A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  The rain became heavier. They stood there, the gathering gloom more like January than October, appropriate weather for the man-made storm presently gathering momentum.

  Patrick spoke first. He looked sheepish but sounded brave. ‘Will you come with me to the recruiting office? There’s no one else I can ask.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I will.’

  ‘Will you write to me – if I write to you and let you know where I am?’

  ‘Oh! Yes. Why not?’

  She shrugged off her surprise and smiled warmly. For some reason, it had never occurred to her that Patrick could write. He was good with mechanical things, wooden things; in fact anything that broke, he could put back together. He’d mended her bike enough times, fixed her punctures and fitted a bell.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly before he detected her disbelief. ‘I’d love for you to write to me. And I’ll write back. I promise I will.’

  Just before reaching the front door of the house she’d been born in, she glanced back in time to see Patrick biting into the pie. She wondered when he’d last eaten and was glad she’d given him something.

  Chapter Five

  Mary Anne had almost gone out of her mind on finding Stanley missing, looking for him in the streets running parallel with Kent Street, and finally coming across him sitting on top the cannon in the park and coughing between shouts of ‘Load the shot!’ and ‘Fire!’

  ‘Home!’

  He came begrudgingly, dragging his feet, his new friends at first jeering him, then shouting that they’d see him tomorrow.

  ‘Down the Malago,’ they shouted.

  ‘Down the Malago,’ he shouted back.

  Mary Anne jerked him so hard forwards that he covered the same length of ground with two steps that usually took three. ‘Oh no you won’t. You’re to keep away from that smelly stream.’

  Once he’d eaten, he was packed off to bed, coughing and grumbling, his face slick with sweat and his cheeks pink as apples.

  Earlier in the year, he’d gone down with a fierce chest infection and at one stage it had seemed she might lose him. She’d never quite got over it, watching him for the slightest sign of the infection returning.

  Frantic with worry, she’d slept most nights in the front parlour where his bed had been placed when things had seemed at their worse. The bed was still there – just in case.

  ‘When’s our Stanley going to join Harry – all boys together?’ Lizzie had queried.

  ‘When I say so,’ she’d answered, not trusting to anyone else’s judgement except her own.

  She was still wary about letting him out to play or go to school. That night he’d slept well and, following a morning dose of medicine and his plea that he was still too ill to go to school, she let him stay in bed.

  A tap on the back door heralded the arrival of Aggie Hill. She was one of her regulars, always wanting a bit of extra money for something. Her ginger curls fought to escape a thin hairnet and formed corkscrews of colour like small springs around her face.

  ‘Joe’s off!’ she said abruptly. She pulled out a chair, slumped firmly into it and promptly burst into tears.

  Guessing she had a lot of listening to do, Mary Anne lit the gas beneath the kettle, fetched the teacups from the dresser and spooned tea into a shiny brown pot that she placed on the kitchen table beside the milk jug and sugar bowl.

  Affectionately shaking her next-door neighbour’s shoulder, she said, ‘Come on, Aggie. Tell me about it while the kettle boils.’

  Aggie dabbed at her eyes. ‘You know our Joe’s in the Territorials?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some bigwig from the army went into Wills’ and said all them that are in the Territorials are to go home, fetch their kit and report to Temple Meads railway station by eight o’clock this evening.’ Aggie leaned across the table, her face wet and her eyes brimming with tears. ‘When am I going to see him again, Mary Anne? When?’

  Mary Anne declined to answer such a question. ‘Let’s get this tea made.’

  The gas made a popping sound as she turned it off. Normally, she didn’t give it much notice. Today it made her jump. Usually, she only gave six stirs of the pot, plenty enough to mash the tea. On this occasion, she gave it double that while she considered the best thing to say to a woman whose son was off to war.

  She placed both cups and saucers on the table, pushing Aggie’s close so that the lip of the saucer touched her arm. The woman’s eyes were brimming with tears and she was staring at the wall.

  ‘Help yerself to sugar and milk, then take a good gulp of it.’

  Aggie did as she was told.

  Mary Anne sipped at her own cup.

  Aggie blew her nose in a man-sized handkerchief that looked as though it might once have been the tail of a shirt.

  ‘He’s me only son, Mary Anne. If he gets killed …’

  Mary Anne patted her shoulder. ‘You can’t think that, Aggie. He wouldn’t want you to think that either. You’ve got to send him off with a smile on your face and tell him it won’t be long before he’s home on leave.’

  ‘It’s not easy.’

  ‘Of course it’s not easy, but he’s got to go and be brave, and you’ve got to stay behind and be brave. You’ve got to put on a brave face even though you’re frightened of what might happen. But just because it might happen, doesn’t mean to say it will. And anyway, they’re saying it’s all going to be over by Christmas.’

  Aggie sniffed; her eyes, naturally bulging and brown, now became as big as saucers. ‘Do they?’

  Mary Anne patted her hand. ‘I think Chamberlain said so, and he should know. He’s been to Germany.’

  It wasn’t a lie. She’d heard it from someone. At the time she’d recalled hearing the same thing said about the Great War, and that had lasted four years. Over a million men were dead at the end of it. But Aggie didn’t want facts, only reassurance.

  Aggie blew her nose again and wiped the last of the wetness from her bloated cheeks. ‘And Chamberlain didn’t want this war, so he’ll probably still be trying to stop it,’ she said, her back stiffening as though she’d just breathed in a lungful of courage. ‘Me spirits is lifted, and talking of spirits …’

  Mary Anne braced herself for what was coming. Aggie Hill was a spiritualist; she believed in it all, even the charlatans who asked for a shilling before going into a trance and speaking in what passed for the voice of the departed. She was also keen on telling the future from reading the tea leaves.

  ‘I’ll do mine first,’ she said, draining her cup, tipping it upside down and turning it three times in its saucer.

  Taking the cup in both hands, she held it close to her face, her bulging eyes threatening to come out on stalks as she peered at its contents.

  ‘I can see birds, a lot of birds flying in the sky.’

  ‘What sort of birds?’

  ‘Well. They could be any sort. Big birds.’

  ‘Like seagulls?’

  Aggie’s face brightened. ‘Yes, I think they’re seagulls. Now there’s a thing. Joe said he’d probably end up down on the south coast.’

  Mary Anne smiled to herself. ‘Well there you are then.’

  Tea leaves just looked like – well – tea leaves to her, but if it made Aggie happy, then what did it matter.

  Aggie’s whole body sighed with relief. ‘Hope the weather holds. The fresh air will do him good.’

  Her good spirits continued. ‘It don’t say here that any harm will come to him, and the tea leaves do speak for up to two years ahead at least.’

  ‘No dark stranger then?’

  Aggie had been a widow for years, her only income a widow’s pension, and Joe’s contribution from his job in the tobacco factory. She also cleaned the doctor’s surgery in the next street along with some of the posh houses down in Ashton where Mary Anne’s daughter Lizzie worked.

  Aggie sighed. ‘Nobody could replace my Reggie. Nobody at all.’

  Glad to see her happy again, Mary Anne drew the moment o
ut, nudging Aggie’s arm. ‘You never know yer luck, Aggie!’

  Aggie chortled with merriment, the broken veins of her cheeks turning even redder.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  Aggie narrowed her eyes, the tip of her nose almost meeting the rim of her cup. ‘I can see a new job coming, but not the same kind of thing that I’ve done before, something where I’ve got a lot of responsibility, and even a uniform!’ She glanced at Mary Anne. ‘Ooow! I’ve always wanted to be a nurse.’

  ‘Fancy letting you loose with all them doctors.’

  ‘I works with one now.’

  Mary Anne laughed. ‘Never in a month of Sundays could you describe Doctor Sneed as tall, dark and handsome.’

  ‘Oooow, no!’ Aggie hooted, her laughter enough to rattle the pans hanging from their hooks. ‘Now your cup,’ she said, once their laughter had died.

  Mary Anne dutifully drained her cup and Aggie repeated the same procedure she’d carried out with her own.

  ‘Oooow! There’s a lot of changes.’ Frowning, she peered closer. ‘Something’s going to happen to make you feel young again.’

  Mary Anne thought of her present condition. Babies had always brought her joy, but she’d been younger then. Was that what Aggie was seeing? ‘That would take a miracle.’

  ‘There’s them seagulls again as well.’ She looked up. ‘P’raps you’re going to the coast as well. Not thinking of evacuating, are you?’

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘Henry wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘I would have thought the sea air would do your Stanley some good.’

  Mary Anne studied her hands, which were presently folded in her lap. ‘Henry won’t hear of it. He reckons moving him would do more harm than good.’

  If Aggie could have read her mind as easily as she read the teacups, she would have seen her defending herself against Henry’s assertion that she was too soft on the boy.

  ‘Well, there’s definitely seagulls, and what’s this? Look here, Mary Anne Randall, I see a tall dark stranger. Now who might he be?’

  ‘You’ve found me out!’ said Mary Anne, slamming her palms down on the table and setting the spoons rattling in their saucers. ‘In fact I’m expecting him tomorrow morning at ten.’

  ‘You are?’ Aggie’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Anne, gathering up the crockery. ‘I’ve got a new coalman coming with half a ton of Welsh steam coal and you can’t get much darker than that!’

  Aggie Hill rocked with laughter, her plump hands holding on to her jiggling stomach. ‘About the only dark stranger we’re likely to get at our time of life! Or at least for me, but you’ve still got yer looks, Mary Anne. It’s a wonder Henry don’t lock you up in case that tall dark stranger do chance to call.’

  Mary Anne stood over the sink, turning the tap then swilling the cups one at a time. She was smiling, but couldn’t find it in herself to laugh with the same exuberance as her friend, Aggie.

  The moment was too silent for too long. Aggie came and stood beside her, picking up the tea towel from off the draining board.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Mary Anne? You seem a bit – well – quieter than usual.’

  Mary Anne shook her head vigorously. ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Where’s Henry?’

  ‘Upstairs. Asleep. He did the night shift last night.’

  Aggie took the last cup from her hand. Mary Anne saw her knowing look and dropped her eyes.

  ‘I saw him come home. The whole street saw him come home.’

  Mary Anne snatched the tea towel from Aggie’s hand. ‘It’s no one else’s business.’

  Unlike her own family, living in ignorance of their father’s true character, the women of Kent Street were more circumspect.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said Aggie.

  Mary Anne spun round on her. ‘At least I have a husband. There’s plenty who ain’t and plenty who entertain the husbands of other women!’

  She could see from Aggie’s face that the barb had hit home. It was a well-known fact that Aggie had been ‘carrying on’ with the husband of a woman in the next street, the poor wife prone to intermittent fits.

  Aggie headed for the door.

  Mary Anne instantly regretted her remark. ‘Aggie!’

  Aggie paused. Her merry expression was replaced with hurt.

  Mary Anne wiped her hands over her hips and attempted to make amends. Her smile was weak but her sentiments were genuine. ‘I hope everything goes well for your Joe. I hope he doesn’t travel any further than the south coast.’

  Aggie’s hardened expression softened. ‘Thank you.’

  Only minutes after Aggie had left, the sound of movement came from upstairs.

  Mary Anne raised her eyes to the ceiling, fear prickling her flesh. She tried reassuring herself, though it wasn’t easy. Perhaps he’d fall back into bed and not surface until the girls got back. He kept his hands to himself when the family were around. It was only when they were alone that his temper and physical demands seized him, no matter what she did or said. It was worse after a night shift. Henry Randall with the drink inside him was bad enough. Henry Randall when sobriety was enforced on him – there were no pubs open at that time in the morning – was something else.

  She tried to dull her fears by peeling potatoes, one of the little household chores that dulled her sensitivities. Carrying out simple tasks left her mind free to wander, sometimes in sheer fantasy, sometimes to a past that might have been different if it hadn’t been for the Great War. The best thing about her past was Edward’s lips on hers, the pale pink beauty of the child she had borne. There were a number of worse things: the news of his death, giving the child up for adoption—A dull thud came from the room above, shaking the ceiling and shattering her thoughts. The potato knife clattered into the sink and the colour drained from her face.

  ‘Woman! Woman!’

  He was calling down for her to come up. He was in that mood. She knew what was coming and her mouth turned dry. She had to swallow before shouting back. ‘I’m coming.’

  Climbing the stairs was a slow and painful process, her legs heavy with reluctance. When she opened the door, he looked up at her, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed, his face flushed and his jaw hanging so low, it seemed to be resting on his chest.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

  Smiling weakly, she leaned against the closed door, her hands behind her, fingers clinging to the doorknob. She found her voice. ‘I was peeling the potatoes.’

  ‘You was peeling the potatoes.’ He mimicked her voice in a high, squeaky tone. His eyes dropped to her breasts then her belly. ‘You’re getting a fat belly. Not expectin’, are you? I’ll kick it back in if you bloody well are.’

  ‘’Course not,’ she said. She tried to laugh it off. ‘At our age?’

  His eyes stared, though his face clouded. ‘Why not at my age? Do you think I’m not capable, eh? Think I’m any less of a man, do you?’

  He stood up, his fingers dropping to his belt buckle.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ said Mary Anne, her knees weakening because she knew what was coming.

  ‘You didn’t mean,’ he muttered winding the belt around his hand. ‘You insult me, and then say you didn’t mean it? Well, I’ll show you, my fine lady!’

  Mary Anne winced as his hand cupped the nape of her neck, the hand holding the belt raised high as he bent her over the bed. ‘I’m still the man I always was!’

  He repeated the same words with each rise and fall of the belt. Mary Anne bore the pain, gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t cry out. The fact that Henry was shouting so loudly troubled her.

  ‘Henry, keep your voice down. You’ll disturb our Stanley.’

  On this occasion, her rebuke only added to his anger.

  His fingers, strong from pulling triggers and lifting pints, groped at her blouse, tearing the material and sending buttons popping. ‘Tell me when to be quiet, would you? I’m not a boy. I’m a man. D
o you hear me? A man! It’s just you ain’t the woman you were. You’re fat, ugly and got too much to say for yerself!’

  She winced as one hand folded around her neck, the other digging inside her clothes, squeezing her breast, pinching her nipple.

  ‘Please, Henry … No …’

  ‘No? No?’ He sounded surprised. His black brows knitted together, a strange, puzzled expression, as though he was aggrieved or insulted. This was his idea of enjoyment. He gave the orders, enjoyed the power he had over her and revelled in the torture. ‘You’re me wife, Annie, me lawfully wedded wife and I’ve needs …’

  The cloth of her brassiere did not give so easily, unlike her breast. She gritted her teeth as he yanked a crescent of whiteness over the top of her blouse. Without looking, she knew her flesh was dappled with redness, the marks of his fingers.

  God knows, she didn’t want this, but from experience knew it was best to submit. ‘On the bed then, Henry.’

  The hand that had held her neck fell to her skirt.

  He mimicked her voice. ‘“On the bed then, Henry.”’

  She cringed at the stink of his breath, warm and moist. His spittle sprayed her face.

  ‘I’ll have you on the bed all right.’

  He pushed her. She fell face down, his weight on top of her, pulling her blouse back, baring her chest and pinning her arms to her side.

  She closed her eyes, praying Stanley wouldn’t hear, praying it would all be over as quickly as possible, or perhaps he’d fall asleep on top of her. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  But he wasn’t drunk, he’d been working all night, and that angered him. Not today, she thought, inwardly screaming as he hoisted her skirt up to her waist, pushing her onto her knees, her head and shoulders buried in the eiderdown, unable to get up on her hands.

  There was a ripping sound as he tore her underwear down to the tops of her stockings. He was quick unbuttoning his flies. Burying his fingers in the waistband of her corset, and without the benefit of preliminaries, he pushed himself into her. The pain was terrible. Squeezing her hands into tight fists she sucked in her breath and bit her lip – anything to stop from screaming.