by Lizzie Lane
‘Daw’s expecting.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Daw threw Lizzie a sceptical glare, inhaling her disbelief through clenched teeth.
‘No!’
It was all she said. Her look said everything else, her eyes seeming to lock with the glassy-eyed remnants of her childhood sitting in a row on the chest of drawers.
As though she’s blaming them for all her misfortunes, thought Lizzie, and not for the first time it occurred to her how self-centred her sister was.
‘Mum’s happy. That’s what we have to bear in mind,’ Lizzie said, presuming Daw would want to know how her mother was and convincing herself that although Daw’s first priority was herself she did love her mother.
Daw shook her head in disbelief. ‘No.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I won’t visit her. It’s disgusting.’
Lizzie raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Because she’s living with a man who treats her well? It might be disgusting to the outside world because she’s not married to him, but what’s a marriage certificate anyway? Just a piece of paper. That’s all.’
Daw screwed up her face in horror. ‘Can you imagine the neighbours whispering when we walk past?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘Let them whisper. People who live in glasshouses and all that …’
Daw frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Older she might be, but Daw wasn’t widely read, had hated school and didn’t really care what the world was up to as long as it didn’t affect her. A house, a husband and children were all she’d ever wanted. Lizzie folded her arms and regarded Daw as though she were twenty years older than her and not twenty months younger.
‘They’ve all got their own dark secrets and shouldn’t be so quick to condemn others.’
Tight-lipped and flushed, Daw shook her head, her dark hair bouncing around her cheeks. ‘I don’t care about their reputations. It’s my mother’s that matters and the way it affects me.’
Lizzie tapped her foot impatiently as she sought the right words that might snap Daw out of her own little world. The wrong ones came instead.
‘Stop being such a selfish little cow.’
‘What will John say?’ It didn’t seem as though she’d heard. Her hands were clenched, her eyes staring at the floor.
‘About the baby or Mother?’
Daw shook her head. ‘I don’t know what he’ll think.’
‘He’ll be so pleased to hear about the baby, I doubt what mother is up to is likely to matter.’
Daw shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Living in sin is so shameful. She suddenly spun round on Lizzie. ‘Have you told Ma about the baby?’
Lizzie nodded.
Daw covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, God!’
‘She was pleased for you.’
Emerging from behind her hands, Daw looked up at her wide-eyed, the darkness of her pupils in stark contrast to her creamy white skin, her lips blood red because she’d been biting them. ‘Oh God. It almost makes me as bad as her, doesn’t it? I’m as much of a slut as she is!’
‘Daw!’
Daw began to wail and scream.
‘Daw! Stop it!’
She didn’t stop. Aware of the noise carrying downstairs, Lizzie swung out her hand and slapped her face, hard enough to leave a vivid red mark.
Daw was stunned to silence. She sat shaking on the side of the bed, her eyes staring at nothing, her lips quivering as she rubbed the hot hand mark on her face.
Seeing her sister’s round-eyed shock, Lizzie was suddenly overcome with remorse. ‘Daw, I’m sorry …’
Her sister stiffened before her outstretched hand, sniffed and stuck out her chin. ‘At least me and John will be married. There won’t be any shame attached to this baby. If there was, I’d throw myself in the river!’
The statement was delivered with chilling resolve.
Lizzie turned away, telling herself that everything would turn out fine – or as well as it could be expected to.
But there was worse to come.
As she descended the stairs, her eyes met those of her father standing at the bottom. She could tell by his face that he’d heard every word.
Her abdomen tightened against the sudden urge to use the lavatory. ‘Dad … I …’ Whatever she might have considered saying froze in her throat. It was hard to read the look on his face, the darkness in his eyes, but she saw the way his cheeks flexed with tension and knew that he knew …
What he said next was not what she’d expected him to say.
‘Tell our Daw to write to John right now. Tell ’er to marry the bloke now. Get ‘im to put in for compassionate leave right now, not in a few months, not when he gets a chance at some leave, now!’
Lizzie looked back up the stairs and saw Daw looking down, her perplexed expression mirroring her own feelings.
Stanley was eager to visit his mother and Lizzie offered to take him there. ‘Where does she live?’ he asked eagerly, as she pulled his balaclava over his head and tucked his scarf into a firm knot beneath his chin.
‘You’ll know when we get there.’
There was more than one reason for taking him with her; it would keep him away from the bad company he’d fallen in with. She wasn’t always there to keep him under control, her father had turned into himself since her mother had left, and Daw was too busy looking after herself.
Harry came by at least once a week and was the only one Stanley really looked up to.
‘All my mates have seen Harry in his car. Do you think he’ll take us for a ride in it when he’s not doing secret things?’ he asked her, as they walked from Kent Street, past the red brick of E. S. & A. Robinson, paper bag manufacturer, and into East Street.
Another one of his famous stories? she wondered. ‘What secret things?’
‘When I asked our Harry why he’d never had a car before, he said it was cos he couldn’t afford it, and now he’s doing other, special work, now he can, thanks to the war and all that. So me and me mates talked about it, and we reckon it’s because he’s doing secret things – you know – like a spy.’
‘Like Beau Drummond or Richard Hannay.’
‘Have they got cars too?’
Lizzie smiled. Spying was secondary in importance to an Austin Seven or a Morris.
Stanley continued to chatter, mostly telling her about his mates. Luckily, when he did ask more questions, only a simple yes or no was needed in reply, which gave Lizzie time to think.
How was it going to be when mother and son were reunited? She was very aware that on sight of Stanley her mother might resort to her old ways, putting his welfare and everyone else’s before her own. She was determined this would not happen. This war was going to change quite a few things, including women’s lives. Her mother had to be assured of this.
Lizzie half turned into the pawnshop doorway, when Stanley stopped dead in his tracks, a look of dark horror distorting his pale features.
‘I’m not going in there! That’s where Mr Hitler lives!’
‘Stanley, don’t be so ridiculous. This is where your mother lives now.’
Stanley was adamant. ‘You don’t understand. He keeps people there. He kidnaps them and keeps them there. Some of them he sends to Germany as slaves!’
Stanley’s outburst began to attract attention. Lizzie felt her face reddening. This was ridiculous!
‘Stanley. Do you want to see your mother?’
He nodded. ‘But not in there. I ain’t going in there, cos if we go in there, he’ll kidnap us too and put us in a box and send us to Germany.’
Losing patience, Lizzie tried to pull him into the doorway. ‘Now come on …’
Stanley’s hand slipped from her grasp. ‘No!’
Like a rabbit pursued by a pack of hounds, he was gone, darting off into the Saturday morning crowds, leaving Lizzie frustrated, her arms hanging loose at her side.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was Wednesday evening, the ti
me they’d agreed to set aside for cleaning and generally taking stock. The stocktaking had taken longer than they’d expected, so by the time it came to cleaning, a misty evening had settled, made darker by the rules of the blackout.
Mary Anne put more effort than usual into polishing the pawnshop counter and even tried putting some shine back into the brass grille dividing their domain from that of the customers.
Every so often, Michael looked at her sidelong, knowing what she was worrying about but leaving her to get it out of her system.
Lizzie had apologised for Stanley running away. Out of earshot of Michael, she’d reiterated Stanley’s view of the pawnbroker to her mother.
‘He’s convinced that he’s Adolf Hitler and that he boxes people up and sends them to Germany.’
Terribly disappointed, Mary Anne had sighed. ‘It’s those boys he mixes with,’ she’d said, the old worries momentarily taking the newfound shine from her eyes. ‘I should have been there …’
Lizzie had been firm, as though she were the mother and Mary Anne the daughter. ‘You have your own life to lead, Mum. He’ll come round. He’s just a boy. Leave it to me.’
Later that evening, Michael, sensing she was troubled, gently fondled the nape of her neck. They lay naked together in the big bed that had come to represent the safest place she’d ever been in her life.
‘You are troubled, Marianna?’
She closed her eyes. When he called her Marianna in that tone of voice, she could almost forget that she had ever been called Mary Anne. ‘I have a headache. Just keep stroking my neck.’
‘You were disappointed Stanley did not come?’
She sighed. ‘He’s mixing with a rum lot. They’re filling his head with stupid tales.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes. They’re the boys you suspect of painting the swastikas on the door.’
‘Ah yes. They run away when they see me.’
He was silent for a while. Mary Anne lay with her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart as his hand stroked her neck. Bliss! She’d never felt such bliss, such a state of calm and being treasured. Henry had never made her feel anything but used. Making love with Henry was having sex. Having sex with Michael was making love. There was a distinct difference and made life worth living.
They planned to wash the black and white tiles in the portico once the shop was closed. The bolt was already slid back and the door unlocked in preparation. Unfortunately, it was now too dark, but Michael had left the door to the last minute – a last minute that had already come and gone.
Sudden scuffling at the door made them look up, exchange a quick glance, and spring into action.
Michael flung the door open, his athletic frame pouncing on the perpetrator with the paint can and brush, pulling him into the shop, slamming the door and slamming the man’s body against it.
‘Routledge!’
Routledge fought to prise Michael’s hands from around his throat, his fingers clawing at his iron grip but making no progress.
Gentle, sensitive Michael; his face changed into a demon-like mask, inches from the face of Thomas Routledge, the man he’d thrown off the premises. His eyes were like daggers, his words spat like bullets.
‘So you think you are clever, eh? You think it is clever to paint swastikas on my door, just like the fascists do in Germany. And what next? Force me to scrub lavatories with a prayer shawl? Rape my mother in front of my eyes? Send me off to be worked to death? That is what it means! That is what it means!’
The intensity of feeling behind the words was as powerful as Michael’s voice, echoing around the little shop, taking hold of him so completely that he forgot he had his hands around a man’s throat, didn’t see his struggle for breath or the plum-coloured cheeks slowly changing to blue.
Mary Anne threw up her hands in horror. ‘Michael! Michael!’
At the sound of her voice, a sudden moment followed when it seemed as though time stood still, the two men locked in a rigid, deadly embrace.
Michael’s arms trembled as he came to, gradually loosening his grip. His hair fell forwards in wild disarray and the anger lingered in his eyes as his arms fell to his sides. He continued to stand in front of Routledge, daring him to move.
Spluttering and rubbing at his throat, Thomas Routledge rolled his eyes to settle on her. ‘Ta very much, Mrs Randall. Foreign bastard would have bloody killed me …’
Michael made a move to grab him again.
‘No!’ Mary Anne moved to Michael’s side.
‘Ta again, Mrs Randall,’ said Routledge breathlessly, licking his fleshy lips as though he was considering eating her off a plate.
‘I think you should go, Mr Routledge,’ she said, turning to Michael, clasping his upper arm against her with both of her own.
Gaslights hung at irregular intervals in the shop, their old-fashioned glow sending Michael’s shadow to fall blackly over the cowering man, and yet there was defiance in Routledge’s prickly face – a chin unshaved for days judging by the length of stubble. He smelled of damp earth and stale beer.
As he straightened, Routledge threw her a polite nod and she fancied there was even a little gratefulness in his expression, but she had no wish to dwell on his face, so turned away, leaning her head against Michael’s arm.
‘I can see why old Henry married you, Missus, especially all that happened in the war and ’ow it affected ’im.’
‘My husband loves war, Mr Routledge. He’s made it perfectly plain over the years that he loved the army and that it was the best time of his life; all comrades together.’
‘Ah, no. That ain’t ’ow it was. And I should know. We was in the same regiment, you see.’
‘So I understand.’
Feeling her tremble against him, Michael interceded. ‘I think you should go.’
Routledge’s expression darkened. ‘Everyone’s shouting and hollerin’ about war and they don’t know what it’s really like, not unless they was in the last lot, and we was, me and the likes of Henry Randall and his mate, Lewis Allen.’
Mary Anne looked up at the mention of the name of the other man in the photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Who was he?’
Routledge looked pleased that she’d asked. ‘Lewis Allen? Well, he was yer husband’s best mate, he was. They went through everything together, right up to nineteen eighteen, all the gut-wrenching horror of the trenches. Them places stunk of death and mud and the rats were as big as rabbits and if they ’ad been, we’d ’ave roasted them. Well, if I was honest, I admit we did roast a few now and again. Army rations weren’t up to much.’
Mary Anne didn’t need to look at Michael to know that he was listening as intently as she was.
‘What happened in nineteen eighteen?’
There was a rasping sound, like a file going over rough metal as Routledge rubbed at the stubble on his chin. The weasel-like look went from his eyes and for a moment something returned of the young man he had been before the brutalisation of war had changed him.
‘Well, it was like this. Henry and his old friend Lewis Allen were always together, went through everything together, and made sure they backed each other up when needed, covering for each other in the heaviest of barrages. One day they got caught out in No Man’s Land. They were trapped in a hole full of bodies and bits of bodies and legs and arms and what ’ave you, all rotting into the mud and stinkin’ to ’igh ’eaven. There was an almighty artillery barrage goin’ on and they were trapped there for twenty-four hours. Well, that, I can tell you, is a pretty penny to ’appen. By the time they got out, they was both in a bit of a state, but Lewis far worse than Henry. Poor old Lewis fell to pieces, jerking about like a puppet on a string. Shell shock they calls it now, but back then not everybody believed it existed. Cowardice said the commander, and poor old Lewis was taken out to be shot. The worse thing was that Henry was forced to be part of the firing squad. He was never the same after that, swore he would never care for anyone ever again. Couldn’t fac
e losing them, you see?’
Thomas Routledge counted himself lucky to have got off so lightly. If he hadn’t heard the kids call the pawnbroker Mr Hitler, and then seen them paint the first swastika, he would never have got the idea. He’d bumped into Henry outside the Red Cow, and had voiced his surprise that he wasn’t going inside for a beer.
Henry had shaken his head. ‘No.’
‘Just one? For old times’ sake?’
As is the way of hardened drinkers, one pint became two, then three, then four. Eventually Henry told him what was troubling him.
Thomas had felt sorry for the bloke, but following the threat from Harry Randall, he didn’t dare tell him where his wife was. Harry was gaining a bit of a reputation in a criminal underworld that had grown in influence since the onset of the blackout and, more especially, rationing of everything contributory to a comfortable lifestyle. Thomas wondered how much Henry’s father knew of his son’s business dealings. It puzzled him as to how Harry had managed to keep one step ahead of the call-up. Something smelled, and if he could find the source of the smell he could scupper Harry’s rise to fame and fortune, perhaps even make a bit for himself.
‘I’ll think on it,’ he muttered to himself, pushing open the door of the Queen’s Arms to the warm fug of a crowded bar, something he might never have experienced again if Mary Anne Randall hadn’t stopped the pawnbroker choking him.
He toasted her with his first beer. ‘To the love of a good woman.’
A few regulars joined his toast. Someone asked him if he’d finally found the love of his life.
‘Did that years ago,’ he replied, lifting his beer and kissing the glass. ‘She fills me with gladness … and deserves another kiss.’
Following Routledge’s departure, Michael slid the bolt firmly across the door and turned the key. He was slow to face her, and Mary Anne thought she knew the reason why. They’d both been affected by the account Routledge had given them, but in slightly different ways.
‘He might still be inclined to report me to the police,’ he said.
