Our Lizzie

by Anna Jacobs

  But she’d not go till after they’d won the war. She was making a difference to the war effort in her own way. She was quite proud of that, proud even of the long scar on one forearm from an accident at the factory. Once the war was won, she’d leave and again tell no one where she was going, not even Peggy. Only this time she’d not write to them. She just couldn’t risk it, not if she wanted to feel safe. Sam was a dangerous man when his temper was roused, a very dangerous man. She sometimes wondered if she should even have told Polly and Eva her new address.

  On those nights when she still woke from terror-filled nightmares, she would lie there trying to trace the pattern of Sam’s obsession with her from the time she’d first walked on the wall, for it had all seemed to start that day, right through to when she was very ill with the influenza—and he had been good to her then, there was no denying that—and then to the way he’d later persuaded her to marry him. Could she have avoided it all? She didn’t know. But what puzzled her most, what she could never really understand, was why, if he’d wanted her so badly, he had hurt her so much? Maybe it was some darkness inside him, for other women at the factory talked with fondness of their husbands, never showed any signs of bruising and wept when their fellows were killed.

  It seemed to Lizzie now that in the past she had just let herself drift, but she wasn’t going to do that again. From now on, she would make her own plans and choose her own path.

  In the meantime, the war had brought all sorts of food shortages to complicate daily life, and rumours had it that Britain had only a few weeks’ supply left. People were encouraged to have “meatless days” and most accepted this cheerfully. Lizzie had never been a fussy eater, so she just polished off what was set before her, both by her kindly landlady and in the canteen at work where supplies were slightly better than average, since the girls in the factory were doing such important war work. And anyway, other rumours said Germany was in a far worse state for food. They all took comfort from that thought.

  Her landlady had a small back garden planted with potatoes, as did many of their neighbours. They compared progress and exchanged ideas for growing more vegetables. Posters said things like “Eat Less Bread—Save the Wheat and Help the Fleet.”

  Mrs. Bailey was a bit put out by this. “I don’t know what they expect us to do. If we can’t eat meat and we’re not to eat as much bread, what can we eat? We can’t eat potatoes all the time. Or cabbage. And do you know how long I had to queue yesterday to get some margarine, Lizzie? Three-quarters of an hour. It’s a bit much, it really is. I know there’s a war on, but people still have to live, or why are we fighting?”

  Lizzie just made soothing noises and soon they got talking about Mrs. Bailey’s daughter and her little grandson.

  In April, too, the Germans staged a naval raid on Ramsgate, which made everyone furious that civilians, especially children, could be attacked like that. Wanton slaughter, that’s all it was. It just went to show the depths to which the enemy would sink when they would fire on innocent citizens not directly involved in the combat. Which was why they had to be stopped.

  In May the fighting in France became more desperate and casualty lists grew longer and longer. One or two more of the women at work lost their fellows and that made everyone feel a bit down.

  Lizzie couldn’t help wishing Sam were among them and she always studied the casualty lists in the papers very carefully. You’d notice a name like Thoxby. But it was never there. She’d feel glad if he died, glad and relieved, even if that was a sinful way to think. But men like him seemed to be protected by the devil and if she knew him, he’d probably come out of the war better off than he went into it. He usually did manage to turn things to his own advantage.

  She wrote to Polly from time to time. Her little sister was carrying her first child, which made Lizzie think of her own loss and weep for it again. It was hard not to go and see Polly at this important time, hard too that she talked of little but Eddie and the coming baby in her letters.

  In June, Polly wrote to say she had heard from Percy that Sam was still alive and had come back to Overdale on leave, though of course she hadn’t seen him herself because she rarely went into town and kept right away if she ever heard he was there. Well, it was no hardship, for her mother was getting barmier by the month and she hated to see her parading round town looking like a scarecrow dressed in party clothes. But it was nice to see Percy now and then. He’d been over to Outshaw a few times now and got on very well with dear Eddie.

  * * *

  As the summer days grew warmer and the sunshine made her itch to get outside, Lizzie allowed herself to be persuaded to spend a day in Manchester with two of the girls from work. They had all been working on night shift for a while and Peggy, now head supervisor, said they needed a break before starting day shifts again, so told them to take a week’s holiday and go out and enjoy themselves.

  Lizzie felt that with his last visit so recent, Sam couldn’t possibly be coming back to England for a while yet, so surely it’d be safe to go? She’d really welcome a change of scene and had never visited Manchester before, except for the railway station where she’d met Peggy.

  The city seemed very large and she lagged behind the other girls as they walked from the station through the busy town centre, feeling quite bewildered by it all. There were still fashionably clad ladies around, but they all wore their skirts much shorter than before the war. Her companions pointed and giggled at some of the fussy, draped creations they saw, but Lizzie was more interested in the working women wearing uniforms. A postwoman, a conductress on an omnibus, even a policewoman. How things were changing! Peggy was right—women could do anything the men could. Well, almost anything.

  Oh, there were shortages in Manchester, of course, and many shops bore signs asking you to remember there was a war on and only to buy what you needed. Still, there seemed an incredible choice of things for sale after Murforth, though the higher prices made the three young women gasp.

  Suddenly, as she was lingering behind the others to stare at some materials in a shop window, since she needed a new summer dress, a voice called out, “Lizzie! It’s Lizzie!” and she swung round, her heart thumping in panic, ready to flee.

  But it was Peter Dearden, his hand heavily bandaged, beaming at her from across the street. Without thinking, she ran across the road and flung herself into his arms, so delighted to see him she didn’t even notice the angry shouts of a motorist, some cyclists ringing their bells and a man driving a cart laden with boxes shaking his fist at her.

  Neither did Peter. “You do look well.” He stared down at her, his good hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Better than I’ve ever seen you look, I think. Oh, Lizzie, it’s so good to see you! And that short hair suits you, it really does.”

  She’d given up trying to curl her hair now and had it in a jaw-length bob, with a straight fringe.

  “You look well, too,” she said softly, beaming up at him.

  At the same moment, they both became aware of his arm around her shoulders, the way their bodies were pressed together, and she jerked away. He took a step backwards, his eyes still devouring her. Why had he not remembered how piquant her face was, how her eyes sparkled with life, how her lips curved so easily into a smile? “Thank you for writing when Jack got killed. It meant a lot to Mother.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I felt so sad when Polly told me.” She still couldn’t believe that she’d never see Jack’s cheeky grin again.

  “We were glad to hear from you, and to know that you were getting on all right. You only sent a short note when you repaid the money. You didn’t need to do that, Lizzie. We were happy to help you in any way we could and we’re not short of money.”

  “I needed to pay it back, for my own self-respect.” It was very important to her now that she managed her money well and had some decent savings to help her escape after the war. She looked round for her friends but couldn’t see them, and with him standing next to her, so tall and at
tractive, found she didn’t really care.

  “Have you time for a cup of tea with an old friend?”

  “Of course I have.” She abandoned all thought of finding Mary and Jen. She could make her own way back to the station later. The others would understand when she told them she’d met an old friend who was now a soldier and had been wounded. Everyone wanted to do their best for the boys on leave.

  “Come on, then, let’s find somewhere really nice.”

  It was only when they’d sat down that she realised. “You’re an officer!”

  “Only a Lieutenant.”

  “Oh, but you must have done well to get promoted from the ranks.”

  His face took on a shadowed look. “Yes, I suppose so. But I’m standing in dead men’s shoes, as it were.” He changed the subject quickly. Some things you didn’t discuss with civilians. “What are you doing with yourself nowadays? You didn’t say in your letter. Sam hasn’t found you, I gather?”

  “I’m working in munitions, actually. Doing my bit for the war as well.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me at all. Have you ever been back to Overdale?”

  “No, never.” Not even to retrieve her clothes.

  “Mother says your old house is still empty, though he’s been back a couple of times on leave.” Those visits had coincided with a brick thrown through the window of the shop and a fire lit in the outhouse, but Peter didn’t tell Lizzie that. The guilt wasn’t hers.

  She told him about the munitions work and how she was currently using a press to make detonators, a job where you had to be really careful because one wrong move could cause an explosion and a girl had lost two fingers a few weeks previously. But Lizzie had learned to be very careful during her years with Sam Thoxby and she’d had no trouble so far at the factory. Well, not much.

  “You’re not yellow,” he teased. “Not turned into a canary girl, then?”

  “No. The chemicals made me ill and I can’t stomach milk, which they give you to help with the poison when you’re testing the springs, so they took me out of the spinning room after a week.”

  “I’m glad. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  She looked across the table and found him gazing at her seriously, but with a tender expression on his face, as if he liked what he saw, as if he really did care what became of her. A warm feeling stirred in her stomach. She liked all the Deardens. Then she felt sad as she remembered that there was only him and his mother left now.

  “I’ve often thought about you, Lizzie, wondered how you were getting on,” Peter said softly. “Do you think—when I go back to the Front—you could write to me? We do look forward to letters from home and Mum’s not much of a correspondent.”

  Lizzie knew she shouldn’t, because there was no future to it, but she nodded anyway. Letters from home helped soldiers endure the horrors of war, for everyone had heard the tales from those who returned permanently, men glad to have copped a Blighty, an injury bad enough to get them out of the Army. One woman at the factory had left suddenly to care for a husband who no longer had any legs and whose lungs had been partly destroyed by mustard gas.

  Lizzie and Peter spoke at once, then both laughed. “Give me your address before we forget,” he said. “I’ll write first, if you like?”

  “All right, but I’m called Smith now.”

  “I won’t forget that, young Lizzie Smith.” He liked it better than Lizzie Thoxby, that was certain.

  They borrowed pencil and paper from the sympathetic waitress, who slipped them an extra pot of tea with an admiring glance at Peter.

  That made Lizzie look at him anew and realise what an attractive man he’d turned into. It wasn’t just the uniform, but the air of assurance he had now. And although he’d never be exactly handsome, his whole face reflected his innate kindness. That had always made folk warm to him and she’d seen several women turn their heads to look at him as they’d walked towards the café.

  Lizzie felt a funny little feeling inside as she studied him. If things were different, she could warm to this new Peter herself—but she squashed that feeling instantly. Things weren’t different and the minute the war was over she had to get as far away from Sam as she could manage.

  “A penny for them,” he said softly.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out and she got caught up in staring at him, as he was staring at her, as if he’d never really seen her before.

  “Ah, there you are, Lizzie!” a voice called, breaking the spell, and the other girls from the factory came across to join them. “We’ve been searching all over for you.” And then it was introductions and general conversation, with Peter buying the others a cup of tea and a scone each, smallish scones, limited to two ounces weight per person by the new regulations.

  Just as well we were interrupted, Lizzie decided. But she wished he wouldn’t look at her quite so fondly in front of her friends. She took a deep breath and set out to make them all laugh, a talent she’d discovered in herself since working at the factory. And she succeeded, too. It distracted the other girls, anyway, but it didn’t take the warmth from the way Peter looked at her.

  As they were all parting, he pulled her aside and asked urgently, “Do you think—you wouldn’t be able to get out tomorrow and meet me again, would you? You did say you were on a week’s holiday.”

  “Well…” She looked up at him, then decided on frankness. “Are you sure that’s wise, Peter?”

  “I’m not sure it’s at all wise, but I do want to see you again. Very much. Please, Lizzie?”

  She decided she didn’t feel very wise that day, either. “All right. Tomorrow.”

  “Meet me here, then?” He raised one eyebrow. “Ten o’clock?”

  She nodded.

  He hesitated, then planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Lizzie could feel the imprint of his lips all afternoon.

  Her friends teased her all the way home about her “new fellow” and wouldn’t believe her denials. And even Peggy heard about it—Lizzie Smith, who never had anything to do with fellows, had met one in Manchester and he was a bit of all right, too. Being Peggy, she came round and asked bluntly who he was.

  “Just the son of my old employer,” Lizzie said quietly. “And before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t be seeing him again, but I’ve missed everyone so. And—well, he’s been injured.”

  Peggy gave her a quick hug. “Go and enjoy yourself for a change, girl. You’re far too serious normally. The only fun you have, apart from kidding around at work, is when we drag you down to the cinema.” She grinned for it was a joke in their group that Lizzie had seen every film ever made, most of them more than once, and it was usually she who dragged her friends to the pictures.

  After that week, during which she went up to Manchester every day, Lizzie didn’t see Peter Dearden again for a very long time. But they wrote, stiffly at first, then more comfortably as they grew used to sharing their thoughts. It was strange how alike they were in their attitudes and opinions nowadays. She received postcards from him as well as letters. Some had cartoons on them which made her laugh. Others had war scenes and “La guerre dans le nord” written under them—scenes showing streets full of rubble and damaged buildings, or stretcher bearers carrying wounded men along trenches. She had to ask Peggy what the French words meant. Lizzie worried a lot about Peter getting killed as she pored over those postcards, trying to imagine what it was really like out there, and even showed the pictures to her landlady who sometimes shared her son’s letters.

  Lizzie didn’t tell Polly about her meetings with Peter and she didn’t share news of him with her co-workers as some girls did. Those letters and cards were her treasures, though, and she read them over and over. Peter’s fondness for her showed through, even though he said nothing direct about his feelings. She hoped her own growing fondness for him wasn’t too apparent. After this was all over, she rather thought she would take the cards and letters with her to Australia. Just to remember
him by. Because she had no right to care for anyone. She was still a married woman.

  * * *

  Sam Thoxby continued to be a loner, but as most of the other men in his platoon and many in his regiment were killed, inevitably those who’d been there from the start began to draw closer together as new platoons were formed and re-formed. He was a sharpshooter now, when occasion required, though the young fool of an officer who’d first noticed his skill with a rifle was long dead.

  As the killing continued, he found himself making an improbable friendship with a cheerful young fellow called Ronnie, who seemed impervious to bullets and whose kindly grin and high spirits won over even a dour fellow like Sam Thoxby. Ronnie was happily married and liked nothing better than to talk about his wife and two small children, reading extracts from his Vi’s letters to Sam, who nodded dutifully at intervals while listening intently.

  For the first time, he began to realise how much more there could be to a marriage. Ronnie spoke most tenderly of his wife. To listen to him, Vi was perfection itself, and yet from her photo she was a lumpy young woman with crooked teeth.

  One day Sam couldn’t resist asking, “Did you ever have to—you know, give her a thump? To make her do what you want?”

  “Crikey, no!” Ronnie shook his head emphatically. “I’d as soon stick my head in a gas oven as lay a finger on my Vi.”

  “But what if she does something that upsets you, like?”

  “She’s bound to do that—and I’m bound to upset her—but we just rub along together, taking the rough with the smooth.” Ronnie looked sideways at him, a thoughtful look on his face. “Is that what you used to do, thump your wife?” By now he knew that Sam’s wife had run out on him.