A Locket of Memories

by Sarah Hope

  My darling Albert, I’ll never love again, not like I loved you. No one will come close. I sharply rub my eyes; I mustn’t let myself get upset. I’ve done nothing but cry this last week and it can’t be very good for the baby, and it’s the baby I’ve got to be thinking about now. That’s what Albert would have wanted.

  I know I can’t prepare anything practically for my baby’s arrival. But I can prepare myself in my head, I can think about the little sleepsuits I will buy and the booties Mum will knit, just as soon as she comes for me. Father still thinks the baby will be adopted and I’ll come and live back home as though nothing had happened. Well, let him think that. At least if I play along with it he will be easier on Mum and the sooner we can get away from him and make a real life, a safe life, for my baby.

  The train lurches to a stop and brings me back to the here and now. Looking outside the window it’s not how I remembered it to be. The station has been rebuilt. Bomb damaged, I guess, although I would have thought the village to be too small for anyone to bother with unless it was a stray that should have been aimed at Cardiff. And the air looks thick with smog. Looking through the window I search the crowds for Grandmother. No, I can’t see her. Father tugs my elbow pulling me to standing.

  Once outside I realise it’s not smog but the steam from the train. Not that it makes the place look any better, but then how could anywhere look promising when someone like my grandmother lives here? Beyond the station I can see that the village is actually quite pretty; narrow roads lined by thatched cottages line the road opposite the train station.

  ‘Stop dawdling and hurry up.’

  ‘Is Grandmother not meeting us here?’

  ‘You expect a frail old woman like your grandmother to meet you at the station with a greeting party? Introduce you and your bastard bump to all of her neighbours?’

  ‘No I just...’ I don’t know what I thought.

  I have to run to keep up, he’s walking so quickly. We go past a quaint little post office and a small corner shop with pictures of fresh fruit stuck in the windows. We turn right down a small dirt track between two houses and come to a row of four small cottages. Swinging the gate open on the last cottage Father tells me to straighten my dress and pat my hair down. This is it. Grandmother’s cottage, I recognise the white gate and the three steps leading up to the red front door. They look so small now but I remember them as being really steep.

  A face at the window disappears quickly and the door inches open before Father has even knocked.

  ‘Mother, how are you?’ Father gives Grandmother a quick, uncomfortable squeeze and goes in, leaving me alone on the doorstep unsure of what to do, how to greet her.

  ‘Enid, in you come before anyone sees you.’ Her sharp tones tell me there’s no hug or tight lipped smile for me and she tugs me inside.

  The front door leads straight into the living room. A small room; just big enough for two overstuffed armchairs and a small coffee table holding a tea pot and two fine china teacups.

  ‘Sit down, sit down. The long journey must have tired you out.’

  Surprised by her kindness, my answer is on the tip of my tongue until I realise she is talking to Father and not me, so I keep quiet. He sits in the chair under the window. Just as I am about to sit in the remaining chair, glad to have the chance of sitting in a seat that will not dig into the back of my knees or make my back hurt, Grandmother sits down, leaving me unsure of where to sit or what to do with myself. Maybe she’ll bring in a kitchen chair for me. I’ll ask.

  ‘Can I...’

  ‘Sit down child, I don’t want my carpets being worn out by your unnecessary pacing.’ Her stern voice slices straight through me as she indicates the floor.

  Lowering myself on to the drafty floorboards I try to make myself as comfortable as possible by leaning my back against the cold whitewashed wall. I’m so hungry, we’ve not eaten since leaving home.

  ‘Grandmother may I...?’ The look she gives me stops me asking for something to eat.

  ‘What have you taught this child? Does she know nothing of manners?’ She tears her eyes from Father and looks at me, her eyes boring into mine, ‘I won’t have any insolence from you whilst you’re under my roof, girl. You will learn a few things about manners while you’re here, starting with not talking unless you are spoken to.’

  I advert my eyes, not out of intimidation which she probably thinks, but simply because I can’t take my eyes off of the teapot sitting on the coffee table. I could really do with a drink. Instead I watch incredulously as she pours two cups and hands Father one and brings the other to her lips. Am I not even worthy of a cup of tea? She’s even worse than I remember, and I’ve got to live here with her until Mum manages to get away.

  For once in my life I’m glad my father’s here. I never thought I would think this, but I don’t want him to go. Father is cruel, yes, but at least he’s open about it and I know what to expect from him. Not like Grandmother, she looks kind, don’t all old women? But she’s not and I’ve a feeling this is only the start of it.

  I’m so tired after the long journey that I find myself struggling to keep up with the conversation, something about Beatrice, Father’s older sister. I don’t know. It’s only when I hear my name mentioned that I tune in again.

  ‘Not at all Bill, glad to help. I can’t imagine the shame you must be feeling. Even more so if anyone finds out. Imagine that! Being the talk of the town. No, I’ll take good care of her here. She can have the bastard child and then I’ll put her on a train back home.’

  ‘Thank you Mother.’

  ‘I’ll teach her a thing or two about making herself useful and keeping house too. At least she’ll be of better use to you when this whole fiasco is over.’

  After a dinner of dry potatoes, carrots and minimal pork, Father declares it’s time he went to meet his train home. Watching him from the small living room window as he makes his way down the lane, a lump comes to my throat. I won’t miss his temper but I’d definitely rather be catching a train home with him than being left alone with Grandmother.

  ‘Stop day dreaming girl and fetch your bags. It’s high time you were shown to your room.’

  Tearing my eyes away from Father’s quickly disappearing back, I hoist up my heavy bags and follow her up the stairs.

  ‘Here it is.’

  The room she ushers me into is probably at least half the size of my room at home, decorated in the same no fuss whitewash on the walls and dark wooden floor, giving it a depressing air.

  Squeezing my way past countless boxes stacked against the walls, I drop my bag to the floor next to the bed, dressed with a grey, possibly once white woollen blanket and flat pillow.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be more than comfortable here. I trust you won’t go snooping. These boxes are not to be opened or messed with in any way whatsoever.’

  ‘Yes Grandmother.’

  Looking around I see there are more stacked behind the door. They are practically lining all four walls of the room, the limited floor space disappearing fast.

  ‘Good, I’m glad; after all you will be spending the majority of your free time in here.’

  Free time? Does she mean I will be able to attend the local school? Father didn’t say anything about that. Good, at least I won’t miss out on any of my studies.

  ‘You mean I can attend the local school?’

  ‘School? You are in no position to go to school, girl. They wouldn’t have you. You would be a bad example to the other girls. And anyway of what importance is school for a girl of your age? I don’t know why your father still sends you. No, you will receive what you need to learn from me. I will teach you how to keep house and, perhaps, if you behave a little cross stitch.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do not be so ungrateful, girl. I’ve taken you in during your moment of need. I have risen above my disgust to house you and take the shame off your poor father. You will put yourself to good use around the house.’

  The bed creaks
under even her frail frame as she perches on the edge of it, her eyes continue to bore into me and her voice becomes even sterner.

  ‘I have a few house rules I wish you to adhere to whilst staying under my roof. Number one: you keep out of my way. When you are not eating or helping me with household chores you will spend your free time up here in this room as previously stated. Number two: I will not be putting my life on hold whilst you are here. I will be attending my bridge and cross stitching meetings as per normal. And finally, number three: most importantly you are not to leave the house. At all. I will not be the topic of any gossip. This is my home village and I want to keep my good reputation. If anyone were to find out you were staying with me, pregnant at your age and out of wedlock no less, they would never think of me the same. No, you stay inside. You can go into the courtyard out the back, but be quiet so as not to lend any suspicion to the neighbours.’

  Stay inside? How am I going to stay inside this little cottage? I had expected to help with the chores, but to be kept prisoner? I hadn’t seen that coming at all. Taking a deep breath I remind myself that it won’t be long before Mum comes for me. It might only be for a week or two and I can endure that. I must keep strong for my baby. Putting my hands over my bump I feel the gentle rise and fall of my belly as my baby stirs inside me.

  I startle as she pats my hands away from my bump.

  ‘They’ll be none of that here. There’s no point in bonding with the little blighter, your father has already begun to organise the adoption.’

  Turning to the window, my breath catches in my throat. I know Father wants me to have my baby adopted, but hearing that he has actually started to organise it makes it all the more real. I remind myself again of Mum’s promise to help me raise my baby. She’ll get here as soon as she’s able and we’ll show Father. He can’t take my baby away.

  ‘Settle yourself and join me in the kitchen to help prepare supper. You have ten minutes.’

  By the end of the day my back aches and I’m sure my feet have swollen. That can’t be good. I have learnt the hard way that by ‘help’ Grandmother actually means she’ll sit there barking orders at me and shouting when I inevitably do it the wrong way. Not up to scratch she would say. I must have redone her sandwich at least three times and now, here I am, back up in my room as thanks for all my efforts. Grandmother is listening to the wireless so I have been ordered to stay out of the way. I’m in no better position than I was at home, apart from being out of the way of Father’s fists. I can’t wait until Mum comes for me.

  Silly cat, you’ve woken me up now. Goodness, is that the time?

  ‘Come on, get down Freda there’s no time for that. I’ve got somewhere to be.’ It feels so good; ‘somewhere to be’. It’s been so long, too long, since I’ve been wanted by anyone. In fact I can’t remember the last time anyone really wanted me in their company.

  Oh dear, I really must hurry. I’m going to be late for Lynette.

  This is becoming quite a regular thing, and I must admit, I’m enjoying it. Lynette normally invites me at least once or twice a week now. I think I’ll suggest she goes to see her mum after dinner. I can take care of the children. That’s another strange new feeling; realising I can be around children without the immense crushing feeling I imagined I would get.

  I almost feel like a new woman. Ever since that night I took care of Charlie for Lynette and we had that chat, I now know what people mean when they say a huge weight has been lifted. That’s exactly how I feel. Don’t get me wrong, I will always carry the great burden of knowing that Peter has grown up without me in his life, and I will always worry about the sort of childhood he has had and how his life has panned out.

  But sharing, letting someone in, has made it, I don’t know, not easier to cope without him but easier to cope with the situation. I can talk about how I’m feeling with Lynette. She doesn’t mind me getting upset if my latest search has come up with nothing yet again.

  She has also given me new hope. Her daughter, Mandy, is a whizz on the computer and she’s going to look up some adoption forms, or forums I think they’re called, places you can chat anyway. That way I can get in contact with people in the same situation as me, or people who have met up with their child and ask them how they managed to find them. I feel closer to finding him now than I ever have.

  ‘Freda, out of my wardrobe. Come here. That’s it. Stay there. Not on the pillows come down onto the eiderdown. Good girl.’ Turning back to my wardrobe I root around through the hangers. There, found it. Covered in a black plastic bag; my mum’s wedding dress. Lifting it down from the rail I can already smell the dust laying thick on it. It’s been hanging here since I moved in, forty odd years ago. My aunt insisted I took it when I first moved out of hers, in case I ever got married. I told her at the time it would never get worn again. I knew, even then, at that young age that I would never marry, would never love again, not after my darling Albert. And I was right on both accounts. But at least now, hopefully it might get used, even if it’s just to show the class at Charlie’s school. Apparently they have been asked to bring something of interest in and Lynette was panicking so I told Charlie I would think of something.

  Looking at it now I appreciate the real beauty of it, all of the intricate lacework and swathes of fabric. Of course, it would probably be described as simple now, compared to the meringues that seem fashionable today.

  Feeling the smoothness of the skirt beneath my fingers takes me to a different world. The world that should have been, where Albert survived and we married, bringing Peter up in our loving home together.

  Get a grip Enid, you silly old fool. Life’s life. Mum always said you’re given what you got it’s the way you live it that counts. Well I hope she’s right, I hope that I do get to meet my darling boy after all which if she is right, I deserve it. I’ve spent all my life searching for him. My time to be happy has got to come soon. It’s fast running out.

  Rubbing my hands together I try to stave off the cold as I wait for Lynette to answer the door.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, hi. Come in, come in. I’ve just got the pork out of the oven. I hope you don’t mind it well done?’

  ‘Mum’s burnt it. She made the fire alarm went off!’

  ‘Charlie, sshh. Don’t say that.’

  Smiling, I feel instantly warmed. To be welcomed into Lynette’s home has been wonderful. To be included in the hustle and bustle of everyday family life is just what I’ve always wanted. I know they’re not my real family, but these last few weeks I have felt really accepted and cared for.

  ‘Don’t worry Charlie, char grilled pork is my favourite.’ I give him a little wink and he returns it with one of the biggest grins imaginable.

  ‘Did you bring me something? Did you? I’ve got to take it into school tomorrow.’ His little face creases with worry until I produce the black bag from behind my back.

  As he jumps up and down with delight, Lynette calls us all for dinner from the kitchen where she has hastily retreated, probably to scrape the blackened bits off the pork by the sounds of it. Bless her, cooking is not really her forte but that doesn’t make coming here any less enjoyable, in fact it just adds to the normality of it all. Or what I imagine the normality of family life to be.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lynette

  I apologise again for my rubbish cooking skills as I present Mrs Reynolds with her poor excuse of a dinner. Burnt pork, lumpy mash, served with frozen vegetables, not the most appetising but she assures me it’s just fine.

  It’s so lovely having her about these past few weeks. She’s been my rock. She’s not complained once, even though I’ve been moaning constantly about Ste. And Mandy and Charlie have taken a real shine to her. I think she’s fulfilled almost like a grandparent role, which is great given the fact that Ste’s parents haven’t even spoken to me since he ran off with the tart. As if they could hold a grudge against me and their grandchildren for that? They’ve always been a bit haughty taughty anyhow, so I guess I
shouldn’t be surprised by their irrational behaviour.

  ‘Mum, can I have ketchup,’ Charlie’s pleading snaps me out of my thoughts, ‘please? Pretty please Mum?’

  ‘Okay Charlie.’ I grab the ketchup from the fridge on my way to take my place at the table.

  ‘Yuk, you’re gross Charlie.’

  ‘Mum, Mandy called me gross.’

  ‘Don’t start kids.’

  ‘So how was school today Charlie?’

  ‘Good Mrs Reynolds, but Jack got in trouble. He made Mrs White shout.’

  ‘Oh dear, what did he do?’

  ‘He kept calling out on the carpet. I was good though, I always put my hand up I do.’

  ‘Good boy Charlie. How about you Mandy, how was school?’

  ‘You know, rubbish as always but okay ta.’

  I’m so glad Mrs Reynolds has come round. It makes such a difference to have another adult in the house. She brings a bit of normality. We may be going through the biggest upheaval in our lives as yet, but she always manages to steer the conversation onto normal, everyday topics, like school and the kids’ friends. I know it’s exactly what we all need.

  Once everyone has managed to shovel enough of the ruined dinner down their throats to keep them alive and then finished it off with ice cream and tinned peaches, Mandy helps me load the dishwasher.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, can I see what you’ve brought me to take into school now? Please?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can love. Leave that Lynette dear, it’ll still be there later.’

  ‘I’ll do it Mum. What? Don’t look at me like that. I do help out sometimes.’

  ‘I know Mandy, don’t get defensive. Thanks.’ Giving her a hug to make up for the surprised look I must have given her, she shakes me off.