Beneath a Frosty Moon

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘He’s not here, lass, but come in, come in.’ He reached out and took the case from her, the simple act of kindness bringing the tears she had been fighting closer to the surface. ‘Come in and get warm and I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  She followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It had surprised her in the early days with Ken that he hadn’t got his own place and was content to continue to rent a room, but the more she’d got to know him the more she had realized that he didn’t like the thought of permanence in any realm. It had bothered her, it still continued to bother her, but that was Ken and she accepted him as he was. And since he’d been with her they’d established a pattern; most evenings she cooked him dinner and he often stayed the night so they had breakfast together, although they always took care to arrive at the docks separately. Not that that had fooled anyone. Her boss, a nice family man with umpteen grandchildren, had taken her aside not long after she had taken up with Ken and warned her that he was not someone she should get too friendly with. But it had been too late by then. She had already been head over heels in love.

  She looked at Edwin who was busying himself putting the kettle on the range. ‘Do you know where Ken’s gone?’

  ‘He came in not so long ago and then went straight out again. Someone had left a note for him earlier, a spot of business down at the docks, I think.’

  Edwin hadn’t met her eyes as he had spoken and she knew Ken had told him about Gregory turning up. Mind you, with the state of his face she didn’t suppose he could have done much else, to be fair, and her arriving unannounced with a suitcase was a giveaway. ‘Did he say how long he’d be?’ She was feeling a bit funny now, truth be told, odd, sick, light-headed.

  Edwin must have guessed – probably she looked bad – because the next moment he fetched out a bottle of brandy, pouring her a glass and one for himself as he said, ‘We’ll have a snorter before the tea, eh, lass? Get that down you. It’ll make you feel better.’

  She didn’t argue and the alcohol did help. Edwin made a pot of tea and poured two cups, adding a liberal dollop of the brandy to both before he passed her one. Sitting down opposite her he said nothing for a little while, clearly at something of a loss. Distressed females weren’t Edwin’s forte.

  She liked Edwin. He was rough and ready and built like a brick outhouse but his heart was in the right place, and it was this that enabled Nancy to say, ‘I suppose Ken told you about Gregory?’

  Edwin nodded uncomfortably.

  ‘You must think I’m an awful woman.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, lass. Course I don’t. It’s this blasted war, it’s thrown everything up in the air. Anyway, it’s nowt to do with me or anyone else.’

  ‘Ken doesn’t know yet but I’ve left Gregory.’

  Again Edwin nodded, but now something in his face sharpened her tone when she said, ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Nowt, nowt.’

  ‘Edwin, say what’s on your mind.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ His head made a quick little movement. ‘Have you talked it over with Ken before, about you leaving your husband, I mean?’

  Had she? She’d talked about it for sure but Ken had usually changed the subject or come out with some platitude or other. ‘Of course,’ she said quickly, but they both knew she had hesitated a mite too long.

  ‘The thing is, lass, Ken’s a good bloke, none better, but some fellas never have it in ’em to settle down.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect him to settle down, not in that way, a family way. I’ve had my bairns and I wouldn’t want any more.’

  ‘Well, like I said, it’s nowt to do with me.’

  She had just opened her mouth to reply when the air-raid sirens sounded. The last raid had been in the first week of November when there had been quite a few bombs falling in the region of South Dock. One had fallen on the docks railway line, hurling a steam train twenty yards down the track where it had ended up overturned and at right angles to the rails. Others had fallen on the foreshore and in the streets close to the docks with considerable damage to property and loss of life. The Luftwaffe had targeted the harbour and industrial installations, and although some bombs had failed to detonate, enough had exploded to cause terrible fires, death and horrific injuries. It was this that was on Nancy’s mind now as she said, ‘Ken! He’s at the docks you say?’ as she jumped to her feet. ‘I must find him.’

  ‘Hold your horses, you can’t go looking for him, Nancy. Ten to one you wouldn’t find him and even if you did he wouldn’t thank you for turning up when he’s about a spot of business, you know that as well as I do. He’s a big boy, he can look after himself. Now come on, come into the shelter and wait. He’ll come back, never fear. Only the good die young.’

  It was Edwin’s attempt at a joke and one Nancy didn’t appreciate. Nevertheless, she allowed him to lead her out of the kitchen and into the back yard where the three men had dug out an Anderson shelter at the beginning of the war. Maurice, the other member of the house, joined them seconds later, grumbling at being woken up and smelling strongly of beer. In minutes he was asleep on the top bunk of the rickety structure the men had built inside the shelter.

  Three quarters of an hour or so later Nancy and Edwin could hear bombs exploding in the distance. ‘Seaburn,’ said Edwin. ‘They’re getting it tonight, poor blighters.’

  Nancy sat in the pitch darkness, listening to the anti-aircraft fire and praying Ken was somewhere safe as Maurice snored on. Perhaps God was going to punish her for her sin on the very day she had left Gregory, she thought wildly. They hadn’t had a raid for four weeks and for it to happen tonight was no coincidence. Hail, Mary, full of grace. Hail, Mary, full of grace . . . The words kept repeating themselves over and over in her head through the noise outside. Sorry as she felt for the folk Seaburn way, she prayed the Luftwaffe would stay on the north side of the river. Unbidden, a memory from the past flashed into her mind. She had been heavily pregnant with Cora who’d been born at the end of May, and in the middle of the month an unseasonably hot spell had hit the north-east. One Sunday Gregory had taken her to Seaburn for a treat, and he had hired one of the bulky canvas tents that were stored on the promenade and rented out to sun-seekers for the day. It had been a wonderful day, special, she had thought about it for months afterwards. Gregory had danced attendance on her, fetching them ice creams and lemonade, and then dishes of whelks and mussels from one of the old fishwives who plied their trade on the beach. They had laughed and dreamed, talking about the baby and whether it was a boy or girl, what it would look like, whether it would have her red hair. And it had. Cora had.

  A shaft of emotional pain that was so real it physically hurt shot through her chest. Cora would hate her now. She had always been something of a daddy’s girl and Gregory had adored her from the moment she was born, saying she was a miniature of her mother. Cora wouldn’t forgive her for hurting him.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut in the blackness, telling herself it was too late for any regrets. And she didn’t regret leaving Gregory because she couldn’t have done anything else, not loving Ken as she did. She would write to Cora and explain; she owed her and the rest of the bairns that. Anna and Susan wouldn’t understand, of course, and no doubt Cora would colour their view of their mother given time. Her lips tightened. She would get no mercy from Cora, she knew that. And perhaps she didn’t deserve any.

  The all-clear sounded at twenty to one in the morning. Maurice was snoring so soundly that Edwin decided to leave him in the shelter when he and Nancy went indoors, whereupon he insisted on making another pot of tea despite Nancy urging him to go to bed while she sat up for Ken. ‘You need your sleep,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be all right sitting here.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, lass,’ Edwin smiled, bringing out a tin of biscuits that was no doubt one of Ken’s acquisitions that had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’. ‘Never needed much sleep. Me mam, God bless her soul, always used to say that’s why I was as thick as two s
hort planks – never rested me brain.’

  Nancy smiled. He was a nice man, Edwin. A gentle giant.

  It was three o’clock when they heard the front door open and close. Edwin stood up. ‘Wait here, lass. I’ll tell him what’s what, all right?’

  Nancy waited. She heard the murmur of voices and then Ken’s ‘What?’ followed by Edwin’s deeper voice saying something she couldn’t quite make out except that it ended with ‘. . . brought it on yourself.’

  The sick feeling was back, worse now, because she was having to face what Edwin’s concern and sympathy had been hinting at all night. The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar; now it was thrust open and Ken walked in. It wasn’t so much the visible result of Gregory’s handiwork that caused Nancy’s heart to lurch, although Ken’s face was undoubtedly something of a mess, but his furious expression. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  She made herself talk calmly. ‘What do you think? After what Gregory walked in on?’

  ‘He’s thrown you out?’

  Had he? Not really. She supposed it had been her decision when she had told him she loved Ken and they wanted to be together. Something warned her to prevaricate. ‘What would you have done?’ she said quietly. ‘Coming home from the war and finding that.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ He understood that line of reasoning. ‘Well, it couldn’t have come at a worse time, that’s the thing.’

  She felt a cold shiver although the kitchen was warm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m in a spot of bother. I need to get away for a while.’

  ‘What sort of bother?’

  ‘Ending up in the Wear with me throat cut sort of bother.’

  Shocked but still suspecting it was an excuse, she said, ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  His face was grim and he poured himself a good measure of brandy from the bottle Edwin had left next to the range, swallowing it before he answered. ‘There’s a bloke I know, Vickers is his name, and I got it on good authority tonight that he’s marked me card.’

  ‘But why? What have you done?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said irritably, pouring another brandy and wincing as the neat alcohol met his bruised mouth. ‘The fact is, I need to make meself scarce, disappear. I’ve a couple of pals in Newcastle who’ll put me up for a while till I decide what to do. I’ve got a bit salted away –’ more than a bit, but he wasn’t going to tell Nancy that – ‘so I’ll be all right and mebbe it’s time to start again somewhere new. I’m sorry, Nancy, but there it is.’

  She stared at him. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘It’s not daft. There’s nothing for me here and we can be together. You said you wanted to start again somewhere new, well, so do I. I mean it, Ken. I’ve burned my boats here.’

  ‘I never asked you to do that, Nancy.’

  ‘Well, it’s done anyway.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I need to go today, straight away.’

  ‘That’s all right. I can write to Gregory and tell him, that’s only fair, and to – to the bairns.’

  ‘It’ll be no life for you, not with me.’

  ‘It will, it will.’ Aware that she was pleading but unable to stop herself, tears pricking her eyes, she said, ‘I can’t go back to him, Ken. I can’t. And – and I love you, and you love me. We – we could see how it goes, couldn’t we?’

  After a few moments, during which he returned her stare, Ken said flatly, ‘Very well. Have it your own way.’

  It wasn’t how she had wanted it, how she had imagined their being together would start. What did it portend? And then she caught at the thought, refusing to dwell on it. It would be all right. They would be all right. She would make sure of it. She would make him need her like she needed him; it would only be a matter of time. And so great was his power over her that what she was giving up – her home, her bairns, her friends and her respectability – was as nothing compared to the gain of him.

  Chapter Nine

  Cora sat on the edge of the bed staring at the single sheet of paper in her hand. She had recognized her mother’s handwriting on the envelope that Mrs Burns had handed to her on their return from school that day, and after telling Maria and Maud to stay with the little ones, she had gone upstairs to read it without the others being present. She knew something was wrong. There had been no Christmas presents, not even a card from her mam, let alone a visit, and it was now the third week of January. Their old headmaster, Mr Wood, had promised all the evacuees that he would see to it that they were notified of any news from home, from which Cora and the older children had assumed – correctly – he meant bad news, and as there had been nothing from him or anyone in authority she knew her mother hadn’t been bombed out or worse. So that meant she just hadn’t bothered about them, even at Christmas. She had been upset and angry and it had further hardened her heart towards the woman who had given birth to her.

  But this, this was worse, a hundred times worse, than her mam merely forgetting about them. She glanced again at the sheet of paper but without really seeing it, every word burned on her brain.

  Dear Cora,

  This is a difficult letter for me to write but first of all I want you to know I love you, all of you, and I wish things could be different. There’s good news in that your da is home and he won’t be going back to fight. The other thing is that I have gone to live in Newcastle with a friend of mine called Ken who I met through work. I’m sorry, lass. From the depths of my heart I’m sorry and I hope one day you will forgive me. I know you won’t understand now but perhaps when you’re older you might see that as good a man as your da is, he wasn’t the one for me and I found that out too late. Please don’t think too badly of me, lass. If it wasn’t for this war probably things would have gone on as they were but it’s changed everything and there is no going back. I love you all.

  Mam xxx

  Her mam had run off with another man, the way Mrs Fraser, their neighbour several doors down in Sunderland, had done three years ago just before the war had started. It had been the talk of the street and even though Mr Fraser was a drunkard and had been known to knock her about as regular as clockwork, it had been Mrs Fraser who’d been universally condemned and Mr Fraser had acquired the halo of sainthood. But her da wasn’t like Mr Fraser, Cora told herself bitterly. Her da had worshipped her mam, she’d heard her grandma say so on more than one occasion, and anyway you’d have to be blind not to see it. And her mam had said her da was home from the war. Did that mean he was all by himself in their house? It must do. And he would only be back if he had been injured. Oh, Da, Da.

  She jumped up and paced about the room for a few moments before sitting down again, her stomach churning. Her mam had left them all. It seemed impossible but it was true. It was as though a great chasm had opened up and everything that had been normal and good and right had been swallowed up. She wanted to cry but she knew she couldn’t; the others were waiting for her. Besides, her eyes were dry and burning and the crying was all inside, in a great aching lump below her ribs.

  How could she tell Maria and Horace their mam was gone? Anna and Susan wouldn’t really understand, besides which they rarely mentioned their old life these days, but Horace, and Maria especially, would know what this meant to them as a family. She would have to press home the fact that her da was back from the war, but she didn’t know how he was or anything, and her mam going would crush him, she knew that. She wished her mam had died, she wished she had been killed by a bomb. That would have been better than this. For her da, for her, for them all. She hated her mam. Oh, she did, she hated her.

  I love you, that’s what her mam had written, and I wish things could be different. The liar. If she had wanted things to be different she wouldn’t have done what she’d done. And to blame the war. Cora’s lip curled as an icy rage filled her. Her mam was to blame for hurting her da, her mam and her mam alone. She was filthy, wicked.

  She had to go downsta
irs and talk to Maria. She wouldn’t tell Anna and Susan yet, not until she’d had a chance to discuss everything with Horace and Wilfred. Strangely, Jed didn’t enter her mind at this point; it was Wilfred she needed and who she knew would understand. He had always loved her mam, so he would know how devastating this was. Since the summer they had got back on their old footing and she had been so thankful for it; until things had righted themselves she hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. He might not be related to her by blood but he was her brother in every way that counted, and she knew now she had been mistaken that he thought about her in that way. He was the old Wilfred again, family.

  Folding the letter into a small square, she tucked it in the pocket of her dress. She wouldn’t tell Mrs Burns about her mam running off but she would write to her da straight away and post it without the farmer’s wife knowing. He was her main concern now. She had washed her hands of her mother.

  She came downstairs to find the others in the scullery melting the small scraps of soap saved by the household into a soap jelly by pouring a little boiling water over them and adding a teaspoonful of borax to every pint of the solution. Now that rationing was biting and countless personal and household items had become virtually unobtainable, it made the large weekly wash even more of a trial for the girls. They also added borax to the laundry to loosen the grease and dirt and soften the water so that less of the soap jelly was required to make a good lather, but the mixture was nothing like the old soap powders that were now unavailable. Mrs Burns had taken them into the nearest market town the week before Christmas because they had all been wearing shoes that were too small for them for months and which had eventually fallen apart, but had flatly refused to use any coupons on clothes except for underwear. Instead she’d obtained some plain material and some tweed from a farmer’s market and set Cora, Maria and Maud to sewing new dresses for themselves. Maud’s clothes were too threadbare and patched to pass down to Anna and Susan, but Mrs Burns told the older girls to alter the frocks that they had brought with them to the farm for their sisters.