by Lizzie Lane
Not yet!
The sign chilled her, but the letter from her mother chilled her more. Giving the baby away was no longer the easy option. Facing up to one’s responsibilities was difficult and she was still young. There were fun times ahead despite the war. On the other hand, Patrick had made her a very good offer.
Suddenly the reality of her situation was right before her eyes. Needing to regain her self-control, she swept off to the left, found the appropriate door and entered.
The surgery’s walls were painted in the most putrid shade of eau-de-nil; enamel-framed screens were folded loosely in one corner and a metal-framed trolley squeaked when a nurse wheeled it close to the examination couch.
A prune-faced nurse told her to take off her clothes behind a screen and to put on her dressing gown.
‘Lie down, please.’
Lizzie heaved herself on to the examination couch.
The doctor had a baby face and pale hair. The merest hint of a moustache shadowed his top lip and she fancied he’d purposely deepened his voice in a bid to be taken more seriously. He was one of the few people here not dressed in a Salvation Army uniform. His hands trembled slightly as he approached her. Eyeing him sidelong, she tried to deduce what his problem was. Drink! Stress!
She couldn’t believe that examining the bellies of young girls could lead to the latter, though there might be a case to answer for the former.
Her dressing gown was rolled up and a sheet placed across her stomach.
‘Has she given Nurse a water sample?’ He looked at the nurse as he said it and they continued to talk over her – as though I’m not here, she thought.
The nurse, her headgear as stiff and broad as a starched tablecloth, answered that she had and that the sugar test was negative.
The doctor made a humphing sound – something halfway between approval and curiosity.
The hands that pressed around the perimeter of the lump she carried were as cold as ice. She grimaced. He hadn’t attempted to warm them beforehand, and neither had he apologized. His voice slid an octave higher as he looked into her face. ‘A few days and it will all be over. A fortnight after that you can leave here and forget it ever happened.’
Forget it? How can I forget it?
But you will, she told herself. You’ll have to.
Turning her face to the wall she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed it was all a dream. When she opened them again, nothing had changed. What had she expected? She forced herself once again to don the mask of indifference she’d worn for so many months. In a little while she could jettison the beach ball for ever – but would it be for ever? Her namesake, the first Elizabeth, had turned up. What about her child? Would it track her down too?
‘You’re very large,’ said the doctor, and frowned thoughtfully. He straightened, sighed and made some notes. ‘Be sure to see the receptionist on the way out,’ he added, his pink cheeks glowing in his round, chubby face. ‘I believe she has rules and information that may be of use to you.’
It was the first time a smile had lifted his baby-boy features but soon he resumed scribbling copious notes. The smile was tight and not really for her, merely the satisfaction of a man with too many patients and not enough time to deal with them all properly.
Sally and another girl named Hilary were sitting on metal-legged chairs outside the door. They both looked up as she came out.
‘So what is it? A baby or just fresh baked bread making you a bit bloated?’ said Sally.
‘The proverbial bun in the oven,’ said Lizzie.
‘Hope he’s warmed his hands up a bit. I can’t stand cold hands.’ She added a wink.
All that was happening made Lizzie more sensitive than usual. She couldn’t help the sharp retort. ‘All doctors have cold hands if they’ve washed properly. I suppose it depends what you’re used to.’
The barb hit home, wiping Sally’s smile from her face. Before she had a chance to react, her name was called.
Lizzie found her way to the reception desk. ‘Sit here,’ said the receptionist. She wore spectacles with round lenses and continually tugged at her tight collar. She was shuffling papers with the easy dexterity of someone used to collating information in strict alphabetical order. She drew a single sheet from of the bundle of manila folders and crisp paper. ‘This is the Pilemarsh regime. Study it, memorize it if possible, and ask questions now if you wish. No one here has time for questions unless they’re asked at the right time.’ She passed the paper across the busy desk.
‘And now is the right time?’ Lizzie asked, her steady gaze resulting in the furtive haste of a woman who wishes to appear more efficient and important than she really is.
The woman’s purple-thin lips tightened into grim accusation. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. It’s your fault you are here, not ours. Rules are rules.’
The sheet of rules and a timetable were later discussed among the three girls.
Sally gripped the sheet as though wishing her hands would turn into claws so she could more easily tear it apart. ‘Looks as though everyone here is a chief. There’s no Indians!’ she said.
Lizzie got up and looked out of the window. She’d read the rules and regulations, but still her mother’s letter was uppermost in her mind. History repeats itself, so they say, and here I am doing the same thing she did back in the Great War.
Sally was still going on about the rules and regulations. ‘We’ve got to do all the cleaning, washing and ironing! I can’t believe it.’
Hilary was strangely silent, a deep frown denting her dark brows. ‘I’ve never done housework. We have servants back home.’
Sally stared at her.
Lizzie glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘They obviously like to keep costs down here.’
Sally stared at her newly painted fingernails and sighed. ‘And they were just getting nice as well.’
‘I’ve got some cream,’ said Hilary, reaching into a crocodile skin vanity case and passing Sally a pink jar with a gold-coloured top.
‘Thanks all the same,’ she said suddenly and handed it back. ‘I think I’ve got something better than that. Vaseline,’ she added. ‘It cost only pennies and is just as good as anything.’
The morning bell summoned the girls to lay the table for breakfast at six thirty. Those who had managed to doze off lurched into instant wakefulness. Few lingered too long in their beds. If they didn’t report to the dining room on time, most of the porridge and butter would be long gone and breakfast diminished to tea and dry toast.
Lizzie groaned and buried her head under her bedclothes. ‘I feel as though I’ve been sold into slavery. Is it too much to ask them to take on staff?’ She raised herself up and pushed back the covers. She winced as she dragged her legs over the side of the bed, tucking her nightdress below her belly so she could more easily inspect her ankles. She sighed at the sight of them. ‘Looking over my belly is like trying to peer over the top of a mountain. I vow that I will never allow myself to get fat again – certainly not on a permanent basis.’
‘Are you alright?’ asked Sally.
Lizzie nodded. The sight of the hem of her nightdress skimming her slim ankles was incredibly reassuring. ‘Just a twinge – and look, my ankles are still slim.’
‘Is that good?’
‘I think so.’
‘Your belly’s pretty big.’
‘That’s what the doctor said too.’
‘Oh dear. You don’t think it’s twins?’
Lizzie adopted a look of sheer horror. ‘I hope not!’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Captain Gregory, a middle-aged woman with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion, poked her head around the door.
‘Randall? You’re wanted in the visitors’ room.’
Captain Gregory had been about to shut the door, but stopped when she saw the surprise on Lizzie’s face.
‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m not expecting a visitor.’
‘Not even
a friend?’
Thinking that Margot had come to see her, Lizzie visibly relaxed. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She reached for her clothes. Seeing Margot again would lift her spirits. Over a cup of tea they’d discuss Owen, men and the world in general. Margot would be discreet; she wouldn’t let her eyes drop to Lizzie’s fat belly or mention the impending birth.
Despite her girth Lizzie flew down the stairs and into the small room to the right of the staircase. The room held a small bookcase, six chairs and a giant aspidistra in an olive-green pot.
A sincere smile plastered to her face, Lizzie breezed into the room. The woman got up as she entered. At first she wondered why Daw was here and reached the obvious conclusion that Patrick had spilled the beans. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks: this woman looked like Daw, but wasn’t Daw. Her sister was handsome but never looked elegant, and neither did she have the money to wear mink, good-quality tweed skirts and handsome leather court shoes.
As realization dawned, Lizzie’s smile turned to jaw-dropping surprise.
The woman got to her feet. ‘Do forgive this intrusion, but I had to see you.’ Her voice rang like a bell.
This was Daw and yet it wasn’t Daw; it was her mother’s face but not quite her mother’s face. First and foremost, why was she here? Lizzie waited for her to explain.
Elizabeth Ford looked at her with imploring eyes. ‘I expect you’re wondering who I am and how I found you. Patrick didn’t give your secret away, if that’s what you think. On the contrary, he was very reticent until I told him why I wanted to see you. He understood then. We both knew that I had to come and that my coming here might help you reach the right decision.’
She was talking in riddles. The only part that made Lizzie react was her mention of Patrick. He’d sworn not to tell anyone.
‘Your mother wrote to you about me, I believe.’
Lizzie sank into a chair. ‘Yes. You’re Elizabeth!’
Her gaze was steady. ‘So are you.’
Lizzie nodded. Their mother had named them both Elizabeth. Everything had been in the letter. Reading about the other Elizabeth had been so impersonal. Face to face was not so much disconcerting as strange.
Elizabeth Ford waved a gloved hand at one of the chairs. ‘Please. Sit down.’
Lizzie lowered herself into the chair as though in a dream, her eyes never leaving her half-sister’s face. ‘So you got hold of Patrick and he sent you here? Have you told my mother where I am and what’s happening?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I had to promise Patrick that I wouldn’t. It was agreed between your mother – our mother – and me that she would write to you first before I came visiting. She told me your address was secret but that Patrick would know. I visited him first and explained the situation. He begged me to tell you that his offer is still open.’
‘And you know about his offer?’
‘He told me.’ Elizabeth paused and leaned forward. ‘Think very carefully about what you are doing. Think of what your – our – mother went through.’
Lizzie eyed her quizzically. It was difficult to accept that this elegant woman had had such an unpromising start in life. Orphanages and Dickensian stories usually accompanied a baby being given away at birth.
‘What sort of upbringing did you have? Were people cruel to you?’ she asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I was one of the lucky ones.’
Lizzie gave a little gasp as the child kicked inside her.
Elizabeth noticed. ‘Is it coming?’
The sudden twinges she’d been feeling all morning intensified. She nodded. ‘I think so.’
Elizabeth looked at her watch. It looked to be made of silver and studied with stones. ‘I have to go. I have to visit my husband.’
‘I hear he’s under lock and key.’
‘Until he’s better,’ Elizabeth sighed and looked sad. ‘Whenever that may be.’
‘He caused a lot of problems.’
‘I’m sorry he did, but also thankful. I would never have found you if he hadn’t applied his skills to the task.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I always wondered,’ Elizabeth said suddenly. ‘Once I knew I was adopted, I always wondered who my mother was, why she’d abandoned me and who my natural family were. Wanting to know stays with you, but not as strongly as the feeling of abandonment.’
Lizzie stared at the floor. What now? This visit was totally unexpected. This woman had been a baby just like the one inside of her, and now she was a person with feelings and hopes and dreams for the future, but also with problems. It was obvious from the sadness in her eyes that she was worried about her husband.
‘Will you be seeing Patrick again?’
‘I don’t know. He said he would call in on you.’
‘Male visitors aren’t allowed.’
‘Not even those who want to marry the mother?’
Lizzie didn’t answer. Of course he’d be let in, but was she ready for him? The baby moved again, as though urging her to act before it was too late. ‘Tell him I won’t object.’
‘I will.’
‘Have you seen Harry?’
Elizabeth smiled as she pulled on her gloves. ‘I have. He hugged me and called me “sis”. I love him for that.’
‘I’d like him to visit if he can.’
Elizabeth headed for the door. ‘I’m not sure whether he can, what with this business at Pearl Harbor.’
Lizzie looked at her blankly. ‘Pearl Harbor? What’s that?’
News was slow entering the walls of Pilemarsh Abbey. Like visitors, the outside world was held firmly at the door.
‘Yesterday the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. The United States has now entered the war. Goodness knows what will happen from here on. But never mind,’ she said and kissed Lizzie on both cheeks. ‘I’m so pleased I have a family. So pleased I’ve found my roots.’
In the early hours of the morning of December 9th 1941, Lizzie gave birth to twin girls – Mary and Elizabeth – named after the two living queens, one the mother-in-law of the other.
The almoner came to talk about having them adopted.
‘It’s easier to place one than place two,’ she said. ‘Rest assured they’ll be placed with two separate families who will take good care of them.’
Exhausted after her ordeal, Lizzie lay back against the pillows and collected her thoughts. The prospect of the twins growing up separately appalled her. Her children had suckled at her breasts, and even now her body was reacting to their presence, the sticky birth milk seeping into her nightdress. Nothing would ever be the same again. She knew that now. Her life was no longer just for her. She had seen her beautiful children and in a flash had turned from a pussycat into a tiger.
‘I have a form for you to sign,’ the almoner continued. ‘Well, two forms actually. One for each child.’
Taking her inaction and silence for exhaustion, the almoner pushed the pieces of paper beneath Lizzie’s fingers and pressed a pen into her right hand. ‘There. A signature on each and it’s all over.’
Lizzie stared at the screen surrounding her bed, but didn’t see the dull green cloth. All she could see was a future alone when in fact it could be so different. The choice was hers and hers alone. The paper crumpled beneath her fingertips. The pen rolled on to the counterpane. ‘No.’
The almoner raised her eyebrows. ‘No?’
‘No. I’ve decided to keep them.’
The almoner looked outraged. ‘But you’ve no husband?’
Lizzie smiled weakly. ‘Not at the moment. But I will shortly. I definitely will.’
Chapter Forty-One
Michael explained in his letters that all leave was cancelled due to the worsening situation in the Far East. Once she’d opened and read them, Mary Anne hugged them against her heart. There were long gaps between writing and his infrequent visits. She’d written to his parents in the hope of finding out more. They had written back, addressing her as though s
he were Michael’s landlady and not the love of his life. They remarked on some photographs he’d sent them of a ‘young English girl’. Whose photographs had he sent? She wouldn’t tackle him about it, preferring to brood over what might be while hoping for something better.
‘Mum, you’re worrying unnecessarily,’ said Lizzie. ‘You’ve been down that route before.’
Having two new grandchildren helped her cope, although she didn’t know the truth about their father and Lizzie hoped she would never find out. Christmas would have been a subdued affair if it hadn’t been for Lizzie, Patrick and the twins. A special marriage licence had been granted so their wedding was celebrated alongside Christmas.
‘Best time of the year,’ Patrick had quipped. ‘Christmas and wedding anniversaries all in one!’
Daw sobbed all the way through the ceremony because she was missing John. After seeing what her father was capable of and meeting Elizabeth Ford, Daw had forgiven her husband for whatever he’d done – or hadn’t done.
‘What did he do to upset her?’ Lizzie asked.
Her mother shrugged. ‘Knowing our Daw it wasn’t that dreadful. She’s such a stickler for having things done her way.’
‘Never been any different,’ said Lizzie dismissively.
The event was low key. Patrick, Lizzie and two of his army pals had gone to the Register Office. Mary Anne had been left to look after the twins and Daw had come over with Mathilda. The wedding feast was held in the rooms above the Red Cross shop. By collecting coupons and receiving donations from Harry’s black-market friends, a tea time spread of cake, jam and bread and butter, along with a little fruit jelly preserved by Gertrude Palmer, covered an oblong table.
The wedding was too short notice for Harry and Michael to come. John’s aunt and uncle from the corner shop were there, and so was Gertrude although she didn’t look her normal self. During the celebrations, she called Mary Anne over.
