by Lizzie Lane
Henry slowed his pace and frowned. ‘What relative?’
Biddy nearly dropped her tea tray, her hand steadying the sherry bottle.
‘Better have all yer cups,’ she said, snatching her bits of mismatched china from the men’s hands, aching to warn Mary Anne as swiftly as possible even if it meant smashing the china, though God forbid she dropped the sherry.
The workman, a bluff-faced man with ginger hair, kept going. ‘That chap we thought she was arguing with. We was going to give him a pasting until she told us he was a relative and took him round the back for a cup of tea – or something,’ he added with a smirk.
Henry looked stunned.
The workman misinterpreted his expression as that of a man wronged by a cheating wife. His face and voice were ripe with sympathy. ‘Look, mate, I’m sorry. I just saw her with this bloke and she said he was from Australia, and we believed her. Sorry, mate.’
‘I’m not yer mate,’ muttered Henry.
Biddy didn’t wait to hear any more, running into her front door and out of the back one, slinging the tea tray on the kitchen table on her way through.
She presumed that, as usual, Henry would go hammering on the front door, warning enough that he was home, and perhaps time enough for her to run along the back alley, and up Mary Anne’s garden path.
Biddy was not built for speed, her breasts and belly wobbling as she puffed her way over the broken flags leading to the lane at the back of her garden. She’d just reached for the latch when she saw Henry, shoulders square and fists clenched, stalking along the alley, his face stiff as a board. Hoping he hadn’t seen her, she ducked down, lost her balance and found herself wedged between the privet hedge and the rhubarb patch.
On investigating the cold, unwelcoming house, Lizzie found Mary Anne lying on Stanley’s bed in the front parlour. Seeing her mother’s face as white as the pillow, Lizzie was across the room in two strides and kneeling beside the bed, her face creased with terror.
‘Ma! Ma!’
She touched her mother’s face with only the tips of her fingers, fearful she would feel stiff and cold, and that she would never open her eyes again.
‘Ma?’
She couldn’t be dead! Why should she be? She hadn’t been ill, had she? It occurred to her then that she didn’t know her mother’s state of health for sure. She hadn’t asked and neither had her mother ever confided in her, more likely in fact to enquire about Lizzie’s health.
‘Lizzie? Lizzie?’
Stanley stood in the doorway, dark circles erupting beneath his blue eyes, a look of disbelief on his face.
‘Has he killed her? Has he killed her?’
Lizzie frowned and glanced round at him. ‘What?’
‘Has our Dad …’
Her mother’s eyes fluttered.
‘Don’t be stupid. She’s fainted,’ said Lizzie, as her own heart seemed to beat again, though she wasn’t quite sure when she’d thought it had stopped.
‘Go and fetch Mrs Young. She’ll know what to do.’
She looked over her shoulder. Stanley still stood there, his face a frightened mask. In that instant his youth and his weakness were more apparent than they’d been for weeks. But this was no time for reflections.
‘Well, go on then!’
Stanley sped off, his feet hammering along the passageway towards the back door.
Her mother’s fingers folded over her arm. ‘Help me up.’
Lizzie beheld the pale complexion and the dark hollows around the eyes as she helped her mother sit up.
‘Did you faint?’ she asked, her voice wobbling with emotion. ‘Have you got a bad stomach,’ she added as her mother bent forwards, arm thrown across her belly, and her face taut with pain.
Her mother’s eyes held hers. ‘Lizzie, I’ve had a miscarriage. Before our Stanley comes back, get rid of that there.’ She pointed to a bundle of bloodstained newspapers. ‘Wrap more newspapers around it, then take it out to the dustbin; I’ll burn it later.’
Lizzie rushed to do as asked. A baby! And this was it, she thought, narrowing her eyes and holding her breath, because if she saw or smelled too much, she would be sick.
Although her arms trembled, she worked quickly, finding more newspapers and laying them out flat, ready to wrap around the bloody parcel that she eyed warily, not sure whether she would scream with disgust or cry with despair when the time came for wrapping it up.
‘What the bloody hell’s goin’ on?’
Lizzie jumped at the sound of her father’s voice and turned cold as his shadow fell over her.
Henry Randall had a square jaw, angular cheekbones and a gaunt, overhanging forehead. It was easy to believe that he’d been carved from granite, like a primitive statue that moved like a human and looked like a human, but thought like a stone.
‘Mum’s had a miscarriage,’ said Lizzie, barely able to keep her voice even, her eyes flitting between the ominous presence of her father and the equally upsetting parcel. ‘I’ve sent Stanley to fetch Mrs Young.’
Mary Anne raised her eyes to those of her husband. He’d never been affectionate, except at those times when he thought he was losing her, like when she’d given birth to Stanley. It had been a difficult birth, and the doctor had hinted that he prepare himself for the worse. In the deep, dark hours of early morning, she’d heard him snivelling at her bedside. By noon of the following day he’d known that she would live. By evening he was his old self.
Stanley came racing back in, ducking under his father’s arm. ‘I’ve brought Mrs Young.’
A slightly dishevelled Biddy hovered in the doorway.
Mary Anne regarded them all with casual indifference until her gaze came to rest on Stanley.
‘Henry. This is no place for the boy.’
At first it didn’t seem as though he had heard her, and she couldn’t understand why he was looking at her in such an accusing manner. Probably because he thought she’d inconvenienced him and the family. They expected her to be there for them: their meals on the table, the house clean, the laundry washed.
‘I couldn’t help it, Henry,’ she said.
The look persisted, before he did as she’d asked. Placing his hand on Stanley’s head, he wheeled him round about, heading him towards the door, throwing her an icy glare before he left the room.
She didn’t understand his odd manner and at this point in time she didn’t much care. The pain was too great, the loss of blood making her weaker than she had ever felt in her life. Once he’d left, she eyed Biddy through a blur of what seemed to be red mist.
‘Biddy.’ She pointed to where Lizzie was bent next to the bundle. ‘You know what has to be done. Let our Lizzie go and do something else.’
Biddy’s gaze met that of her friend in total understanding. They’d both been through similar at some time in their lives.
‘Come on then, girl,’ Biddy addressed Lizzie. ‘You go and see to your dad and Stanley. I think yer mother wants the dinner put on before your Daw and Harry come home. I’ll clean up ’ere.’
Lizzie looked at her with a dazed expression on her face.
Biddy took hold of her shoulders and got her to her feet. ‘Come on, come on. You heard me. Leave me to clean up here. You go and light the stove and the fire and get the dinner on.’
Wordlessly, Lizzie allowed herself to be helped to her feet. Why did she feel so afraid? It wasn’t just fearing for her mother’s health or that she might die. That couldn’t happen, could it? Women miscarried every day, but there was something else. There’d been an unforgiving expression on her father’s face and it worried her.
‘I’ll take this with me. My fire’s blazing well. Alf brought a bit of coke home from the docks.’
Mary Anne thanked her, and would have said goodnight there and then, drifting off into a tortured sleep of sharp needles, prettily carved caravans and walls of mirrors whirling all around her. What Biddy then told her would ensure that her tortured sleep would develop into a nightmare.
‘One of the workmen asked your Henry about your Australian relative that you had staying.’
At first Mary Anne couldn’t quite grasp the implications, but as her mind cleared she began to plan a believable excuse. Everything will be all right, she told herself. All you did was to have a miscarriage, but still she had to smooth things over. Her family’s happy home depended on it.
‘I have to get up.’
‘You’re too weak.’
‘I have to get up. I can’t leave Lizzie to deal with him. I have to be there. Now help me get up.’
With Biddy’s help, she managed to attain a sitting position accompanied by an increased flow of blood.
‘I’ll do it,’ she whispered, placing first one foot then the other onto the floor. It made her smile to see she’d kept her shoes on. She hadn’t realised it. Neither had she realised that her smile was more a grimace until she saw the expression on Biddy’s face.
‘Funny. I’ve still got my shoes on.’
She smiled again. This time Biddy knew what she was referring to.
Once on her feet, she concentrated all her efforts on putting one foot in front of another. ‘I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.’
Biddy paused, the parcel clasped in both hands and slightly away from her body.
‘Yes. You’ll be all right?’
‘Of course I will.’
Mary Anne persuaded herself that all would be well. Henry wasn’t going to query the workman’s comment so soon after her miscarriage, though you never knew with Henry quite how his mind was working.
Slowly and bent almost double, Mary Anne followed Biddy down the passageway and into the kitchen where Henry sat in his favourite armchair staring into space, not even blinking as Biddy swept through, the bloody parcel held out in front of her.
Each step sharp with pain, Mary Anne felt her way along the walls. There was something comforting about the kitchen: the gas lit beneath the pans, the sound of cutlery and crockery clattering onto the table.
Stanley was helping his sister and looked up to see his mother hanging on to the doorpost. His face turned white with fear. ‘Ma!’
She winced as his arms wrapped around her.
Lizzie, her face tight with concern, noticed and warned Stanley not to hold her so tightly.
Henry turned his head very slowly. ‘So you got rid of it.’
Mary Anne was filled with alarm. He couldn’t know. ‘I miscarried.’
‘’Cos you didn’t want it.’
A surge of pain threatened to drive her into unconsciousness, but she overcame it. Her eyes fixed on the man she’d married, the man who had forced her to do anything to keep the peace. She knew then that he didn’t know for sure that she’d had an abortion; he was presuming she had because the child wasn’t his. She had to explain.
‘I had to, Henry … I’m too old for babies … and so are you.’
His look was as stiff and steadfast as ever. Before she had the chance to say anything more, he pointed at the table on which sat a small brown bottle.
‘A Mrs Riley just called. She left that and said it would help clear out what the knitting needle might have left behind.’
Mary Anne blanched and sank into a chair, the pain wringing sweat from her body, weakening her legs and affecting her eyesight.
Without her noticing, he had got up from his chair and was hanging over her. Lizzie and Stanley looked on fearfully. Mary Anne’s blood ran cold. Henry had never acted like this in front of them, not openly, not uncaring of appearances.
‘I know what you’ve been up to. Mucking about with another man behind my back. What’s his name? Tell me! What’s his name?’
‘Henry …’ She rolled her head from side to side. This and the pain were too much to cope with. She opened her eyes and looked up at him pleadingly. ‘There is no other man.’ For the first time in years, she reached out for him, her hands touching the rough wool of his pullover.
Henry drew back as though he’d been scorched. ‘Get off me! You slut! You whore! Bringing another man into this house! Did you expect me to accept the babe as my own? How many of the others are mine? How many of them did I father, and how many are by your lovers?’
The room spinning around her, Mary Anne did her best to focus on his face and, despite the pain gripping her belly, her anger grew.
Yesterday, she would have done her best to calm him, for the sake of the family, but something had changed.
What about me? What about me?
Perhaps it was the pain or the horrified looks on Lizzie and Stanley’s faces, but the inner scream would not go away, screeching the truth until it felt as though her head would explode. The happy home she’d created for her children had been at the expense of her own happiness. The bare truth was uncovered; she could see it on Stanley and Lizzie’s faces. The homely atmosphere, the sort children read about in sugary novels, did not exist. They were all different people living in a world that was becoming less homely every day.
‘You are a wicked man, Henry Randall. A selfish, drunken bully and I hate you!’
His eyes turned black and his cheek trembled as though she’d slapped it, but he recovered quickly. Bullies usually do have one last attempt to prove their power before caving in. She feared what would come.
He raised his hand, but a blur of mauve dress leaped across the room.
‘Leave my mother alone!’
Lizzie clung to his arm, but he flung it wide, easily throwing her aside.
Mary Anne gathered every ounce of strength she owned and struggled to her feet. Her eyes blazed with anger. ‘Leave my children be, or so help me, I’ll kill you!’
Rising onto her hands and knees, Lizzie wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. This was the kind of scene Stanley had described to her. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, frozen to the spot, his eyes wide and staring.
‘And you’re not only a slut,’ Henry was saying, suddenly remembering his humiliation at the Red Cow, ‘you’re a bloody thief! That’s what you are! Took the last penny from me pocket, you thieving cow!’
Just as he reached for her throat, she found a surge of inner strength and wriggled out from under him, kicking at his shins as she eased herself sideways. He toppled, tripped over his own feet and fell head first into his favourite chair.
Mary Anne gripped the back of a chair for support, eyeing the supine body. Was she safe now?
Her breathing steadied, then quickened as he started to rise.
Cowering against the wall, feeling weak, she covered her head with her arms.
Just as he raised his fist, a small figure sprang onto a chair and raised something black and solid above his head. There was a clang of metal on bone as Stanley brought a cast iron frying pan down onto his father’s head.
‘No,’ cried his fearful mother as he raised it again, his pale faced flushed with temper.
The angelic face twisted with hate. ‘I’ll kill him.’
She wrested the frying pan from his hands, fearing for his life if Henry saw him with it.
‘Get outside,’ she murmured to Lizzie. ‘Take our Stanley with you.’
‘But …?’
‘Go into the washhouse and stay there.’
Their eyes met. Lizzie didn’t know when and how she’d come to interpret her mother’s thoughts and actions, but she knew whatever she was up to was for the best.
Before he’d quite come to, Mary Anne saw the look in his eyes and feared for her son’s life. The thing to do was to shift the blame. Only then would Stanley be safe, the home back to normal.
Gripping the pan with both hands, she summoned every bit of courage, product of the love she had for her family.
Henry’s mouth curled into an ugly snarl. ‘You—’
She raised the pan high above her head and brought it down on his, but he caught one wrist. She hit him but only a glancing blow. The backhander he gave her would have sent her spinning, but she stepped back.
But she’d seen the look in his
eyes, and even though he was sober, she knew this was perhaps the defining moment in their relationship, the time when she had to make a more sombre choice than sexual submission or rejection. This was a matter of life and death – her life or her death.
Fear gave wings to her feet, the tearing pain still dragging at her insides, but her will to survive urging her on.
She ran out of the front door, along Kent Street and towards the corner shop. Every building in the street was in darkness, courtesy of the blackout. She stopped at the shop door, meaning to knock, to shout for help, but she could hear him calling her, threatening to beat her black and blue if she didn’t come back immediately.
She ran out onto West Street, almost got knocked down by a blacked-out tram, then headed towards East Street, round the back of the London Inn, and still she could hear him calling.
The pain worsened; her clothes were drenched in sweat and blood; her heart hammered against her ribcage. She feared it would burst, but hurried on, determined to survive because even when surrounded by violence, there were still things to live for.
As her strength ebbed, she no longer had any idea of where she was running and whether Henry was still pursuing her. All she could hear was the rush of her own pulse beating in her ears.
Despite the darkness, there was something familiar about the dank-smelling alley, the sound of babies crying, people quarrelling, a plaintive voice singing ‘Let me call you sweetheart.’
The alley spilled out onto another road, just as dark but wider than the one she’d left behind. To her left, she felt the low curve of a garden wall. Across the road a chink of light showed from the side of a blackout curtain. She turned right, flattening herself against a wall that swiftly became a large expanse of cold glass.
She felt her way along it, turning her head so that her cheek took on the coolness of the plate glass. There was no way of knowing where she was; how did blind people manage? Her legs were crumpling, and although she listened for any sign of pursuit, it no longer seemed to matter. The pain was all consuming, draining her of strength and purposeful thought. If she died here and now on the pavement, then so be it. Oblivion was becoming quite attractive, and her eyes were closing, her body sliding against the glass though her feet still moved, sideways now until the window gave out and she tumbled into a shop doorway.
