JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  Pop leant in towards the fireplace and blew his pipe-smoke at the flue. “And we’re glad to have you. I only wish you could stay longer.”

  “When must you go?” Mena asked, alarmed by the suggestion that their fruit-bearing guest had to leave again so soon.

  “I might just fit in a little tea before I head back, but only if it’s early. A car should be here for me around six.”

  “We’ll make sure of it,” Pop said.

  There was a tap at the door and Mena turned towards it as it opened, expecting to see her mother. It was Mary; another smile to replace the one she had suddenly lost. She looked amazing, Mena thought. She was out of uniform, in heels, which helped, and real stockings too, she supposed. She wore a light-grey jacket, belted at the waist and a matching skirt that was fitted all the way to her knees so that she waddled like a duck when she came into the room. At least that’s how Mena saw things, but the smile on Edward’s face as he rushed to meet her suggested to Mena that he liked the effect. What really set the look off was the fact that she was already wearing her strawberry-blonde hair in the same kind of up-do Mena had planned for herself that evening. Mary must have known that Eddie would be gone again by then.

  There followed a kiss that lasted all of five seconds but which felt to Mena more like five minutes. Her father looked away into the fireplace and continued to puff on his pipe as Mena watched her sister’s ankle slide the length of her slender calf and back again. She wished her calves were that slender. She thought how unfair it was that she should still carry the softness of her childhood just as she was beginning to feel like a woman, but she figured the Land Army would soon sort that out. It would be a ‘healthy, happy job’ according to the poster she had in her room and there was certainly nothing soft about the pitchfork-wielding girl in the green pullover and khaki corduroy breeches depicted in the advertisement. Mena saw Edward whisper into Mary’s ear and Mary whispered something back. She couldn’t hear what it was, but it set the young lovers giggling. A year ago, perhaps two, Mena would have charged in and insisted they tell her what they were giggling about, but she was all grown-up now and knew better.

  When at last Mary and Edward managed to peel themselves apart they came hand in hand to the fireplace, smiling broadly and already glowing long before they reached it. Mary seemed to see Mena then for the first time.

  “Is that our Mena?” she said. “No, it can’t be.”

  Mena knew her sister was teasing, but it was the first time she’d made herself up at home and she was enjoying the compliments. She couldn’t suppress her smile, however hard she tried to. She gave a little curtsey and lowered her head to hide her blush.

  “You look beautiful,” Mary said. She leant in and they touched cheeks. “Merry Christmas, sis,” she added. Then she kissed her father and said, “You too, Pop. Merry Christmas.”

  There was no preceding knock at the sitting-room door the next time it opened and the sight of her mother standing in the glow of the frame reminded Mena that she had been by the fire too long. Margaret Lasseter looked flushed as she continued to wipe her hands on the stained apron that covered her cornflower-blue day-dress. She was a slim woman, almost as tall as Pop, with short mousy hair, sharp-set features and eyes that missed nothing. There was the hint of a smile there somewhere, probably for the benefit of their guest, but Mena knew she was in trouble.

  “Sorry, Mother, I was just coming.”

  “Well hurry along, girl!” Margaret said. She smiled more fully, yet unconvincingly, at Edward. “Edward’s brought Christmas with him this year,” she added. “Enough to last the week, I should think. Real turkey, too, and there’s bacon for breakfast and a dozen real eggs.” She was talking to the room now. Then directly to Mena, she added, “It all has to be prepared, you know. Quickly girl. Unless you want us all eating dinner at tea-time.”

  Mena quickened her pace, but as she approached the doorway, she faltered. Her mother’s feigned smile had all but collapsed, replaced by disbelief as she clutched at the wooden crucifix she always wore on a rough length of string around her neck. Another step and Mena could hear the air drawing in through her nose and she knew she was really in for it when she saw her mother’s lips begin to tremble and shift as if in utterance of some silent prayer.

  It came without further warning.

  Mena reached the door and that dirty apron was suddenly in her face, rubbing and scratching and tearing at her mouth. She felt her mother’s firm hand on the back of her head suddenly and she was led out of the room, bent almost double.

  “You little Jezebel!” her mother said, loud in Mena’s ear.

  Then through the opening sniffle of her tears, Mena heard her father call out, “Now Margaret, there’s no harm in -”

  The door closed.

  “Wash it off!” her mother said. She shoved Mena towards the stairs. “And don’t you come down again until you’ve prayed for His forgiveness.”

  Mena felt the back of her mother’s hand slap and sting across the back of her legs, causing her to skip the next three steps at once.

  “And be quick about it!”

  Chapter Four

  Mena sat in front of her dressing table mirror and cried into her hands for a full ten minutes. When she stopped crying she spent several minutes more just staring at the rag doll before her, thinking about her favourite book and wishing that, like Alice, she could disappear into her own reflection and find that other world. She barely noticed the door open behind her; barely saw Mary enter the room and squeeze a flannel into the washbasin. But she felt the cool, damp cloth on her skin and she saw the rag doll in the mirror begin to fade as Mary drew the flannel soothingly across her face, back and forth, caressing not scratching, until the rag doll was gone.

  “It’s never fair,” Mary said. “And believe me, I’ve had my share. And don’t blame Pop,” she added. “He’s had his share, too.”

  A comb reached through Mena’s hair. It felt nice, like lying on damp sand on a warm day at the beach as the sea combs foaming bubbles along your entire body. She drew a relaxed breath and slowly let it go.

  “Do you remember when Mother first caught me kissing Edward?” Mary said. “Of course you don’t. That all happened off stage, but you must have wondered where I’d been for so long? ‘Mary-Grace!’ she’d yelled at me.”

  Mena saw a little girl in the mirror now. Not the woman who had sat there earlier, full of wanton smiles and sultry expressions; Veronica Lake was long gone.

  “No?” Mary continued. “Well I was in my room the rest of that day and all the next day, too. Locked in my clothes-cupboard to be exact, with nothing to eat or drink. I was fourteen then. You would only have been about eight.”

  Mena missed the combing when it stopped. She felt an Alice band slide into place and she saw Mary’s face in the mirror beside her own.

  “There,” Mary said. “I think Mother will approve now, don’t you?”

  Mena nodded. Then beneath her gaze she saw a white handkerchief parcel slide onto the dressing table.

  “Don’t I always look after you?” Mary said. “I thought this might cheer you up. I was going to give it to you tonight, but I think you’d better have it now.”

  Mena looked at her sister and then back to the parcel. She picked it up and pulled at a loose end of the material where Pop’s initials were embroidered. The handkerchief draped open and her eyes immediately fell upon the words, Boots No.7. She looked at Mary again, this time flicking straight back to the gift. She couldn’t believe it. There were several items and they looked brand new. She turned and hugged Mary.

  “Just don’t let Mother catch you wearing it this time,” Mary said. “When she makes you hand over your makeup, give her the old stuff. She’ll be happy enough.”

  “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you,” Mena said.

  “Don’t mention it. Now come on, it’s Christmas. Put all this behind you and come and have some breakfast.”

  It had seemed to Mena that the Christma
s of 1943 would go down in her memory as the worst Christmas ever, but the day quickly regained its rhythm. At seeing Mena again her mother had simply smiled at her like any proud mother might, kissed her forehead and said, “Look at you. That’s much better, isn’t it? Now pass me down that skillet, there’s a dear.” And that was the end of it.

  Mena was last to sit down to breakfast, which they ate in the conservatory at the back of the house, looking out over leaf-strewn grounds and skeletal trees towards Evington. Pop was quick to pacify any lingering discomfort over the make-up incident with a few jokes that had everyone laughing more out of sympathy than good humour. And with Edward there, winking at her as soon as she sat down as if to ask if she was okay, Mena could only think of her new make-up and smile back to the affirmative.

  Ordinarily it was the custom - or duty as far as Margaret Lasseter was concerned - to attend morning Mass at St Mary’s in Wigston on Christmas Day. But soon after petrol rationing began, despite the extra coupons Pop received for his rounds, the journey to the church in the Morris could no longer be justified. At any other time, Mena knew that her mother would think nothing of taking them all on the near eight mile return bicycle ride, but today, with Edward there, there was just too much to do. Accordingly, prayers were said often and in such times were never more heartfelt.

  After breakfast it had been Mary’s suggestion that they should visit with a few of their close neighbours to share some of the treats Edward had brought with him. This delighted her mother who was quick to agree, saying that it was as saintly a thought as any she’d heard.

  “That’s our Mary,” Margaret said with a smile. “Our Mary full of grace.”

  This occupied the rest of the morning and their own Christmas dinner was all the more rushed for it, but no one seemed to mind except the twins, who were always hungry. Presents traditionally came after dinner at the Lasseter house, which again no one except the twins seemed to mind. The pair had rushed away from the dining table as soon as the last Amen had fallen; off into the sitting room to the decorated tree and the gifts beneath it. These were typically homemade or practical things like Pop’s ‘new’ dressing gown or a bar of soap. The twins were soon pulled away again though to help with the washing up and it was late afternoon by the time a few drinks had been poured and the presents had been unwrapped.

  The sun was low and paling at the windows. Outside, the frost had already begun its return to Oadby, but the fire kept the cold distant. Mary and Edward were on the settee, as inseparable as they had been all day. Margaret was in her usual chair by the fireplace and Pop stood by the grate because it was the only place in the house where he was allowed to smoke his pipe. Mena was sitting on the floor, cross-legged as she watched the twins, who were quiet for what seemed like the first time all day as they tried to work out how to play their new board game, Touring England. Mena knew it was one of her brothers’ old games, but it was new to the twins and they seemed content enough with it, pushing their cardboard cars around the countryside with no understanding or concern for the rules. Behind them on their own settee, which over time had come to need the throw that covered it, Xavier and Manfred were sleeping, or looked to be.

  The Lasseters had a Pye radiogram that always sat on top of the sideboard. The case was brown Bakelite and it had a fan shaped window for the frequency numbers. Pop would sit there for hours some evenings, turning the dial, listening for German spies broadcasting cryptic messages - a sure sign that Jerry had reached England’s shores. The whistling and the static hiss annoyed the rest of the family, especially the dogs, so Pop was often left alone to his twiddling. They never missed In Town Tonight though and at nine o’clock the dial would turn without fail to the BBC Home Service for the news programme.

  They were listening to Sandy MacPherson now, playing his organ music as he often did, throwing in something festive every now and then. Mena had no idea what the tune they were listening to was called; there were so many. “Too many,” Pop always said. She liked the Vera Lynn programme, Sincerely Yours, which her mother liked too, so she heard that show a lot. And she loved listening to anything by Glenn Miller and his band, whose music seemed to set her free, if only for three minutes at a time. The band had become very popular since the war began, but not with her mother so she had to be clever about it, often interrupting Pop, who never seemed to mind. He would give her a conspiratorial nod as she crept in at certain times and she always thought he liked the element of danger that followed after her if Mother ever found out.

  Margaret Lasseter took a sip of sherry and set her glass down on the table beside her chair. “Must you really leave us so soon, Edward,” she said. “I don’t know how we shall ever repay your kindness.”

  Mena watched her sister’s arm knot tighter through Edwards. Their hands touched and their fingers fidgeted. She thought she saw Mary nudge Edward’s thigh. Then Mary quickly hid her smile in her Vermouth.

  “Well, there is something,” Edward began. He glanced at Mary then looked back into the room.

  He was blushing, Mena thought. She saw that nudge again from Mary and noticed that her sister’s smile had broadened behind her glass.

  “What is it, Edward?” Margaret said.

  This time Mary nudged Edward so hard he moved. He turned to Pop, coughed into his hand and said, “May I speak with you, sir?”

  Despite the blush and the warmth of the fire, Mena saw the colour drain from Edward’s cheeks as he stood.

  Pop set his glass of Mackeson’s down on the mantle. “Of course, lad. You know you can speak freely here. There’s no need to ask.”

  Edward cleared his throat again. “I believe on this occasion there is, sir.” His posture became authoritative, straightening like he was standing to attention. “Alone, if you please.”

  Pop’s brows arched. He puffed on his pipe, blew the smoke into the fire then set it down on the mantle. He put a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We can go into the study,” he said as he led a worried looking Edward Buckley out of the room.

  They were not gone long.

  Mena heard their laughter first, followed by their loud, smiling voices on the other side of the door before it opened. Mary was already on her feet and Mena thought she looked like she was about to explode. She hopped on the spot and silently clapped her hands together several times.

  “Bring out the champagne glasses, Mother,” Pop said. He had the neck of a bottle in one hand; the other was hastily twisting at the wire. “I’ve been keeping this by for you two,” he added.

  There was a tinkle of glass from the drinks cabinet and Margaret’s eyes sparkled in their reflection as she brought them out. “Oh, this is the best news,” she said, distributing the glasses.

  Mary had an arm through Edward’s and her eyes were locked with his until the pop of the champagne cork broke the spell. It bounced off the ceiling and into the Christmas tree and Mary shot after it as Xavier and Manfred began to bark and circle between everyone.

  “Edward has asked for consent to marry our daughter,” Pop announced. “And I have given it my full blessing!” He finished pouring the champagne, half filling a glass for Mena. The twins were still sucking Coca-Cola through striped paper straws.

  “You must marry Mary at St Mary’s,” Margaret said and she laughed, adding, “I’ll not be able to say that after this glass of champagne!”

  Edward nodded. “There was never any question, Mrs Lasseter.” He smiled at Mary as she returned with a grin and held the recovered cork up for him to see.

  “And will you call me Margaret after the wedding?”

  Edward laughed through his nose. “I promise to try.”

  Pop raised his glass. “Congratulations to the pair of you.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” Margaret added as the glasses met and tinkled. “And when is the big day to be? A spring wedding perhaps? If you can wait that long.”

  Edward and Mary exchanged glances and both began to speak at once. “We were -”

  Edward c
ontinued. “We rather thought it best to wait until this wretched war was over,” he said. “I want to do what’s right for Mary and what with the rationing and our families scattered to the four winds…”

  “Quite,” Pop said, though his expression seemed to question Edward’s judgment.

  Margaret voiced their concern. “Do you think that’s wise, Edward dear? I mean, with everything that’s going on… Well you have to live each day, don’t you?”

  “Mother!” Mary said.

  “Well you do, dear. There’s no knowing if Edward will -”

  Edward cut in. “We’re completely decided on the matter.” He looked into Mary’s eyes again and held them as he spoke. His voice softened. “I have no idea if I’ll make it through this war, Mrs Lasseter, but I do believe I’ll stand a better chance if I have your daughter’s hand waiting for me at the end of it.”

  Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Edward,” she said, and she hugged him like all three of her own boys were there in her embrace.

  Much later, after Edward had left and the cold moon was high over Oadby, Mena sat in her chair by the window and looked out over the crystalline landscape. Pop had not long retired for the night - always last to bed and first to rise - and the house was still again, but she couldn’t sleep. She pulled her blanket up beneath her chin and continued to wonder why everything about her life was so unfair.

  Why couldn’t I have been born before Mary?

  Things would have been different then, she supposed. Perhaps then she would be allowed to wear make-up and she would have been allowed to join-up and get away from home as Mary had. Perhaps then she would have been the one her mother had matched with Edward Buckley so long ago and now she would be getting married and setting up her own home, somewhere far from Oadby and everything else about her life that was wrong.

  A creaking floorboard interrupted her thoughts. She imagined Pop had had one too many glasses of stout too close to bedtime, but a moment later her bedroom door opened. It was Mary, dressed in a pale-yellow nightdress that matched her own.