by Lizzie Lane
‘I think our Lizzie has decided she’s going to the pictures with you,’ she said.
He lifted his head and his face brightened. ‘Is that right, Lizzie?’
‘You bet,’ she said with the jolliest smile Mary Anne had seen on her daughter’s face since she’d come home.
‘No heart-to-heart talk with Mother tonight,’ murmured Mary Anne, a smile playing around her lips.
Patrick looked worried again and addressed Lizzie. ‘Well if you really want to have a chat with your mother …’
‘Oh, no,’ said Lizzie, untying and tossing aside her apron. ‘I’d love to go to the pictures with you.’
‘Can I come?’ asked Stanley, who was busily scraping the saucepan of the last vestiges of stew.
Lizzie had been about to say no, but thought better of it. ‘I suppose you can. What’s playing?’ she asked Patrick.
Patrick’s disappointment that they wouldn’t be going alone was obvious. ‘I dunno,’ he grumbled. ‘It might not be a U. I think it’s an A.’
‘That’s alright,’ whooped Stanley. ‘If it’s an A certificate, I can get in with you two.’
‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Lizzie.
Mary Anne closed the blackout curtains after they’d gone and lit the candles. The glow of the coals in the range turned the dirty walls to rose and the flickering flame of the candles added a frieze of dancing shadows.
They’d cleaned the room and the old dining table enough for her to start unpicking and re-cutting some items on which Edith at the Red Cross had asked her to work her magic.
The light wasn’t really good enough for her to see by and after a while she rubbed at her eyes, leaned back in the chair and dozed in front of the fire.
Patrick gave Lizzie his arm. Together they walked silently with Stanley skipping around in front of them, rabbiting on about Zorro and his flaming sword of freedom.
‘So,’ said Patrick once he’d plucked up the courage to face the truth. ‘Who is this new sweetheart of yours?’
Lizzie lowered her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help it, Patrick. I was his driver and it just happened. We were working together.’
‘And ended up sleeping together.’
‘I didn’t say that!’ Lizzie’s retort was hot and the blood rushed to her face.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
Lizzie sucked in her lips as she considered what she could say. There was nothing really. Somehow Patrick had stumbled on the truth. ‘It’s alright’
They’d reached the doors of the Town Hall Picture House. The queue for the one and sixpenny tickets was already moving forward. They tagged on to the end of it, Stanley first, proudly stating the fact that he was paying for himself. He counted out some pennies and threepenny bits that Patrick had given him.
‘I thought we were engaged,’ said Patrick suddenly after paying for their tickets.
‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’
‘I thought it was more than an impression. I thought it was fact’
The darkness of the theatre hid her guilty expression. Patrick was speaking the truth. She had promised him a lot and now she’d gone back on her word. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. But I want a better life.’
‘The sort of life Peter, that other geezer, could have given you – if he’d been willing.’
‘You’ve no right to say that!’
This time he didn’t say sorry. Neither did she pursue an apology. His comment hit too close to the truth. Peter, her employer’s son, had led her on, toyed with her and made her believe he loved her. She told herself that Guy wasn’t like that, that he really loved her and would get a divorce – especially now, when she told him her news.
‘You’ve got to promise me that you’ll say nothing to my mother – or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Of course not,’ said Patrick.
People already seated rose so they could squeeze through to their seats. Pathé News was on, reporting about events in North Africa. There were cheers for the Eighth Army and jeers for captured Italians.
Lizzie was glad of the darkness and the need to be quiet.
Once they were seated, Patrick whispered into her ear. ‘I’ll always love you.’
Fixing her eyes on the screen, she pretended she hadn’t heard. But she wasn’t watching the film; she wasn’t really there at all. She was wishing the time away, wanting to be gone from Bristol and back in East Anglia. Despite Harry’s entreaties, she wouldn’t have come down at all if Guy hadn’t been forced to go away.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he’d told her. ‘We’ll sort things out then.’
She’d believed him totally, but now a tiny seed of doubt was starting to grow. No, she thought to herself and cut it off at the root, Guy will be there for me. She must believe that.
To Lizzie the film that was billed as being just over an hour long seemed more like three hours. Her eyes were fixed on the screen but she wasn’t really seeing it. At last the film finished and the National Anthem was played. The patriotic majority stood and waited patiently; the few who were less than patriotic raced for the exits.
Stanley chattered about the film all the way home, a fact that went a long way to bridging the silence that had descended between his sister and Patrick.
‘I’m going to be like Jimmy Cagney when I grow up.’
‘You won’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘Mum won’t let you.’
Stanley continued to skip sideways along the pavement making rat-a-tat-tat noises from the pretend machine gun he was using.
Both Patrick and Lizzie walked along with their hands in their pockets, heads down. It was a clear night and darkness had only just fallen. The sound of gunfire sounded in the distance.
‘Swindon. Or Gloucester,’ said Patrick.
‘Hmm.’ Lizzie made no real comment. At least the bombing wasn’t here. At least they were safe for the moment.
They walked along the street at the back of the old pawn shop, not needing to cut through the alley from East Street. Streaks of brightness behind ragged purple clouds formed a dramatic backdrop for a forest of chimneys, broken roofs and floating barrage balloons.
The street was empty, the last kids having been called in long ago for supper and bedtime. A trail of smoke rose from the blackened stump of what remained of a chimney above the pawn shop. Another pillar of denser, blacker smoke rose in the proximity of the back yard.
‘Hello! What’s going on?’ Patrick frowned and quickened his pace.
Lizzie heard the concern in his voice. ‘What is it?’
As they came level with the gate, it jerked open. A figure in a trench coat came flying out, almost knocking them over.
Patrick grabbed him.
‘Hey! What are you up to?’
‘Mother!’ Lizzie ran into the back yard, Stanley right behind her. What she saw there filled her with terror. A fire had been set against the back door. The old paint was already blistering, which was causing the smoke.
‘Smother it,’ shouted Patrick, still grappling with the man in the trench coat. ‘Smother it!’
Lizzie grabbed a damp sheet from the line. ‘Quick, Stanley. Spread it over the fire.’
Considering his age, Stanley was quick to act. Bravely he grappled with the edges of the sheet, fastening them over the fire with bits of brick and stone. His face was creased with concern, his eyes narrowed against the stifling smoke.
What remained of the smoke turned from black to white and steadied from toxic plumes to drifting mist. The damp sheet had done its stuff.
Lizzie pushed past it and unlocked the door, shouting for her mother as she ran inside. Stanley picked up the leg of a chair on his way out to join Patrick. Holding it with both hands, he raised the weapon over the man’s head. His jaw dropped open when he saw who it was.
The man struggled and attempted to get up. Patrick rolled him over on to his back, pinning him to the floor by pressing one knee into the small of his back, his hands pinned to the dirt
y ground.
‘Run and get a copper,’ he said to Stanley. ‘Tell ’im this bloke was trying to set light to a building with your mother inside.’
Stanley’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Can’t I bash ’im first?’
‘Do as you’re told. Get a copper.’
Stanley dropped the chair leg, started to run off, then picked it up again and set it down at Patrick’s side. ‘If he struggles, give it to ’im.’
Patrick couldn’t resist a grin. Wasn’t that a line from the film? He looked up. It was darker now the fire had been put out, but he saw two figures, Lizzie and her mother, standing at the back door.
‘I’ve got him,’ he called out. He saw Lizzie put her arm around her mother. Wanting to reassure them further, he called out again. ‘It’s all over.’ He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to believe he saw Mrs Randall’s shoulders relax. He hoped so. ‘Enough of these shenanigans,’ he said to the man squirming on the ground. ‘The coppers will know how to deal with you.’
Mary Anne finished relating the list of mishaps to the policeman – most of which it seemed could be laid at the door of George Ford.
The policeman – a bluff, no-nonsense sergeant with a veined and bulbous nose rapidly taming to purple – was considerate and patient. Every so often he licked the end of his pencil before scribbling in his notebook.
Mary Anne was pleased to see him take her so seriously. She’d half been expecting him to think her just a hysterical woman, bombed out of her home, with no husband and children all flown the nest except for the youngest. Stanley was proving himself a hindrance to the proceedings. He was still imagining himself as Jimmy Cagney. It didn’t help matters that he kept firing at the sergeant with his pretend machine gun until Lizzie shooed him out.
The sergeant asked if she’d met George Ford before. She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘We’ve taken your husband down to the station and questioned him. He claims that this George Ford was an attorney at law seeking to inform you of an inheritance – from an aunt who doesn’t exist, according to him. Is that right?’
Mary Anne nodded. ‘So my husband told me.’
She was tempted to ask why they’d taken him down to the station but presumed she knew the answer to that already. She too had blamed Henry for the series of mishaps, but who was this George Ford? Had Harry upset one of his shady friends? But why pick on her? Partly to steer any blame away from her son, she mentioned Routledge, but only cautiously. She refrained from mentioning her relationship with Michael except to say that she was looking after the shop in his absence.
‘Mr Maurice upset Routledge. Mr Routledge got very angry and threatened to have his revenge.’
The police sergeant sipped at the cup of tea he’d been given before making a note. He frowned. ‘And you’re certain you don’t know this man?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
Brushing biscuit crumbs from his tunic, he struggled to his feet. ‘Ta very much for the tea, Mrs Randall. Much appreciated.’
‘Think nothing of it, Sergeant. I have to say I’m relieved he’s been caught. I can’t understand why he hated me.’
‘Who knows,’ said the sergeant. ‘But rest assured, we’re asking questions and making enquiries about this George Ford. We’ll let you know if we find anything out.’
Mary Anne thanked him and showed him to the door.
‘I think he was a nutcase,’ Patrick said to Lizzie on his return.
‘No. That doesn’t make sense. Why pick on Mother? No,’ said Lizzie, shaking her head. ‘Dad put him up to it, the vindictive old sod!’
Stanley heard her swear and gasped. ‘Wash your mouth out, Lizzie Randall.’
Lizzie grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Little brothers should be seen and not heard. Besides that, they should be washing their face, brushing their teeth and getting to bed.’ She steered him towards the bathroom as she said it, pushed him inside and shut the door. ‘And don’t come out till you’ve had a good scrub.’
Patrick was sitting on an old chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped before his furrowed brow. He looked up as she came back in. ‘Lizzie. Can we have a talk?’
‘This is hardly the time, Patrick,’ she snapped.
He couldn’t have taken a slap in the face more badly. Despite herself, her heart went out to him. She’d let him down. A dark mood had descended on her. How would her affair with Guy Hunter end? Happy ever after was what she wanted, and even though he’d assured her that they would be together, she remembered Bessie and was frightened.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mary Anne bounced Mathilda on her lap. Every so often she glanced up at Daw. Should she tell her what had happened? Half of her said yes, the other no. The old-style Mary Anne, the one who lived for her children rather than herself, said yes. After all, Daw was as much her daughter as Lizzie was, and Lizzie already knew everything.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she finally said.
Daw was being her usual reticent self, folding washing and testing the iron she’d placed on the gas ring before slamming it on to a sheet and ironing like mad. She hadn’t been at all happy to hear that her mother had left her father again.
Mary Anne took the plunge and told her about the man at the back of the pawn shop. ‘They took your father in for questioning too, though they let him go,’ she said, still bouncing the baby, and glancing at Daw to see her reaction, but Daw was her characteristic self. She slammed the iron back on to its stand.
‘How ridiculous! Dad wouldn’t do anything like that. He wouldn’t dream of harming any of his family. I’ve told you before, Mother, I refuse to believe it.’
Although Stanley appeared to be totally engrossed in a piece of home-made cake, really he was all ears. ‘He beat me!’
‘Liar!’ Daw shouted, loud enough to make the baby jump and burst into disgruntled yells.
‘No I’m not,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll show you.’ He swiftly tucked up his pullover and tugged his shirt out from his trousers. ‘There,’ he said, turning round and exposing his back.
Both Mary Anne and Daw fell to silence. Fine red wheals covered his back.
Mary Anne fought to find her voice. When she spoke there was a cold righteousness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘When did he do that?’
Stanley turned round, his shirt tail still hanging over his backside. ‘Last week, just before we ran away.’
She handed the baby to Daw, crouched down in front of her son and clasped his shoulders. At the same time she tried hard to stop her hands shaking. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to sound calm. Stanley had been sick in the not-so-distant past. She didn’t want to chance it happening again. He mustn’t be upset.
Stanley’s huge blue eyes looked at her soulfully. ‘I didn’t want to upset you, Mum. You ’ad enough on yer plate.’
Mary Anne was beside herself. ‘Oh, Stanley! And there was me thinking I’d rescued you before anything happened!’
Swiping his nose with the back of his hand, he held his head at a cocky angle. ‘I can protect myself now. I’m a member of the Barton Hill Gang. I’ll shoot anyone who hurts you, Ma.’
Smiling through her tears, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead and sniffed back a tear. ‘My brave little soldier.’
His grin spread from ear to ear. ‘That’s what I am, Ma. A soldier.’
Looking quite put out at the chain of events, Daw tugged Stanley’s arm. ‘So what did you do? Dad wouldn’t have beat you unless you’d done something really wrong.’
Stanley frowned at her. So did Mary Anne. ‘I saw him coming out of the pub with that man, Mr Routledge. They were laughing together. I told him he shouldn’t be drinking ’cos me mum wouldn’t like it. Mr Routledge said I was in need of a good beating. He kept saying it to me dad over and over again. “Don’t take that lip. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Spare the rod and spoil the child” he kept saying, over and ove
r and over again …’
Mary Anne could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘Hardly a reason for beating him like that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Or do you still defend your father?’ she asked Daw. ‘The police think this George Ford character could be a spy or someone who’s escaped from a mental institution. Either way, they think he’s quite dangerous, but clever – very clever. They’re trying to find out the truth.’
She waited for Daw to speak on her father’s behalf as she always did. On hearing no response, she turned to look at her. Although Daw was in the habit of hiding her feelings behind a tightly controlled mask, this time something had slipped. She was hugging Mathilda to her breast. The baby was screaming with dismay, but still Daw stared into the distance, seeming not to hear the child at all.
‘Daw?’ Still with one arm around her son, Mary Anne eyed her daughter quizzically. Daw didn’t seem to be listening.
‘Daw,’ she said again.
Her eldest daughter jerked herself back to the present. Her mouth was open as though she’d been about to speak, and yet she seemed unable to utter a sound.
Mary Anne frowned. ‘What is it? Is Mathilda alright? Is there something you want to tell me?’ She mentally checked off everything that might be wrong.
‘George Ford. He said he was a friend of Dad’s,’ she said quietly. ‘I met him when I was fire watching. He was a fire watcher too. At least, that was what he told me. He was so nice to talk to.’
Mary Anne gaped at her. ‘Was George Ford the friend you mentioned a while back?’
Daw nodded slowly. ‘I thought he was. He seemed so friendly, so caring about my welfare and the sort of person you could unload your troubles on.’
Her mother sank into a chair as the picture became clearer. ‘You mean that, when he asked, you told him everything about your family. Is that right?’
Daw bit her bottom lip and the glitter of self-belief left her dark brown eyes when she nodded.
Mary Anne hid her face in her hands and shook her head. It was tempting not to drop her hands from her face ever again. What was happening to her family? At first she peered out through the gaps in her fingers. Once she’d got her thoughts into some order, she dropped her hands. It occurred to Mary Anne that Daw was now showing more concern for her family than she had for years.
