by Anna Jacobs
Today Sam stopped her in the street. “Well, Miss Porter, you’re looking at a man on his way to the Recruiting Office. I’ve got things sorted out at home now, so I can go an’ do my duty.”
She beamed at him. “Good man! Good man!”
He tipped his bowler hat to her and sauntered on.
Lizzie glanced back and saw Miss Porter already in conversation with one of her friends, pointing after them and nodding her head emphatically.
Sam’s fingers bit into her arm. “Try to look more like a proud wife, eh? You’re not going to a bleeding funeral.”
Lizzie was having difficulty hiding her exultation. He was leaving! He really was leaving!
At the Recruiting Office, Sam let go of her, went to the head of the queue and pushed his way inside.
“Here, join the back of the line, you!” one man called. “We’ve come in from Wallingby today to join up.”
“An’ half you buggers’ll be sent back to Wallingby again, too. You couldn’t raise a good sneeze between the six of you.”
There was muttering, but no one else challenged him.
The Recruiting Sergeant’s eyes lit up at the sight of Sam. “You look like a strong young fellow. You’ve come to the right place, lad.”
Lizzie, who had followed him in, noticed her husband’s smile go a bit glassy, then she heard him breathe deeply and say, “Well, where do I sign?”
She couldn’t hold in one long shuddering sigh of relief. Then she had control of herself again.
* * *
That afternoon, Sam sat morosely in front of the kitchen fire. “Last night of freedom.”
“Yes. But—but you’re doing the right thing, Sam, I know you are. I mean—we are at war and—and they do need men.”
“Hah! Last thing I wanted was to join the sodding Army.” He spat into the fire, then took another slurp of beer from the jug he’d sent her to fetch from the Hare and Hounds.
Usually Lizzie hated fetching him beer, but tonight she didn’t care about anything. He was to leave tomorrow. She could take her time about running away now. Maybe—maybe he’d even get killed. Men did in wartime. But guilt shot through her at that, followed by a cynical thought that wicked men didn’t get killed, only good ones.
Later, as she was carrying a second jug of beer back up the street, a policeman stopped her. “Is it true, Mrs. Thoxby?”
“Is what true?”
“That your husband has enlisted.”
“Yes.”
“When does he leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Ah. Well, personally I’ll believe it when I see it, but my Sergeant will be very interested in that news, very interested indeed. I reckon we’ll all come to see him off.”
When he let go of her arm, Lizzie hurried on. Not as stupid as Sam thought, the police.
* * *
At the house she mentioned the encounter, but Sam only grunted and said, “It’s stopped them coming after me, then.” She went upstairs and busied herself getting his things ready, laying them out on the bed in neat piles.
She spun that job out as long as she could, then came down. “Do you want to see what I’m packing? I’ve found everything on that list they gave you.”
“Whassat?”
She saw with dismay that he was already affected by the drink.
“I’ve got your clothes and things laid out, ready to pack,” she repeated. “Do you want to come and check them?”
“No, I don’t want to come and check them. What I want is my rations.”
“But—”
He glared at her. “No buts. Get your knickers off.”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
When he had finished, he rolled off her and gave her a shove. “Useless bloody lump, you are. No good at pleasuring a man.”
Lizzie bit back the obvious response that she only knew what he had taught her—which was definitely not how to please one’s partner.
When he was dressed, she poured him another beer and asked, “What shall I do for money while you’re away, Sam?”
That made him think. “They say the Army will send on my pay, but I’ve seen no sign of that with other folk, so I’m not signing mine over to you. Besides, I’m going to need that money myself. There must be a few fiddles I can get in on, even in the Army.”
She stared at him in horror. “But what about me?”
“Oh, I’ll give you something to keep you going. Enough for a few weeks. They’re bound to let me have leave by then. I’ll give you some more next time I come back.”
“But what if they don’t—”
He cracked her across the face. “Bloody well shut up and let a man enjoy his last night of freedom, will you?”
Eventually, she went up to bed, leaving him still drinking, but she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she heard him go into the front room. He seemed to be in there a long time, then there was the sound of a bottle clinking. Her heart sank. He must have been fetching the rum he kept for special occasions.
She crept to the top of the stairs, shivering with cold but worried about what he would do. When there had been no noise for a while, she tiptoed down to find him snoring in front of the dying fire, with the bottle of rum standing by his feet, nearly empty. She banked the fire up carefully with a big cob of coal and some slack, then went back to bed, to sleep uneasily.
* * *
In the morning, Sam was sitting in the kitchen when she went down, scowling into a blazing fire. He didn’t even look up to greet her. “Have you got my stuff packed?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Get me a good breakfast while I have a wash.” He glanced at the clock, then back at her bruised face. “You’d better not come with me into town today. And stay indoors till that mark has cleared up. If anyone asks, tell them you had a fall.”
As if anyone in the whole town would believe that! But she nodded anyway.
A little later, she gathered her courage together to ask, “What about the money, Sam? I need something to live off.”
He nodded. “I’ve got it out for you. There!” He pointed to the mantelpiece.
As Lizzie went to count it, she wondered where he’d got it from. She knew he didn’t keep that much on him, because she often had to clear his pockets out before she hung up his things. So he must have a supply hidden somewhere. “There’s only five pounds, Sam. That won’t last long. I’ll have the gas bill to pay and the coalman and—”
“Make it last. Women don’t eat as much as men. I’ll send you some more later.”
She didn’t dare argue.
At half-past eight, he stood up, collected his suitcase from the hall, then turned at the door to waggle one thick finger at her. “If I hear you’ve so much as spoke to another fellow while I’m away, I’ll do more than mark your face. An’ tell your family to stay away from my house.”
And that was his farewell.
When the sound of his footsteps in the street had died away, Lizzie fumbled her way towards a chair and sat down with a thump. The house felt empty. Delightfully empty. She couldn’t believe he’d gone, that she’d be on her own in that big bed tonight, that there’d be no one to shout at her.
She looked at the five crumpled pound notes on the table. They wouldn’t last long.
Then she realised suddenly that until she saw him go, actually saw him leave Overdale, she’d not really feel secure. She hunted for the old shawl she wrapped round herself in winter when she sat reading in bed, draped it carefully over her head so that it hid most of the bruise, then slipped out through the back yard.
Hidden behind the corner of the Town Hall, she watched as half a dozen men were lined up outside the temporary Recruiting Office, Sam among them, then ordered into an open-backed lorry where some other men were already sitting.
As it drove away, she sagged against the wall. He’d gone. He’d really gone. She was free, for the first time in over a year.
She couldn’t understand why she was weepin
g, but she couldn’t stop and had to lean against the wall, so shaky did she feel. When someone touched her arm, she jumped in shock, then saw it was Peter Dearden staring at her.
“Are you all right, Lizzie?”
She nodded, but she was still unable to stop weeping. “S-Sam has just left.”
He stared in the direction the lorry had taken, amazed that she was so upset.
She could tell what he was thinking and choked with laughter. “I’m not sorry—I just can’t believe I’m free.”
His expression showed he understood exactly why she’d said that. “Oh, I see. Look, let me take you home in the van.”
She looked round, saw no one nearby and nodded, sinking gratefully into the front seat of the big maroon and gold van with DEARDEN’S on the side in fussy gold letters. She didn’t notice anything on the way back, just sat slumped in the corner, drained of energy, until they turned a corner near Maidham Street. “Stop here! Quick!”
He braked to a sudden halt. “What’s wrong?”
“If you take me right home, someone will notice. I’ll get out here. An’ thanks, Peter.”
But he put out one hand to prevent her getting out. “If you need anything…”
“I’m all right. Give my love to your mother. I’m sorry your dad’s so ill.” She hid her face with the shawl and hurried off down a back alley.
In her own kitchen, Lizzie looked at the almost empty bottle of rum and on a sudden impulse took a gulp of it, enjoying the warmth as it slid down her throat. Then she locked the doors and stumbled upstairs to bed. Not caring that it was still quite early in the morning, she lay down, pulled the blankets and quilt up and let herself sink into a delicious doze.
Free of Sam’s presence, she slept more soundly than she had since she first came to this house and didn’t wake up until the middle of the night.
Then she went down and made herself a picnic in the chilly kitchen, eating the bread and jam with relish before going back upstairs and laughing aloud from sheer joy to find the bed unoccupied. She fell asleep again almost immediately, sighing like a carefree child.
Chapter Twenty-Three
November–December 1914
Apart from one postcard in the second week, Sam didn’t write and he certainly didn’t tell Lizzie where he was so that she could write to him.
Two weeks after he’d gone, she heard that Sally Dearden’s husband, Bob, had died at last and sat staring into the kitchen fire for a long time, feeling sorry for Mrs. D, who had loved her husband, but also feeling envious of her, for having such a warm loving family. Outside it was raining again. Inside it was chilly and damp-feeling, because Lizzie didn’t dare be extravagant with coal.
When she heard a few days after the funeral that Peter had followed Jack’s example and enlisted, and that Mrs. D was managing the shop, she wasn’t surprised. Her former employer was a strong woman and knew as much about the grocery trade as any man.
As Christmas drew nearer, the money Sam had left dwindled to a few shillings and Lizzie began to worry about how she was going to eat. She wished now that she had left Overdale when he went, but she had worried about being pregnant so had delayed. But she wasn’t pregnant, thank goodness. Only, by the time she knew that, the weather was so cold and rainy that she had kept putting off her departure and somehow the money had slipped through her fingers. Soon she would have to dip into her savings, just to buy food.
So when she met Sally Dearden in town one day and was offered a job in the shop, Lizzie took it eagerly. Sam wouldn’t like it, but he hadn’t sent her any more money and she had to live, didn’t she? And she’d be glad to get out of the house. She was nearly going mad on her own there.
As she walked home, for the first time in ages she felt happy. She stopped to say hello to Blanche Harper and on impulse added, “I’d love to pop round and have a natter with you both one night, just for an hour, you know. Only,” she blushed, “I’d have to come in the back way in case someone told Sam I’d been visiting you.”
Blanche looked at her with great sympathy. Lizzie looked years older than eighteen, and not only older but worn. “Why not come round tomorrow evening? Have tea with us?”
“That’d be lovely. Only I’ll be a bit late. I’m working at Dearden’s again.”
“We’ll wait for you.”
That same day, Lizzie wrote a letter to Polly to tell her to come round on her next Sunday off, but to use the back door, so that no one would see her.
As she was slipping the letter into the post box, she met Miss Porter.
“Writing to your husband, dear? That’s the thing to do, keep our boys happy.”
Lizzie didn’t contradict her, but she felt like saying it was hard to write to someone who hadn’t sent you an address.
The next day’s post brought a letter from Sam with an address in Derbyshire on it. Lizzie saw the envelope lying in the hall when she got home from Dearden’s, tired but happy, clutching some bacon for her tea and a loaf of bread.
She picked it up and dropped it on the table, reluctant even to touch it. Then, angry at herself for being so cowardly, she tore it open. The letter was short, but it had a pound note in it, at least.
Dear Lizzie
Camp is lousy. The Army is lousy, too. We still haven’t got our full uniforms or enough blankets and the food is shocking. Good job I have my overcoat with me.
Here is some more money to keep you going. I’ve been making a bob or two lending to other fellows. I hope to get some leave soon. Make sure you keep yourself to yourself. I don’t want your family trailing in and out of my house while I’m away. Your bloody brother doesn’t know how lucky he is staying out of the sodding Army.
Sam
She threw the envelope into the fire and put the letter with the address on it behind the mantelpiece clock. He’d expect a reply. She didn’t want to write, but she’d better. Or should she take the pound and just run away now? With a sigh, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really want to leave Overdale, especially not now she was working at Dearden’s again, seeing all her old customers, enjoying herself as she had not done since her marriage.
In the weeks that followed, even though she knew it was risky, she kept putting off her departure.
Christmas came and went. Lizzie visited the Harpers and Percy called in to see her with a present. Polly had also given her a present, but Sam hadn’t even sent a letter. Percy didn’t stay long. “Mam’s making a lot of fuss about us all spending the day together.”
“All” obviously didn’t include Lizzie. “Does she know you’ve come to see me?”
He nodded, looking embarrassed.
She changed the subject. Even at Christmas, her mother didn’t want to see her, knew she was on her own and hadn’t invited her round.
On Boxing Day Polly popped in for an hour, blushing and confessing that she was walking out with a fellow she’d met at the station on that dreadful day Lizzie had failed to escape.
“Are you going to stay with Sam now?” Polly asked hesitantly as conversation turned to Lizzie. “Have you changed your mind about leaving him?”
“I was just going when he joined up. I—I don’t know what to do now. Trouble is, I’m enjoying working at Dearden’s.”
Just at that moment the front door opened. Only one person had a key. Lizzie’s heart plummeted and she turned to face the hall as Sam walked in.
He stared at Polly, eyes narrowed. “I might have known you’d start coming round here again,” he said sourly, then turned to Lizzie. “Well, no welcome for your husband?”
She made herself walk across and give him a peck on the cheek. She could smell rum on his breath. He’d clearly not come straight home.
Polly looked at her sister, uncertain what to do.
Lizzie managed a smile. “I’ll see you next month, then, love.”
At the front door, Polly gave her a hug and whispered, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yes. I’m used to it.”
Lizzie went back into the kitchen. “You should have let me know you were coming, Sam. I’d have got more food in.”
“I’m more interested in getting my rations than in food,” he said, throwing his overcoat on to a chair and starting to unbutton his flies.
“I’d rather do it in bed,” she said, trying not to show how the thought of his touching her upset her. “It’ll be warmer.”
But by that time, he had reached out and grabbed her. “Here.”
When he had finished jerking and roaring like an animal, she set her clothes to rights and went to put the kettle on.
He pulled his trousers back up and went to sprawl in a chair by the fire. “I heard you’d gone back to working at Dearden’s.”
“I ran out of money.”
He grunted and scowled at the fire, then asked, “What have you got to eat?”
“Not much.”
He gave a sneering laugh. “What? You working at Dearden’s and not bringing food home?”
“There’s only me, so I don’t need much. If you’d let me know you were coming, I’d have got extra in. I’ve only got a chop here.”
“That’ll do for starters.”
She didn’t make the obvious comment that it had been intended for her own tea.
He sawed off a piece of bread, slathering it with butter and cramming it into his mouth. “Hurry up, then! I’m starving.”
She put some potatoes on to boil and began frying the chop.
“How long has your sister been coming round here?”
“This is the first time. I thought—being Christmas—”
“And your brother? Has he been round, too?”
Best stick to the truth. “Yesterday. Just for a few minutes.”
“All you Kershaws sticking together,” he sneered.
“They’re family.”
“Aye. Well, so long as you don’t have other fellows coming round.”
“I’m too busy working to have fellows round, even if I wanted them.”
“Jam.”
She’d forgotten what it was like, how he used to fire orders at her. She went to get the jam and resisted a sudden urge to slam it down on the table. “So you don’t mind me working at Dearden’s?”
