by Lizzie Lane
Her mother giving money to her and her siblings also gave rise to another observation. Her father didn’t like it. She had never studied his face at those times but now she saw the movement in his jaw, waves of dissatisfaction reverberating through his flesh from his clenched teeth. And sometimes there was an atmosphere – frostiness between her parents that she had never noticed before.
Working for Mrs Selwyn was not the same either. Peter wasn’t there and, although she had made up her mind that despite the better money she would not work in a factory, she felt like a change.
The house in Ashton felt incredibly empty – Mrs Selwyn rattling around there all alone – and except for the casual help brought in to do extra cleaning, one day was very much like the next, rolling one on top of the other.
Somehow she had hoped Mrs Selwyn would confide in her, not quite taking her into her total confidence, but just enjoying her company, talking to her about Peter or her past life, but she didn’t do that. The only time Lizzie got a response from her was when she remarked that she hadn’t seen any letters arrive from Canada.
‘Is Mr Peter well?’ she asked.
His mother had flushed slightly. ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘I would have thought we might have heard something from him,’ she said, dabbing a duster into a tin of beeswax and lavender polish and attacking the table as though it was her greatest quest in life.
She detected Mrs Selwyn’s uneasiness, apparent in the way she pursed her lips and her teacup rattled as she put it back on the tray.
‘Canada is a long way for the post to come, and you’ve surely heard about convoys being attacked. I expect the ship carrying it got sunk. I shall get one soon.’
And I’ll look out for it, Lizzie told herself.
Being observant went on; weighing up the good in people and the bad, deciding that Mrs Selwyn was deceitful and that Patrick, whose letter writing was very prolific, was totally open, and very sentimental.
It was like a new world had been discovered. I’m not going mad, and I’m not imagining things. I’m just seeing things more clearly, she decided. Suddenly, there seemed no point in staying in service; her connection with Peter was all but severed; not even a letter.
She thought more about it as she cycled home, the place she’d regarded as warm and cosy all her life. What right did she have to condemn Peter for not writing? He was training to be a merchant seaman. Perhaps he was at sea at this very moment on one of the convoys bringing food from America to England.
No, said the more practical side of her character. She had every right to analyse, but no right to judge. He was doing his duty, and you, she decided, should be doing yours.
When she got home, bread, butter and jam were on the table, and neck of lamb stew bubbled on the stove.
Her mother slid the letter she’d put in the hallstand from her pocket.
‘It’s from Patrick,’ she said, placing it on the table beside Lizzie’s place.
Lizzie glanced at it before reaching for the bread. ‘I know.’
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’
Lizzie shook her head and filled her mouth with a crust from the slice of bread she’d cut. ‘I’m starving. You read it.’
Mary Anne sighed as she flattened the paper.
‘My word, but he writes very beautifully. See?’ She flashed it across the table.
Daw nodded. Henry grunted approvingly and Lizzie continued chewing her bread. Harry was absent, a bit later than usual getting home from the factory.
Lizzie noticed the avid interest in her mother’s face as she silently read the letter, a slow smile gradually curving her lips.
As had become her habit, Lizzie eyed the other members of her family. Her father in particular was staring at his wife, impatience simmering in his eyes.
At last, unable to prevent himself, he demanded she read it. ‘Well, come on. Let’s be having it. Tell us what the brave young chap is up to.’
Her mother’s eyes stayed fixed on the letter. Her voice was gentle, almost whimsical.
‘It’s censored. He’s just saying that everything is going well and that he expects to be promoted because he was top of his class. As yet he hasn’t got a posting, but will let us – you,’ she said, correcting herself and nodding at Lizzie, ‘know if he can.’
Her smile remained, still reading the letter.
‘The rest is a poem,’ she said in response to Henry’s demand that she read on.
Lizzie had never been an avid reader of poetry, but the look of pleasure on her mother’s face intrigued her. ‘Yes. Go on. Read it, Ma.’
Mary Anne glanced at her, smiled and bent her head to the paper.
Remember me at dawn, when the grass shivers in an early breeze,
And is dappled by a shaded sun.
Remember me at midday, when shadows fall in blackened squares,
On the ground I left behind.
Remember me at evening, when swallows dip and dive around the setting sun,
That once gilded my face.
Remember me in the blue blackness of an England in darkness,
Awaiting my return.
Lizzie stared blankly at the far wall where a picture hung of a great stag in a Scottish landscape, though she wasn’t seeing the fine beast. Observation and analysis had suddenly come into its own. Was this letter really from the Patrick Kelly reviled by some because his mother was a tart? He was doing his bit, just like Peter.
And you should be doing yours.
She caught the rest of the family doing what she was doing: staring into space, suddenly blinking themselves back to reality.
‘Beautiful,’ said Mary Anne, folding the letter back up and passing it to her daughter.
Daw made a small sound, like a hiccup, though Lizzie knew it was really a sob. Daw was trying to control herself.
Lizzie sighed and patted her arm. ‘It was sad, wasn’t it, Daw? But don’t upset yourself. John will be coming home, you just see if he won’t.’
‘At least he’s doing his bit not like me own son,’ snapped Henry, folding his paper, a precursor to making his way down to the privy at the bottom of the garden.
‘And I’m going to do mine,’ blurted Lizzie. ‘I thought about joining the Wrens or something.’
Daw looked astounded. ‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
The moment the words were out, she knew that now was not the right time. Daw burst into tears – only to be expected seeing as John had caught the train a few days before for pilot training, ‘destination unknown’.
Mary Anne seemed as stiff as the salt block currently sitting on the table. ‘Leaving home?’
Lizzie felt as though she were melting beneath her mother’s gaze. She’d always been proud of the fact that her mother looked so much younger than many of her friends’ mothers. A quick glance at her face now and she felt guilty. Worry and having a family certainly aged people, though she thought her ma was still lovely.
‘Lots of girls are, Ma,’ she said lightly, as she spread butter on a doorstep of bread. She couldn’t see the problem. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’ She didn’t add that Peter Selwyn was doing his bit away in Canada and, in his absence, she felt obliged to do her bit too.
Her father’s paper rustled as he got to his feet; he was certainly taking his time going out the back. His jaw moved from side to side as though he were chewing something. He did that when he was thinking things through.
‘Women in the armed forces? It didn’t happen in our day. Women stayed firmly at the rear.’
Lizzie leaned towards her father, her face shining with enthusiasm. ‘Some Wrens are nurses. Some operate wirelesses or just do office work. They don’t get to fire guns or anything like that.’
‘I should hope not,’ he said, going outside now forgotten. He rustled his paper again before disappearing behind it to look at the pictures and laboriously pick out the words he knew.
Lizzie smiled smugly to herself. If h
er father was going to object, he would have done so, but he hadn’t.
Her mother’s expression wiped the smile off her face. Mary Anne was cuddling the teapot against her chest, as though it might fly out of her hands if she dared relax her grip. ‘I don’t want you to go, Lizzie.’
She looked at her mother. She was standing looking at her sidelong, her hands clasped at her chest, as slender and alluring as a painting she’d seen by Rossetti of a woman with reddish blonde hair and wearing a green robe.
‘I might not have a choice in the matter. Women are being called up.’
‘Then wait until you are.’ Her mother’s tone was strident and her worried look made her feel uncomfortable. She reached for the butter and jam and made a great show of slapping both onto a thick slice of bread.
‘Why do you have to volunteer? What’s the point of it?’
Lizzie felt herself colouring up. In her mind she recalled the feel of Peter’s fingers unbuttoning her dress, the smell of him, the intense deliciousness of feeling his body, even his breath, falling on hers. She could hardly admit that she was doing it for his sake; it was her way of supporting him, and Patrick for that matter, though only at a distance.
‘I just think I should,’ she said finally.
‘That’s ridiculous – and don’t put so much jam on that bread. Everything with sugar in is going on ration. You’ll have to cut down.’
Lizzie slammed her knife down. ‘Then I’ll do without! What do you care if I starve!’
‘Lizzie!’
The legs of Lizzie’s chair squealed across the lino as she sprang to her feet. She was grown up. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this, but neither was there any cause to behave as she was doing. It was all to do with how she felt inside.
Sucking in her lips, she considered how best to make amends, change the subject, do something useful, or better still, something good.
‘I’ll go and read Stanley a story.’ A reasonable excuse, she thought, to leave the table and not have her plans questioned.
Her mother’s mouth dropped open as though she was about to comment further. Lizzie didn’t wait to hear reasons why she shouldn’t leave home, though she could have dealt with them. It was the hurt in her mother’s eyes that made her feel guilty.
Her father intervened. ‘Stop trying to wrap the girl in cotton wool like you do that boy. At least someone in this ’ouse has got the guts to fight for their country.’
The cooler air of the passageway between kitchen and front parlour calmed her red cheeks.
‘Oh, Peter,’ she moaned softly to herself, rolling her head against the silky cold of the limewashed wall and closing her eyes.
The sound of the wireless followed her out. Her father had switched it on, waiting for the six o’clock news. At present a dance tune – a foxtrot, by the sound of it – drifted along the passageway, superseded by the news.
‘This is the BBC news … threats of air raids have necessitated …’
Lizzie closed her eyes.
Air raids! Gas masks. Evacuation. Call-up papers … She clapped her hands over her ears, tried to shake the words away, and finally opened the door to what had been the parlour serving as Stanley’s bedroom since he was first took sick.
Her little brother was sitting up on top of the coverlet reading a book. He hadn’t come out for his meal, and had refused everything offered.
Lizzie made faces around the bedroom door until her young brother was in fits of giggles. He giggled even more when she sat beside him on the pale-blue eiderdown and tickled his ribs.
‘No more,’ he cried, ‘No more,’ already bent double and choking with laughter.
She cuddled him gently, bracing herself before feeling the thin arms and spare shoulders beneath his pyjama jacket.
‘I thought you were feeling better,’ she said. ‘You certainly look it.’
He nodded. ‘I am. And tomorrow I’m going out to play. Mum said I could if I went to bed early.’
‘It’s pretty cold out. You’ll have to wrap up well.’
‘I’m glad it’s cold. I hope it snows.’ His hair tickled her hand as he tipped his head back. ‘Do you think it will snow?’ he added, gazing up at her with eyes like crystal pools.
‘It might at Christmas.’
‘That would be nice,’ he said, his smile wide enough to cut his face in half.
Her own spirits were lifted by his look of excited expectation. She couldn’t help being infected by it.
‘If you make a wish for snow at Christmas, it’s bound to come true – at least, so I’ve been told.’
Stanley sucked in his bottom lip, his brow crumpling as he gave it some thought.
‘Do all Christmas wishes come true?’
‘Of course,’ she answered, and promptly wished a few for herself: send Peter home for Christmas, have the war end and Mr Chamberlain announcing on the wireless that it was all a dreadful mistake, and mend the rift between her father and brother. The latter had surprised her. She’d never known them fall out before.
The new, analytical Lizzie perceived that the warm atmosphere she had taken for granted all these years had fractured, hairline cracks appearing where there had been only solid smoothness. The divisions between countries had grown wider, and so had those between people. Perhaps they had always been there; it took a war to bring them into focus.
But for now, Stanley’s wishes were the most important. She sensed he had something else far more important to wish for than snow, or had more than one wish on his mind. She considered the obvious. Perhaps a toy train, a fort with lead soldiers or merely a book, or perhaps he really would wish that there would be no war. God knows enough people wished for that, but the blackout curtains were up and gas masks were hanging from their shoulders during the day and beside their beds at night. The future was frightening.
Stanley squeezed his eyes shut.
‘I wish—’
Lizzie interrupted. ‘For lots of snow.’
He shook his head.
Lizzie waited, marvelling that he looked so much better. Lizzie prepared herself for happy Christmas wishes.
‘I wish that my dad would stop hurting my mum.’
Lizzie froze. Surely she’d heard wrong. ‘What was that you said?’
He repeated his wish word for word. His pale-blue eyes looked up into hers. It was like looking into a mirror, an image of what she had once looked like, though she’d never had his pale skin, had never been ill, but always a healthy, contented child. The picture in her mind of their happy home, the one she was always glad to come home to, threatened to crumble. She told herself that it couldn’t be true, that despite the fraught atmosphere following her father’s drinking sessions, her parents were happily married and had four wonderful children. That was the way it had always seemed. He’s only a child, she thought, eyeing the startlingly white hair and the luminous eyes.
She cleared her throat while searching for the right words. When they finally came, it proved difficult to keep her voice from shaking.
‘What makes you think he hurts Ma?’
He blinked as he thought some more. She tried telling herself that it wasn’t hatred she saw there. It scared her too much in one so young, but his words scared her more.
‘Because I’ve seen him – loads of times – when he thought I was asleep. I used to creep away, but I don’t any more, and now he knows that I know. He’s seen me watching and he knows I hate him, but I don’t care … I don’t care.’
Chapter Seventeen
The morning was busy. People were buying up the things likely to become scarce once the war was truly under way so everyone needed a little more cash to spend and the little washhouse was crammed with goods.
Aggie Hill had brought in a mother of pearl vase. ‘These bloody ration books. The buggers in charge don’t allow for a growing family, do they?’ She spoke loudly, her voice barely restrained by the stout brick walls of the washhouse. ‘Not that mine’s going to be around, poor litt
le sod. As I told you, he’s already joined up. I just want a bit by me to buy what’s going when he does come home,’ she added, her voice taking on a kind of reverence when she spoke of her son.
‘So I hear.’
Mary Anne folded one arm across her belly. Concentrating on the job in hand wasn’t easy this morning. Aggie’s son had been called up. How long before Harry was?
Barely noticing the finer details of the vase – if indeed it had any – Mary Anne shook her head. ‘I haven’t got room for this, Aggie. Normally, I would have, but there’s just too many people bringing in stuff. I can’t take it.’
Aggie pursed her lips, causing the hairs on her chin to point forwards. ‘Well, that’s a bloody nuisance.’
Mary Anne offered a solution. ‘You can take it to Uncle’s.’
Aggie’s black eyebrows, totally at odds to her white hair, beetled like large caterpillars over her large nose. ‘Has the nephew arrived then?’
‘Apparently so,’ said Mary Anne, deciding not to divulge that she’d met him.
‘Jesus bloody Christ, thank God for that.’
Two other people had bits of silver to hock. Others had come in to see if she had anything suitable as going away gifts.
‘My Annie’s joining the navy as a nurse. I wanted a little locket for her.’
‘I need some beer money. My Albert wants to go out on the razzle before he gets drafted – though I reckon it’s only an excuse. I told him he was too old to be called up, but he won’t have it.’
There were many others, all wanting money or items, their sudden needs caused by Adolf Hitler.
The last was Flossie Davies, her sleeping youngster clamped to her hip, his plump cheek resting on her shoulder. Although she hadn’t been the first to arrive, she hung back. It was obvious she wanted to be last. Mary Anne wondered what she had to hock. Her husband drank more than Henry, and that was saying something. There were no mats on the floor in the Davies’ house, only bare lino because anything they owned was continually being sold or hocked to pay the rent or put food on the table.
