The Miller's Daughter

by Margaret Dickinson

  Emma got up. ‘That reminds me. I’m off next door to listen to the news.’

  At news bulletin time, half the street seemed to find their way to the Porters’ back door with one excuse or another.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Mary would smile. ‘Reckon I ought to start charging.’ But of course she never did because her neighbours did not abuse her hospitality. If she gave them cups of tea, she would find little packages of tea and precious sugar put on her kitchen table from time to time in return.

  No, it wasn’t all bad. Amidst the tears and the ever-present worry about their menfolk in the services, there was laughter and some of the most unexpected people turned up in a uniform. On the day Mr Forbes came to collect the rent dressed in his Air Raid Warden’s outfit, Emma clapped her hand to her mouth and spluttered with laughter. ‘My, my Mr Forbes, you do look smart.’

  The weasel-like eyes glittered. ‘You laughing at me, Mrs Smith?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Forbes.’ Emma said. ‘As if I would.’

  The man sniffed and glared at her, then, boldly, he stepped across the threshold. ‘I reckon I’d better just come inside and check your blackout.’

  ‘What on earth?’ Emma began, but before she realized what was happening, Mr Forbes had grabbed her by the arms and was attempting to hustle her from the back kitchen into the living room.

  ‘I know you’re on your own, ’cos I’ve just seen that lad of yours off up the street. Up to no good, as usual, I’ll be bound. And I heard about that husband of yours joining up to get himself out of a charge for receiving.’

  ‘Mr Forbes . . .’ she began, struggling to free herself.

  ‘And I could tell the police a thing or two about that lad of yours. Following in his father’s footsteps, he is. But then,’ his smile became sycophantic, ‘how can a poor woman on her own be expected to cope with a lad like him? Now, if you were to be nice to me, Mrs Smith – Emma—’

  ‘How dare you?’ Emma’s brilliant eyes flashed. ‘Get out of my house this minute.’

  But his grip only tightened on her arms. ‘By, but you’re a fine woman. First time I clapped eyes on you, I thought to myself. There’s a fine woman.’ His bony fingers were digging into her arms, and he stretched his thin neck towards her, planting his wet mouth against hers.

  ‘Ugh!’ She gave a cry of disgust and repulsion and, gathering all her strength, heaved him away from her. He tottered backwards and fell against the table. Pulling himself up, she saw his eyes bright with lust in the glow from the fire.

  ‘I like a woman of spirit.’ His gaze was roaming greedily over her body. ‘I’ve always admired you, Emma. And I’ve been good to you, you know I have. Why, I could have reported you a dozen times for being late with your rent. But I never did, did I?’

  Emma faced him squarely, not realizing that her magnificent bosom, heaving now as she breathed hard, and her flashing violet eyes, only served to inflame the man’s desire even further. The smirk twisted his mouth and he took a step closer again. ‘And there was that little matter of the unpaid week from your previous place, now wasn’t there?’

  ‘That’s nearly fourteen years ago!’

  ‘Maybe so. But I’ve got a long memory, see.’ He paused and then, his voice low with menace, he said, ‘And now, of course, there’s young Billy.’

  ‘You leave my son out of this.’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, with the smoothness of a snake, ‘I’d like to, of course, but – well – I hear such tales on my rounds. You know how people talk, don’t you, Emma?’ She felt the colour drain from her face as the man went on relentlessly. ‘Quite the little entrepreneur, isn’t he? Well known already for his black-market dealings. Oh aye, if you want anything, ask young Billy Smith. He’ll get it. Mind you,’ his tone was oily, ‘best not to ask how he’ll get it. A real chip off the old block. Carryin’ on where his old man left off.’ In the firelight the man’s face took on a frightening, vindictive expression. His bony fingers dug into the warm flesh of her arms once more. ‘So, you see, my lovely Emma, you ought to be a little nicer to me, else I could make it very nasty for you – and your boy.’

  He was leaning towards her, his bad breath wafting into her face. Anger gave her strength; a strength she had not known still remained with her since her days as a young girl heaving heavy sacks of grain. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed, and at the same time brought her knee up catching him in a very tender part of his anatomy. He gave a howl of pain and rage and fell back against her sideboard knocking over a vase which crashed to the floor.

  ‘You bitch,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll get you for this.’ Clutching his groin with one hand, he shook his other fist in her face and lurched out of the house.

  Emma slammed the door behind him and leant against it, breathing hard. Tomorrow she would go to see Mr Rabinski and tell her side of the story before Forbes could turn her amiable landlord against her.

  Slowly, Emma opened the back gate leading into the Porters’ yard and walked round to their back door. The piece of paper she was holding fluttered in the breeze that whistled down the passage, under the gate and into the back yards.

  The burly figure of Alf opened the door. He was holding a towel and mopping his face, grey stubble covering his jaw. He was wearing only a vest and trousers, the braces hanging down in a loop on either side.

  ‘What’s up, Missis?’ A man of few, brusque words, there was, nevertheless, immediate concern in his gruff voice. He held the door open and she stepped inside and into their kitchen before she said, ‘Alf, where’s Mary?’

  ‘Next door. Old Mrs Beale. Fell and broke her leg. Mary’s just gone—’ The big man stopped as he searched Emma’s face. ‘I’ll get her.’

  He went into the backyard and Emma heard him shouting over the fence. ‘Mary? You there, Mary? Can yer come?’

  A few moments later he came back inside. ‘She’s coming . . .’ and almost before the words were out of his mouth they heard her light footsteps trotting down the passageway.

  Then she was there, in the kitchen, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Oh, Emma, what is it? What’s happened?’ Her glance went to the piece of paper Emma was holding and Mary’s hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘Oh no!’ she breathed.

  Emma nodded and swallowed, but her voice was surprisingly steady as she said, ‘It’s a telegram from the War Office. It’s Leonard. They – they say he’s missing, presumed killed.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Mary’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Sit down, m’duck, and I’ll – I’ll—’ But for once even Mary could not think what she could do to help her friend. Not this time.

  Emma stood there, unable to move, fighting a tumult of emotions. She was trying to feel some grief and feeling guilty because she could not. Then a fresh wave of guilt washed over her, for at this moment all she could think was, ‘Thank God it’s not my son. Thank the Good Lord it’s not Charles.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Billy said, refusing to believe that anything could happen to the father he idolized. ‘He’ll be tucked up in some hole in the ground somewhere, playing cards and keeping his head well down. Don’t you believe it, Mam. He’s not dead. I know he isn’t.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Billy,’ Emma said flatly. She didn’t wish Leonard any harm, truly she didn’t, but now more than ever before, she dreaded the arrival of any official letter or telegram.

  For next time, it might be Charles.

  Thirty-Six

  The air raids were getting worse and every time the mournful wail rose over the city heralding the hum of enemy aircraft, Emma felt her heart leap in fear. More often than not, Billy was out in the streets somewhere, for now, at fifteen, the boy was scarcely ever at home and goodness only knew what he got up to. Since Mr Forbes’ threats, she feared the dreaded knock of officialdom at the door even more.

  ‘Alf’s on duty,’ Mary Porter said as she crawled into Emma’s Morrison shelter, ‘so I thought I’d keep you company. Is yer blackout all right, Emma? Then I can light this little lamp. D
’yer know, I reckon it’s what I hate the most, ferreting about in the pitch black.’

  Mary struck a match and lit the child’s tiny night-light that Emma kept in the shelter. Then she put out the torch she carried, to save the battery. ‘I’ve brought sandwiches and some tea in a flask,’ Mary said and then laughed. ‘If you can call it tea. It’s only coloured water. Eh, this rationing’s the very devil, ain’t it? An hour and a half I queued yesterday for a bit of brawn and when I gets to the head of the queue, it’d all but gone. Just a few bits of gristle was all I got.’

  They sat in the dancing shadows cast by the lamp, listening to the thud, thud of bombs falling, talking about anything and everything to try to keep their mind off the air raid. Emma told her friend of her encounter with Mr Forbes.

  ‘He’s a slimy toad that one,’ Mary sympathized. ‘I wish he weren’t the warden for this district. Did you go and see old man Rabinski then?’

  ‘Yes, he was fine about it and told me not to worry.’ In the darkness, Emma smiled thinking of the contrast between the two men. Mr Rabinski, her landlord, was a gentleman.

  ‘You haf no need to concern yourself, my dear Mrs Smith. He is not a man I like myself.’ He had spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. ‘But he is a good rent collector.’ Then he had chuckled. ‘You see, that way, I can remain friends with all my tenants.’

  Emma had laughed with him. Old Mr Rabinski was indeed a gentleman, but he was also a shrewd businessman and Emma could not help but admire him for it.

  ‘So have you seen Forbes since?’ Mary was asking.

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t try anything this last time he came for the rent, although he was making pointed remarks about me being on me own. I suppose word’s reached him about Leonard being posted missing.’

  ‘If it happens again, you shout for my Alf. He’s twice the size of Forbes. He’ll see him off.’

  They heard the whine and then the crash of a bomb. The windows of Emma’s house rattled and the ground shuddered beneath them.

  ‘That was a bit close,’ Mary muttered.

  ‘Billy’s out,’ Emma said, her voice tight with anxiety. ‘I haven’t seen him since this morning.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Mary reassured her. ‘He’s streetwise. Did you know he’s setting up card games, just like his dad used to?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Emma groaned. ‘He’ll be getting himself into bother. You’ve always said he’d come to a bad end.’

  Mary’s laugh came out of the darkness. ‘Well, maybe I was wrong, ’cos he seems to have the luck of the devil. They reckon at the first hint of any trouble, young Billy just melts into the shadows and disappears. He’s a crafty little tyke, all right.’

  ‘Mm.’ Her friend’s remark about Billy did not offend Emma. It was the bald truth.

  ‘Is he still on about going to sea?’ Mary asked.

  ‘On about it? Huh! He talks of nothing else. Ever since your Joey came home in his uniform.’

  Emma heard Mary’s sigh. ‘Oh, but he does look handsome, my lad, doesn’t he?’ There was a note of wistful pride in her tone but, barely audible, she added, ‘God bless and keep him.’

  In her own thoughts, Emma echoed the prayer of a million mothers.

  The two women huddled in the indoor shelter for over two hours listening to the thud of bombs dropping. Emma found she was holding her breath, counting the seconds and trying to gauge if the bombs were coming nearer. But the next sounded further away and the next a little fainter still.

  ‘They’re going.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Mary muttered thankfully. ‘I hope Alf’s all right. He’ll be having a busy night. He’s on fire watch duty and with this lot . . .’

  ‘I wonder where Billy is?’ Emma murmured. ‘I’ll skin the little devil alive when he gets back.’

  Billy did not appear until late the following day to be greeted by a smart smack on the side of his head by his overwrought mother.

  ‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve been worried sick.’

  Billy rubbed his ear and glared balefully at her. ‘You shouldn’t hit me on the head. You might do me an injury.’

  ‘I’ll do you an injury, m’lad, before you’re much older. Where were you? Up to no good, as usual?’

  A sly look came across his features and Emma’s sharp eyes noticed his right hand go furtively into his pocket.

  ‘What have you got there? Come on, empty your pockets.’

  The look became stubborn. ‘Mek me, then.’

  For the second time in a few days Emma called upon reserves of strength, taking her adversary completely by surprise. Her son found the scruff of his neck grasped by her strong hand and his left arm pinioned behind him in a vicelike grip.

  ‘Ow, Mam, ya hurting.’

  ‘I’ll hurt you, ya little bugger,’ Emma said, her intense fear and anger making her use language she normally disapproved of, especially from a woman’s mouth.

  Whether it was the tone of voice, the swearing, or the fact that he could scarcely move in her grip, Billy emptied his pockets at once. On to the kitchen table came an odd assortment of items; the penknife Bridget had given him, a small screwdriver, a piece of Plasticine and then Emma’s eyes widened. Lying amidst the normal collection one might expect to find in a boy’s pocket, lay a gold watch.

  Emma groaned. ‘Oh no. Oh, Billy, where did you get that? Have you stolen it?’

  Squirming beneath her grasp, he said, ‘No, ’course I ain’t. I found it.’

  ‘Where?’ she snapped.

  ‘In a bombed-out house.’

  She gasped. ‘Looting? You’ve been looting poor beggars that have lost their homes? You little runt!’ she spat, her rage and fear spilling over at the thought that Billy was no better than a common thief. ‘You’re taking it back.’

  ‘How can I? There’s no house left. They’re all dead, they must be.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s stealing.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, Mam. Everybody does it.’

  She thrust her face close to his. ‘No, they don’t. We don’t. Not this family, Billy Smith.’

  ‘If me dad were here—’

  ‘Oh aye. Ya dad! Bit too much like him, you are. Well, he isn’t here, so you’ve got me to contend with, m’lad. And I say you take it straight back and if you can’t find the rightful owners, then you’re taking it to the police station.’

  Billy looked frightened. ‘I aren’t going in there. You can forget it.’ He tried to wriggle free but Emma still held him firm.

  ‘Oh no, I shan’t forget—’ she began but at that moment the back door burst open and a dishevelled Mary Porter burst in.

  ‘Have you heard – ’ she began and then stopped as she saw Billy. ‘Oh, he’s all right then. You’ve ’ad your poor mam going out of her mind, ya little devil . . .’ she began, but then smiled and ruffled his hair, pleased to see him safe. She looked at Emma, seeming not to notice anything amiss between mother and son, as the news she brought obliterated anything else. ‘Have you heard?’ she repeated. ‘Old man Rabinski’s bakery’s been burnt down and the rooms above where he lives.’

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. ‘What do you mean? Bombed?’

  Mary shook her head and her mouth tightened. ‘No, all his windows were smashed and then someone threw petrol in. It’s ’cos he’s foreign.’

  ‘But who’d do such a thing?’ Emma was shocked and angry. ‘Everyone round here likes the old man.’

  ‘They don’t reckon it’s anyone local. They reckon it’s a gang of fanatics from away.’

  Emma felt Billy stiffen under her grasp and slowly she turned to look at him. The boy was hanging his head and shuffling his feet. Suddenly, she knew exactly where Billy had found the watch.

  Thirty-Seven

  ‘Aw Mam, leggo. You’re hurtin’ me ear.’

  As soon as Mary had gone, Emma rounded on her son. ‘Not likely, m’lad. You’re taking that watch back and I’m going to see you do it.’

  ‘But he
’s probably dead. Old man Rabinski wouldn’t have minded me ’aving his watch if he’s dead.’

  She bent close to him. ‘I want to know exactly what you had to do with all this, Billy. Were you with the gang that burnt his place down?’

  ‘No, no, Mam, I swear I didn’t do owt. I wouldn’t do that. Honest.’

  ‘Then what did you do? How did you find that watch? Come on, I want the truth.’

  ‘I was coming home and I saw all the flames and went to look what was happening. I thought it had been bombed but someone said it had been set on fire deliberately.’ The boy shrugged. ‘’Spect they thought if they did it in an air raid, everyone would think it had been a bomb, but no bombs fell round here last night—’

  ‘Oh, very unlucky then, weren’t they?’ Emma said sarcastically and added grimly, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I stood and watched till they’d put the fires out and then the firemen got called away to another fire and when everyone had gone, I – I went into the house.’

  ‘Oh, Billy, it could have collapsed on you.’

  ‘I found this tin box and inside were some papers and this watch.’

  ‘Where’s the box now?’

  The boy was reluctant to give away his secret hiding place, but even the bold, brash Billy Smith was no match for his mother in this mood. ‘In – in our wash-house.’

  ‘Right.’ Still holding him, Emma marched him out through the back door across the backyard and into the wash-house. ‘Right, let’s be seeing this hiding place of yours. What else have you got there, eh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said morosely.

  ‘Huh, got rid of it all, I s’pose?’ When the boy did not answer Emma sighed, deeply saddened.

  Billy reached up into the space between the brick wall and the tiles of the roof and pulled down a small tin cash box.

  ‘That it?’ she demanded and when he nodded, she said, ‘Right. We’re taking this back to Mr Rabinski right now.’

  ‘But he’s dead. I heard the firemen say so.’