by Anne Bennett
‘I do try,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’s not so easy when I think this unknown assailant might be lying in wait anywhere to have another go at me. But I will get word to Flo now that I am a little stronger. It is right that she should know.’
* * *
Before Lizzie had time to get word to her mother-in-law, Flo came to the house herself two days after the priest. Lizzie was by then back in her own house, because, welcoming as Barry and Violet were, she felt she’d imposed long enough and her side was healing nicely, though she still wasn’t dressing through the day.
Flo didn’t bother knocking, but burst through the door and faced Lizzie angrily across the room, ‘What’s this about an attack and why wasn’t I bloody-well told?’
Lizzie looked at the woman who’d shown Lizzie she disliked her from the first moment they’d met, and suddenly she was sick of trying, so all she said was, ‘Who told you, the priest?’
‘No,’ Flo snapped. ‘It was one of my neighbours who’s aunt to a woman at the end of Bell Barn Road. She’d just got to hear of it herself. Made me look a right fool to know not a thing about it.’
‘What was the point of worrying you?’
‘Never mind all that clap-trap, I had a right to know.’
‘Why? What could you have done?’
‘That’s neither here nor there. I’m your mother-in-law. I would have come down.’
Lizzie tried to hide the involuntary shudder that went through her. ‘I bet that old crone next door was right in there with her tea and bloody sympathy while the family was shut out,’ Flo went on sneeringly.
Violet was more than Lizzie’s friend, she was her mother figure, her confidante and now possibly her life-saver and so she said sharply, ‘Aye, Violet knew. It was her tripped over me, for I was unconscious, laid out in the yard.’
Flo hadn’t known it had been that serious. ‘Why were you unconscious?’
‘It might have had something to do with the fact that I was stabbed,’ Lizzie said, and saw by Flo’s face she’d known nothing about that either.
‘Stabbed!’ Flo cried.
‘You want to know about it,’ Lizzie said almost scornfully. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I was attacked by someone in the blackout. The darkness was too intense to see who it was and I was rendered unconscious. The doctor said my thick coat saved my life. That and Violet finding me lying bleeding onto the cobblestones before I froze or bled to death. If you look at the coat carefully, you’ll see the mark where it was sewn at the cleaners, where Violet’s husband took it because it was saturated with blood; and I don’t want you writing all this in gory detail to Steve and worrying him half to death.’
Flo gaped at her. ‘He needs to know. He is your husband.’
‘I’ll tell him, but in my own time and in my own way,’ Lizzie cried. ‘He doesn’t need to know that even now I’m scared stiff of going to the lavvy.’
‘Well, then you’d best come and live at my sister’s for a bit,’ Flo said. ‘She won’t mind in the circumstances, if I put it to her, like.’
Over my dead body, Lizzie thought, but she said, ‘No thanks, Flo. I must master this fear.’
‘You need to be with family. It’s what Steve would expect of me,’ Flo insisted. ‘We’ve got the room. Neil can bugger off to his mates for a bit, like he did afore. He’ll be getting his call-up paper anyway any day now I reckon.’
Poor Neil, Lizzie thought. But then maybe the army would be the making of him. At least he’d start on a level playing field with the rest.
She said none of this to Flo. What she did say was, ‘No, Flo, really. It’s kind of you, but I need to get over this on my own.’
Flo gave a disapproving bob of her head and said, ‘Oh, stay here then. It’s obvious to me that that woman means more to you than your family.’
And with reason! God, she’d nearly said the words out loud. ‘Come on, Flo,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t be like this.’
She knew if Flo left her in this mood she would write to Steve, a letter full of complaints about Lizzie, and she never knew how Steve would react. He really had enough to worry about without believing that her and Flo were at each other’s throats every minute, and Lizzie usually ended up trying to placate her mother-in-law.
But that day it wasn’t working. ‘Don’t be like this,’ Flo said scornfully. ‘What else way should I be? When for all your fancy words I know you prefer that woman to anyone else in the land and she’s not even a Catholic. Steve has never liked her, and when he’s home for good he’ll see to it you have less to do with her. He told me so in a letter he wrote.’ She wagged a warning finger in front of Lizzie’s face and said, ‘Mark my words, she’ll cause trouble between you and my Steve before you’re through.’
Lizzie watched Flo stride away and knew the woman would write to Steve and straight away. She suddenly felt helpless and vulnerable and so very, very tired and she put her head in her hands and wept.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slowly, Lizzie did begin to recover her health and strength and come to terms with the attack made upon her, and she returned to work on 9th March and was even welcomed back by the boss, who said he was glad to see her looking so well.
After the autumn raids, which had virtually crippled Birmingham and killed and maimed countless numbers of people and made others destitute, there had been a little lull from 1st January to 4th February, just three days before the attack on Lizzie. After that there were sporadic raids, often far enough away to be able to stay in bed; which was just as well, for after the assault on Lizzie, fear prevented her leaving the house and touring the streets for shelter in case she risked bumping into the madman, intent on finishing what he had begun.
However, the raid on 11th March saw Lizzie and Violet scurrying through the night together, for Barry was again fire-watching. ‘Thought he’d finished with us,’ a woman in the doorway said as they picked their way across the sandbags.
‘Not likely with London getting it every night,’ another put in.
‘Ah, and they have less shelters than us according to the paper,’ said an old man in the corner. ‘They’re holding out in underground stations and deserted warehouses and all sorts.’
‘It ain’t right, is it? I mean, before governments lead a country into war, you’d think they would make sure their people was safe.’
‘Not the likes of us, they don’t,’ another commented. ‘Haven’t you heard the term “cannon fodder”? That’s what we are. And if a few of us get killed, what’s the odds?’
‘That’s an awful outlook to have.’
‘True, though.’
And it was true. Lizzie had often thought brick-built shelters were little safer than a house. She envied those with cellars big enough to hide inside. Oh she was glad she’d got the kids away. She’d made the right choice. Christ Almighty, what if they’d still been in Birmingham when that madman went for her. They could have seen it. He could have turned on them too.
She gave a shudder at the thought and Violet was surprised, for the raid wasn’t that severe. ‘All right?’
‘Aye,’ Lizzie answered. ‘I was thinking of the weans.’
‘You surprise me,’ Violet said dryly, for she knew Lizzie thought of little else, but she couldn’t wonder at it, for they were young to be growing up without their mother, however good her parents were. She sighed and said to Lizzie, ‘I know you miss them, bab, but they’re best out of all this.’
‘I know,’ Lizzie said. ‘Nights like this I’m doubly sure. But even when there are no raids, you know, Violet, I look at the rations sometimes and can’t seem to summon up the energy to cook something I know will be barely edible when I’ve made it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Violet said with feeling. ‘It’s the boredom that gets to you after a while.’
‘Aye, Woolton pie is almost tasteless.’
Violet gave a wry smile. ‘You said it.’
Woolton pie was a meatless pie, pioneered by Lord Woolton. Each time Lizzie hea
rd of a merchant ship sinking, she’d think of the tons of foodstuff lying on the sea bed and feel depressed.
Her children, on the other hand, had as much food as they wanted. She remembered how she’d once taken for granted the rashers of bacon, thick and sizzling in the pan, served with eggs with bright yellow yolks, collected in just that morning, or the succulent chicken, who’d been strutting about the yard just a couple of hours before. Even the soda bread was delicious, spread thickly with creamy yellow butter and perhaps topped with home-made jam. Jam was something Lizzie hadn’t tasted for months, and you could only afford a smear of butter or margarine to try and make the grey, stodgy national loaf more edible.
She sighed again and lay back against the bunk she and Violet shared. Violet had her eyes closed, but Lizzie doubted she slept. She couldn’t sleep while a raid was going on. It was far enough away that it didn’t make you jump every time a bomb landed and think every moment was your last, but too near for her to risk going home yet awhile, though some had. She knew from experience how quickly the raid could turn to be directly above them and so she stayed put.
She closed her eyes too and thought of her home in Ireland, a sort of paradise for her children, with fresh air to breathe and fields to play in and the babbling stream that fed into the rolling sea no distance at all from them. She contrasted that with the life the children had here. The bare streets and dusty courts had once been their only playground, but now there was a sea of bombed rubble, which was like a death trap. More than one child had cut themselves deeply on the glass shards poking up between the beams and masonry debris, or had fallen onto the broken bricks, or gotten small fingers crushed or legs twisted, and yet it drew the children like a magnet and why wouldn’t it? It was like an adventure playground on their own doorstep and they swarmed over it like ants.
The next thing she was aware of was Violet shaking her, ‘Come on, sleepy head,’ and she woke to the reassuring sound of the ‘All Clear’ blasting over the city. ‘Was I asleep?’
‘I’ll say,’ Violet said. ‘Snoring like a good’un!’
‘I wasn’t,’ Lizzie said, horrified.
‘No,’ Violet assured her. ‘But you was well-away for all that.’
‘God, I’m stiff.’
‘You would be, the way you was lying, but I didn’t want to disturb you, like. Ready?’
‘You bet,’ Lizzie said, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘I want my bed, even if it is only for an hour or two.’
Lizzie felt herself begin to relax coming home from work. Part of this was due to the fact they now came home in full daylight as the days lengthened, and any air raids were sporadic and too far away to warrant dashing to the shelters.
Then there had been no word of any other women being attacked. The police were as baffled as ever, but they’d told Lizzie when they’d called to see her one evening as she’d just got in, that even if the frenzied assault had been directed at her, it didn’t seem as if the man was going to repeat it, or he would have tried by now. ‘Maybe he had a fit of conscience, or of course he might have been injured or killed in one of the raids.’
‘Well, we wouldn’t know, would we?’ Lizzie said. ‘But God knows, if he was, he’s no loss.’
‘Indeed,’ the policeman said. ‘And I don’t think you’ll be troubled further, but just in case, keep alert, and lock and bolt your door at night.’
‘I always do now, since.’
‘A wise move. And if you want our help at all, you know where we are.’
About this time, Lizzie noticed a metallic taste in her mouth and she mentioned it to Violet on her way to work. ‘It’s all them root vegetables we’re forced to eat,’ Violet said with a smile. ‘They’ve fermented in your stomach and are giving off gases.’
‘Aye, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised,’ Lizzie said. ‘One of these days I know I’ll wake up looking like a turnip.’
‘Well,’ said Violet, pulling away from Lizzie slightly so she could look her full in the face, ‘now you come to mention it…’
Lizzie gave her a shake. ‘Fine friend you are,’ she said with a laugh. ‘But, joking apart, this makes everything taste awful, and you know me and how I love a cup of tea? Well, I can’t bear the taste of it now.’
‘Oh, now why didn’t you say so,’ Violet said with mock horror. ‘God Almighty—not being able to have a cup of tea. Life threatening, that is.’
‘Will you be serious for a minute.’
‘Well, I ain’t a doctor, am I?’
‘I can’t go to the doctor with a funny taste in my mouth.’
‘Maybe you’ve got a bad tooth.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve had a poke about with my tongue.’
‘That won’t tell you owt. Why don’t you pop down the dental hospital and ask them to take a look?’
Lizzie made a face. ‘I hate dentists.’
‘I doubt anyone likes them much. But if you’ve got a bad tooth it’s better out than in.’
‘I know that.’
‘Well then,’ Violet said. ‘Or you could buy a mouthwash, the chemist would put you right about what to use.’
‘Now, that is a good idea,’ Lizzie said. ‘And I’ll have a go at that before I go to any dental hospital.’
It was later in the canteen that one of Lizzie’s colleagues, seeing Lizzie accept a glass of water instead of tea at tea break, remarked, ‘What’s up with you, Lizzie, giving up tea for Lent?’
‘It’s this funny taste she has in the mouth,’ Violet said before Lizzie had a chance to speak.
‘Funny taste?’
‘Aye, like metallic,’ Lizzie said. ‘Makes everything I eat and drink taste funny. Even this water.’
‘I had that,’ Nancy, one of the women, burst out. ‘When I was expecting our Audrey. It went off after a bit, but it was awful while it lasted.’
For a split second everything in the canteen seemed to be at a stand-still. People were laughing and joking and chatting just the same, but it was as if Lizzie wasn’t a part of it, removed from it by a terrifying fear, while her mind screamed denial.
Because Lizzie had no recollection of any rape, she’d refused to accept it had happened. She hadn’t been totally sure the man had penetrated her and hadn’t wanted to think about it; the whole idea made her feel sick, so she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. She certainly hadn’t thought there might be any result. Even when her period hadn’t come when it was due, a week after the attack, she was still recovering from the trauma of the whole thing. The doctor had told her she was suffering from shock and that, he said, could do dreadful things to a person. She’d had more on her mind to try and cope with to even think about her periods. But now, she suddenly realised her period hadn’t come since either.
That day, that minute, she knew with a sickening lurch to her stomach that the sadistic sod who’d stabbed her hadn’t just left her with a scar, and the enormity of the consequences of that night seemed almost to paralyse her.
Violet saw the blood drain from Lizzie’s face at Nancy’s words and suddenly knew what she feared. That good, honest girl stood to have her life ruined because of that one attack by a vicious and heartless thug. ‘Come on, God,’ she silently admonished the Deity. ‘She’s one of your own, for Christ’s sake. The one true religion, she says. Give the girl a break. If the story of them miracles is true, this should be a piece of cake for you.’
But in case God didn’t work instantly, Violet knew she had to shield Lizzie as much as she could, answering questions the others asked her before the silence grew too uncomfortable and someone realised Lizzie Gillespie had barely opened her mouth, maybe then linking her unusual behaviour to the conversation.
There was no opportunity to talk in the factory, and Lizzie longed for the hooter signalling the end of the day. She wanted to talk to no one, not even Violet, but to go into her own house and bolt and bar the door and stay there and pretend this God-awful thing wasn’t happening to her.
She knew it wasn�
�t to be of course. Barely were the two women through the works gates when Violet said, ‘Well?’
Even then she parried. ‘Well what?’
‘You know what, you ain’t stupid. You heard what Nancy said about when she was having Audrey. She had that taste in her gob as well. Have you had your monthlies or not?’
The ‘No,’ was little more than a whisper.
‘Oh Christ!’
‘What am I to do, Violet? Help me?’
‘I will, bab,’ Violet said, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Every way I can.’
‘Violet, you know I can’t have this child,’ Lizzie cried in panic.
‘Hush,’ Violet admonished. ‘I know you’re upset and no wonder, but unless you want the world to know, keep your voice down. Look, I’ll get my thinking cap on and come around tonight. All right?’
‘All right.’
But when Lizzie reached her door she found a letter from her daughter on the mat. She picked it up and pulled the blackout curtains and lit the gas, before removing her coat, and then she sat down in one of the armchairs and opened the envelope. Niamh’s excitement sparked off the page, as in her childish hand she told Lizzie of her First Communion, which would be in early July, and which she was preparing for, and the outfit she was borrowing from her cousin her Uncle Oliver’s little girl, who was just a year older than she was. It was the prettiest dress and veil and white shoes imaginable and could her mammy come home for it?
Lizzie stood up, folded her daughter’s letter and stuck it behind the clock. She had to do something to end this pregnancy, she thought, as she paced the floor backwards and forwards. She knew there were places to go, she knew that, everyone knew, but no one spoke of it.
But she couldn’t go to one of these people. She would be scared, for she knew of those that had died, bled to death after such a visit, and then it would be a mortal sin. Then she remembered Mrs Moriarty from the village shop, who’d lost her baby after a fall down the stairs.
