? She’s left him again?’
‘I …’ Patrick was stumped for words.
Lizzie had once told him that Daw should be an actress. ‘She’s good at putting on an act,’ she’d said. At the time he hadn’t been sure of what she’d meant, but he certainly knew now.
Daw rested the back of her hand against her forehead. ‘Oh, my poor father! Left alone to fend for himself. After all he’s been through!’
Patrick found himself wanting to laugh. The dramatic attitude was bad enough, but Lizzie had also told him the truth about Henry Randall.
‘I’d better be going,’ he said.
She didn’t ask him to let her know her mother’s whereabouts; neither did she offer him a cup of tea. It didn’t matter. He was here on a mission and was determined to follow it through.
He went back to the digs he’d got himself above the Red Cross shop in East Street. The woman in charge reminded him of the flight sergeant he’d run into on first joining the RAF. On reflection he’d decided that even Flight Sergeant Derrick would have crumpled beneath her superior gaze.
‘You may have a key,’ she’d said.
He couldn’t help standing to attention when she looked him up and down.
‘Should you go out at night, I would prefer you to come through the back door. We have a lot of v
aluable merchandise here, and although you look an honest kind of chap, I don’t know you from Adam. So, back-door access only! Is that clear?’
‘Definitely worse than Sergeant Derrick,’ he muttered once she was out of earshot.
Harry had suggested he check with Edgar to find out exactly what had happened. ‘If he ain’t home or at the flower shop, get hold of him at the nightclub.’
The Black Cat nightclub was pretty central and preferable to seeing Edgar at home or at the flower shop. Even so, he didn’t want to see Edgar either. He tolerated Harry and even liked him, though mostly because he was Lizzie’s brother. If he hadn’t been he would have steered well clear. He couldn’t help it. That was the way things were, especially in the services; poofs were barely tolerated.
A big man with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear wanted to charge him five shillings to go in.
‘I just want to see Edgar Williams,’ he said.
The big man’s eyes were blue and unmoving, like a dead pig’s.
‘What about?’
‘It’s personal. A family matter,’ he added quickly on seeing a trace of contempt creep into the big man’s eyes.
‘You related?’
‘Distantly. If you could tell him Harry sent me.’
‘Harry?’ The big man’s expression changed immediately. ‘Why didn’t you say so!’
Even though he was presently away serving his country, Harry was paid due respect; there was no calling him ‘queer’, ‘poof’ or ‘bent’.
Waving a meaty paw, he gestured someone over. ‘Vince,’ he said to the thin man in spectacles. ‘This gent wants to see Edgar. Is he in?’
‘Yep,’ said Vince. He led Patrick into the bar area and pointed. ‘There he is.’
Edgar was wearing a blue jacket and pale checked trousers. He looked spruce, sprightly and incredibly confident. ‘Edgar?’
Edgar looked puzzled as though he were trying to place the face.
‘Patrick Kelly. I’m an old friend of Harry’s. I think you know he was worried about his mother.’
Edgar’s face flooded with realization. ‘Yes. Yes, he was. Please,’ he said, pushing a stool forward. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’
Patrick accepted a small beer.
‘Now, what’s happening?’ Edgar asked once they were both sitting and out of earshot of other customers. ‘I knew she should never have gone back to Harry’s dad. Has he hurt her again?’
Patrick shook his head and took a sip of his drink. Raising his eyes he noticed the mirror at the back of the bar. Curious eyes beyond his reflection were turned in their direction. He pushed aside concerns about what they might be thinking. He was here on a mission. He needed to know what had been going on first hand.
‘I don’t know for sure whether he has, but I think the threat was there. When I went round neither Lizzie nor her mother were there; an old friend told me they’d moved out last night.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Edgar made a mournful face.
‘So you don’t know where they might be?’
Edgar shook his head. ‘She was getting nervous about this and that. We had an intruder in the flat, then there was the time Stanley’s roller skates went missing, and me getting beaten up. She couldn’t cope with it, poor love. She thought somebody was after her.’
Patrick glanced briefly at Edgar’s fresh-faced complexion. ‘Why did she think that?’
‘Because something bad happened each place she went.’
‘Have you had any more problems since?’
Edgar shook his head. ‘Harry seemed to think that the Truman gang had something to do with his mum getting so much hassle, but I checked them out. Like us they’ve got their beady eyes on other things besides nightclubs. The black market is thriving. Everything’s got a price and there’s a fortune to be made. Food and silk parachutes are a safer market than this game.’
Patrick frowned. ‘So you don’t know where they are?’
Edgar shook his head. ‘No. Sorry.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you think I should ring Harry and let him know she’s gone missing?’
‘I wouldn’t advise that. He’s got enough on his plate,’ said Patrick, rising to his feet. ‘Leave it with me. Once I’ve found her and know she’s safe, then you can pick up the phone.’
He left Edgar having agreed to that. Now what? He walked along the blacked-out street, the sound of his footsteps ringing on the cobbles. A light drizzle started to fall, tickling the nape of his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. He turned his coat collar up. There was no let up to the darkness, not the merest glint of light shining through a chink in a curtain, not a star, not a headlight, not a line of light seeping from beneath an ill-fitting door in those places where buildings were left standing. All around him were the results of bomb damage – tilting walls and gaping doors and windows lined with blackness. The smell of dust rose with each droplet of rain. Rank weeds watered by rancid water rustled in the wind.
He fancied he smelled smoke and turned to face it. For a brief moment he thought he detected a sudden light in the bombed-out ruins on Castle Green overlooking the river. This was the area that had borne the brunt of the bombing on November 24th. Buildings that had stood for centuries had been pounded to dust. The lower basements were still intact, a haven for those with no roof over their head or no way of paying for one. The smoke was from their cooking fires. He could even smell what they were cooking. Heaven help the homeless on a night like this.
Before the war and the blackout he might not have noticed smells or heard things so clearly. Moonless nights meant depending on other senses rather than sight.
The sound of a tram alerted him to the fact that he’d strayed out on to the rails. Luckily trams were noisy things. It didn’t matter that its windows were boarded up so no light could escape. He heard it before he saw it and was able to get out of the way in time.
That night, once he was back above the Red Cross shop and had made himself tea and toast, he got Lizzie’s letter from out of his pocket. He fingered it, tracing around its folded edges. Did he really want to read it again? He turned the light off, walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Rooftops, spires, towers and cupolas were coal black against an indigo sky. The clouds were beginning to disperse. A ray of moonlight searched the sea of blackness just like the beam of the searchlights that sought intruders. He knew all about what it was like flying up there. He’d heard all the stories from his pilots, the giddy knights whose steeds were called Spitfire and Hurricane. But tonight he wasn’t pondering the bravery of young men not yet twenty-one and dying for their country. He was thinking of Lizzie. Where was she? he wondered. And was she with her mother or with someone else? He didn’t know, but he cared, he cared very much indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Mother, you can’t stay here,’ said Lizzie, scrutinizing the dismal surroundings with a look of dismay. ‘It’s a mess!’
‘This is where I’ve been happiest,’ said her mother.
‘You didn’t tell me it was as bad as this.’
Mary Anne pretended she hadn’t heard and looked away.
She’d told her daughter that the rooms above the burned-out ruins of the pawn shop were liveable.
Lizzie eyed the smoke-damaged walls and blackened windows. Grit and broken glass crunched like ground bones beneath her feet. This is dismal, dirty and about to fall down, hardly a happy home, she thought. She was about to voice her opinion, but her mother got there first.
‘It’s also where I feel safest,’ she said.
Lizzie couldn’t argue with that. She wanted to hit her father, to shake him into a different man. Impossible, but anger could make you wish for the impossible when times were bad.
She followed her mother, grabbing Stanley every so often when he looked like destroying things further; ripping at ragged curtains or stomping on a piece of glass.
The two bedrooms at the back of the house were intact. The downstairs rooms, including the kitch
en, were in a sorry state but the sink and water supply were still working. The most redeeming feature about the place was that it had an indoor bathroom upstairs, a luxury by anyone’s standard. The front of the building had sustained the worst damage, and nothing remained of the shop front, which was now open to the sky. The main bedroom on the upper floor no longer existed. All that remained was its door opening on to nothing but a void; quite a drop to the ground.
‘Better keep this locked,’ said Lizzie.
‘The lavatory still works,’ said Stanley after he’d used it.
‘So does the sink,’ said his mother, grabbing his shoulders and wheeling him back in the direction he’d just come from ‘Wash. You’ve got soot all over your face.’
‘I had a wash last night,’ he wailed.
‘That was yesterday. You weren’t playing with soot yesterday.’
Lizzie grinned. ‘Nothing changes.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘Look, are you sure about this, Mum?’ she said, her arms folded purposefully as she addressed her mother. ‘We can still take a room above the Lord Nelson.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘That’s hardly a home, and it’s expensive.’
Lizzie looked down at the floor. ‘I could pay.’
‘No you couldn’t.’
No. She couldn’t. But she’d had to offer.
‘I don’t want you to tell anyone where I’m living,’ said Mary Anne suddenly.
Lizzie raised her eyebrows. ‘No one?’
‘Tell only those people that need to know. No one else. And that includes our Daw. She has friends …’ She shrugged. ‘Someone’s been making things bad for me …’ Her voice trailed away. She closed her eyes and held the back of her hand against her forehead. ‘Oh God! Am I going mad?’
