A Wartime Wife

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Do you confess, my friends?’ asked Pig-face. ‘Come, there is only justice for those who bare their souls and tell the truth.’

  The two men exchanged fearful glances. It was still obvious that one was more wary than the other. Unfortunately, it was the most trusting one who broke.

  ‘Yes. We are communists, and we are Jews, but we only—’

  Laughter broke out among those assembled.

  As his head cleared, Michael was filled with foreboding. His companions smelled blood and would spill some before the night was done.

  ‘Then you will exact your own justice on each other.’ Pig-face turned to those with him. ‘Give me another whip.’

  Someone obliged. Pig-face unravelled both whips and held them out to the two men. ‘You will flog each other as punishment for lying. The first man down is the one who deserves to be punished and I will finish him off with a bullet in his brain. The one remaining standing can go free.’

  Michael’s blood turned to ice and his courage returned. He took a step forwards, his leg brushing Bronica’s thigh, alerting her to his intention.

  ‘No,’ she said, clinging to his arm, her breath moist against his ear. ‘No. I want you. You can have me where you like, in a door, up against a wall; wherever you like.

  Bronica had saved him, draping herself around his neck, pressing against him so that he’d had to walk backwards, away from the sound of the whips, the catcalls and the smell of fresh blood.

  That night he’d cried on her shoulder and told her everything about his family, the circumcision and that he’d made up his mind to get back to England.

  She’d said nothing, but lain very still beside him. If he had been sober he might have questioned her silence and the way she’d kept a few inches of space between them. But he’d been glad to be there with her and soon he was snoring, the beer having dulled his senses both as far as the incident and Bronica were concerned.

  The night he had told her everything!

  That night had changed everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lizzie was finding it hard to concentrate on Christmas, and Daw wasn’t much help.

  ‘It’s only shopping. Anyone can shop for food,’ moaned Daw, as she teased her dark curls into greater fullness with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘That was before the war. It’s now about queuing,’ said a grim-faced Lizzie, as she attempted to scribble a weekly menu down on a scrap of paper. ‘I reckon by Thursday we’ll be down to a crust of bread and half a pint of milk. Try making a meal from that, Potato Pete!’ They laughed at her reference to the Ministry of Food character, the symbol of what wondrous meals could be made from next to nothing.

  ‘I wish Mum was here,’ said Daw, sinking down into a chair, elbows resting on the table.

  ‘Well, she’s not,’ snapped Lizzie, who had ended up taking on the responsibility of running a household, plus continuing to work for Mrs Selwyn. ‘We have to do the best we can.’

  Daw pouted. ‘It’s not fair. Fancy running off and leaving her family in the lurch like that.’

  Exasperated with her sister’s complaining, Lizzie threw down her pencil and glared. ‘And what would you have done if Dad was about to beat you black and blue?’

  Daw lowered her eyes and shook her head vehemently. ‘I don’t believe any of it. Dad wouldn’t do a thing like that. I know he wouldn’t.’

  Lizzie leaned across the table, her eyes blazing. ‘You weren’t there!’

  Daw was the only sibling who had not accepted that their parents’ marriage was far from perfect, mostly, Lizzie realised, because to do so upset Daw’s rosy image of the world – her world – the one where she was the centre of attention.

  Daw sighed. ‘I so wanted this to be a perfect Christmas, what with John coming home. And Patrick will be with him,’ she added, throwing Lizzie a sly look.

  Lizzie was not unaffected by mention of Patrick. His letters had given her a deep insight to the man he really was. ‘Hmm. I agree we need to make the most of it. Who knows when we’ll see them again?’

  Her thoughts went to Patrick’s letters and how her mother had loved to read his poetry. Patrick had a way with words and a side to him she hadn’t known existed, but then, she reasoned, a lot of people were showing their true colours since September. Her father, her brother, even Daw and Stanley. Even her mother had changed and she wondered what had caused it. Steadfast in her devotion to her family, Mary Anne had put up with her father for their sakes and would still have done so, but something had happened, perhaps she had suddenly realised that they had changed, her children had become adults, no longer dependent on her but pursuing their own lives.

  The clock on the mantelpiece interrupted her thoughts, striking seven o’clock. The potatoes, cabbage and turnip she’d dug up from the garden were cooked through. The smell of stuffed breast of lamb filled the kitchen and she’d made thick gravy from scum left to cool and scooped off the surface of the lamb fat. There was even enough left over to spread on bread with a pinch of salt or to make a cake.

  Stanley’s face appeared at the kitchen door. ‘I’m hungry. When’s tea?’ He was surly before his mother had left home; now he was running wild, independent and answering to no one.

  One week had passed and nothing had altered, and despite enquiries made by the police and Harry, plus their father out at odd hours searching the streets, there was no trace.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Lizzie in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘Our Daw’s just about to lay the table.’

  Daw looked up from reading John’s letter for the umpteenth time, uttered an exasperated sigh, and returned the letter to her handbag.

  Henry Randall came in at around seven, his face grey and his lips as straight as a letterbox, his cheeks sucked in and forming deep hollows.

  Daw was the only one to say hello.

  Lizzie got up from the table and looked away, busying herself with getting the plates down from the rack ready to dish up. Little conversation had passed between her and her father since the day he had dared strike her and her mother had disappeared. Even though she knew that it had become his habit to go around the streets looking for her rather than spend his time in the pub, she hadn’t yet forgiven him.

  Daw, on the other hand, was desperate for everything to be as it was.

  ‘No luck, Dad?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I showed some people her picture, and they thought they’d seen her, but they said it was too dark what with no street lights any more.’

  Lizzie gritted her teeth, displeased at the cosy father–daughter exchange. ‘Daw? The vegetables.’

  Ignoring Daw’s angry glare, she returned her father’s pleading look with one of pure contempt. All this was his fault, and so far she hadn’t heard him admit his guilt.

  The girls dished up while their father sat in his armchair staring into space, their brother Stanley sitting on the floor continuously winding the jib of a Meccano crane up and down.

  Daw eyed the five dinner plates. ‘Our Harry’s late.’

  Lizzie didn’t acknowledge her. Something about Harry was bothering her, though she’d said nothing to anyone else. She’d made the beds that morning before going to work at Mrs Selwyn’s, but found Harry’s not slept in and the wardrobe door slightly ajar. Meaning to push back whatever was preventing it from shutting properly, she opened it and found things were not as she’d expected. Clothes were no longer folded on shelves or hangers and at the bottom of the wardrobe was a tan case. She’d nudged it further in, but it was heavy and wouldn’t budge. The obvious conclusion came to her – Harry was leaving home, but it hurt because he hadn’t said anything to her. She didn’t recall seeing any call-up papers. Whatever the reason for the packed suitcase, Harry was leaving, but where was he going and why?

  She decided not to mention it to anyone until she’d spoken with him face to face, and she’d wait impatiently until he came home.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked more slowly, or at least
that was the way it seemed to her. How dare he be late when she was bursting with curiosity?

  The sound of next-door’s dog barking preceded him coming up through the back garden. In her mind she rehearsed what she was going to say.

  Not yet, though, she told herself. Not here in front of everyone.

  His clear blue eyes met hers in greeting as he apologised for being late. ‘There were some things I had to do.’

  ‘Mother? Have you got any news?’ asked Daw.

  He shook his head mournfully.

  ‘Leave him to his dinner,’ snapped Lizzie.

  She could have forgiven him anything. Most women could. Hollywood film stars were nothing compared to her brother. He was Heathcliffe in Wuthering Heights, Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, Laurence Olivier and Douglas Fairbanks all rolled into one. And he was leaving.

  The meal was eaten silently, and even Stanley didn’t grumble that it was only spotted dick and custard for afters, left over from the night before and warmed up over a pan of boiling water.

  ‘We’re not eating so much, and nothing can be wasted,’ Lizzie stated, slamming the dish down in front of him. ‘Now eat it. Mum would want you to.’

  Cutlery stopped moving and scraping at mention of her mother.

  ‘Well, she would,’ snapped Lizzie, unrepentant, because if she did show any sign of regret she’d burst into tears. Someone had to be strong. Someone had to manage.

  Later, after the dishes were cleared, she followed Harry upstairs. He was sitting on the bed and looked surprised to see her when she pulled back the curtain.

  ‘I saw the suitcase.’

  His eyes met hers, just as they had over the kitchen table, but differently, as though he were weighing up whether she could take hearing the whole truth.

  ‘I’m leaving.’ He turned back to untying his shoelaces.

  ‘Are you joining up? I didn’t know you’d received any call-up papers.’

  ‘I haven’t. I’ve got a flat.’

  ‘A flat? On your wages? I know you were on about getting a place of your own, but won’t a flat be a bit expensive?’

  He didn’t answer for a minute, taking off his socks, rolling them up and slipping them inside his shoes. Sighing, he bent his head over clasped hands.

  ‘I’ve left Wills’.’

  ‘You’ve left your job? Why?’

  Lifting his head, he smiled at her, the creasing at the sides of his eyes making them glitter.

  ‘Oh, sis. You know me and Dad could end up killing each other.’

  Lizzie folded her arms and adopted a knowing look. ‘What’s that got to do with leaving your job?’

  His smile broadened. ‘You’re a shrewd one, our Lizzie. Nothing. It’s not really about family at all. It’s about me. I’m ambitious. I’m going into business.’

  ‘What as? Are you going to open a shop?’

  He got to his feet and began unbuttoning his shirt. He looked amused. ‘Not quite in the accepted sense, but along those lines. As I said weeks ago, I ain’t going to get myself killed like them in nineteen fourteen who thought war was all a great big adventure. I ain’t that naive. If this war’s coming then I’m going to be one of the clever sods making money from it, and don’t look at me like that, Lizzie. There’s going to be plenty of people getting rich from the slaughter of others, though that ain’t quite what I got in mind. I’ve got mates I’m going into business with. I’m goin’ to take advantage of this war before it takes advantage of me.’

  Lizzie couldn’t pretend that she was glad for him. No matter that what he said made sense in a mercenary kind of way and was totally different to her father’s attitude.

  ‘Is there a woman involved?’

  He smiled sadly. She tried reading the look in his eyes, but there was something guarded about it. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him with a woman; never heard tale that he’d had even a mild flirtation.

  Another more worrying conclusion came to her, but no! Not Harry! Not the toughest boy in the street.

  She wondered why he hadn’t left earlier; the case seemed to have been packed for a while. He read her mind.

  The sparkle went from his eyes and he looked sad. ‘I can’t leave until I find out what’s happened to me mother. I can’t leave until then.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mary Anne heaved herself up onto her elbows and looked around her. She was lying in a double bed in a bedroom at the back of the house. A shaft of sunlight from the single window highlighted a late-Victorian piece of furniture: two single wardrobes either side of a conjoined chest of drawers.

  The bedding was clean and smelled of lavender. A row of dining chairs with spindly legs and finely carved backs lined one wall. A simple chest of dark oak sat beneath the window and a blue water jug with matching glass had been placed on a table beside the bed.

  There was also a pile of newly washed clothes – her clothes – including her underwear.

  And whose house was this? The view through the window over the rooftops gave her a clue. Could it possibly be true that she’d stumbled into the doorway of the pawnshop purely by chance? And if so, could it be that Michael had washed her bloodstained clothes?

  The thought was unnerving, but in her present state of weakness, embarrassment swiftly gave way to indifference. Everything was down to practicalities.

  Memories of the night she’d run away came back to her. Henry had finally lost his temper in front of the children and had actually struck Lizzie to the ground.

  Lizzie! She tried to get up, but was too weak. Instead she tried to put her thoughts in order.

  The crisp cotton bed linen was cool against her head; perhaps that was why everything was suddenly so clear. Lizzie had told her to live more for herself now her children were grown. Continuing to live with Henry was like sacrificing what remained of her life. It seemed stupid now, but back in Kent Street it appeared the only choice she had.

  But surely she couldn’t stay here?

  Lying without any demands on her time and services, she reviewed her options.

  Number one option was to go home and try to paper over the cracks, try to make everything as it was before, for her family’s sake rather than for herself.

  My God, how were they managing? Dreadfully, she didn’t doubt; they just weren’t used to coping without her.

  Number two option was not as clear cut as number one. Making a life of her own and on her own was all very well, but where did she start? She had no skills except running a house, plus the little sideline out in the washhouse.

  Perhaps, she thought, her gaze falling back to the view outside the window, providence may have brought you to the right place. If indeed she was in a room above the pawnshop, she could offer to do exactly what Thomas Routledge had offered; accepted by the locals, she could deal with the customers. It made sense; she just needed Michael to see it her way.

  She closed her eyes. All this thinking was making her tired, but she mustn’t doze too long. She had to do something, and there was also Stanley to consider. No matter what happened, her main worry would be Stanley. He was only a boy. She had to know that he was well and not missing her too much. He could live here, she thought, and almost laughed. Who did she think she was? This was Michael’s place – at least she guessed it was. Who lived here was his decision not hers.

  She pushed the bedclothes back and forced herself to drag her legs across the bed. Gradually, her circulation prompted by movement, she managed to dangle her feet over the side.

  For a moment she paused, surprised to see that her legs were almost as white as the old-fashioned nightgown she was wearing. The gown itself was quite beautiful, but rather large.

  Holding up one arm she studied the long, billowing sleeve tied with ribbons around the wrist, musing that it might have once belonged to Queen Victoria, though she might have needed the hem taken up.

  Wriggling her bottom closer to the edge, she launched herself. Her feet landed squarely, but she’d misjudged the hei
ght. As her feet hit the floor, her knees crumpled. Letting go of the mattress, she flung her hands forwards, in time to stop her nose bumping the floor, but landing with a loud thud on her hands and knees.

  The sound of footsteps running upstairs preceded the door being flung open.

  Gently but firmly, Michael lifted her, tucking the long nightgown modestly beneath her as he picked her up.

  ‘You are too weak. Perhaps tomorrow?’

  Because of her dizziness, she saw him as a blur, a figure tucking her in, fluffing up her pillows and pouring water from the jug. Gradually the dizziness passed.

  ‘My children … Have you told them where I am?’

  She could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I meant to. I went along to your house the next day, but the police were there. I came back here and told myself I would do it the day after that, but then I thought the police and your family would ask too many questions. I hoped that you might be on your feet and able to walk back. I would have walked part of the way with you. Perhaps we could do that tomorrow or the next day, but please, I do not want to be involved. I hope you understand that.’

  She didn’t answer straightaway. All her plans for running the shop cracked wide open. But no matter what, she resolved that things had changed; she had changed.

  Perhaps it was resting or as a result of the trauma she had suffered, something to do with losing the baby. The guilt was unbearable, and so was the need for restitution. The answer was to live her life to the full in future, to live it both for the unborn child and herself. That meant she could not go back to being the downtrodden spirit who had lived through her family. She must not sacrifice her life as she had that of the child, but live it for both of them. Thanks to the gathering storm over Europe, all their lives would be different in future.

  The inarguable truth was that her children were growing up and the outbreak of war had accelerated the process. It had first hit her when Harry had argued with his father, adamant that he would not join the forces until he absolutely had to. She thought of their last conversation. He’d always had ambitions. Shame he would never marry and she knew beyond doubt now that he never would.