A Sister's Duty

by June Francis

  Amelia returned at two o’clock, carrying a large leather holdall and a shopping bag. She looked tired and her face was pinched with cold but that did not stop Rosie from flying at her. ‘You took Mam’s purse! That money belongs to us.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ said Amelia, in no mood for an argument. She took a couple of tarnished candlesticks from the holdall, placing them on the sideboard. ‘Get polishing them. We’re going to need them.’

  Rosie did not move. ‘Us kids need Mam’s money.’

  Amelia sat on a chair, stretching shapely rayon-clad legs towards the low-burning fire. ‘I need, Rosie. For all that has to be made ready to give our Violet a decent send-off and to keep you lot for the next few weeks.’

  ‘But you’re rich!’

  Amelia made a noise in her throat which could have been a chuckle. ‘Father mortgaged the house to renew the lease on the shop just before he died. There wasn’t enough insurance or money in the bank to pay off all the mortgage. I have to work hard just to keep a roof over my head.’

  ‘But Mam said—’

  ‘Stop telling me what our Vi said as if she was some blinking oracle!’ groaned Amelia.

  ‘But I wanted to give Harry his birthday treat,’ said Rosie, cheeks flaming from the force of her emotions. ‘To take him to the pantomime as Mam intended.’

  ‘Sorry, Rosie,’ said Amelia, not sounding a bit sorry. ‘But there’s no money for treats.’ She delved into the holdall again and, pushing a duster and a tin of metal polish along the floor in Rosie’s direction, ordered, ‘Now get cracking. The funeral’s on Tuesday, weather permitting. And they’ll be bringing Violet’s body here later today. I took one of her gadabout frocks from a cupboard upstairs for them to dress her in.’

  ‘Mam didn’t gad about,’ said Rosie in a choked voice. ‘She had to look nice for her job. As for the money in her purse, it was a bonus.’

  ‘Is that so?’ murmured Amelia, taking a pair of dressmaking shears out of the holdall on her knee and snipping the air with them before dropping them to the floor.

  Rosie watched her, fascinated, resisting the urge to argue with her further. ‘What are they for?’

  Amelia’s smile was grim as she dragged a tape measure out of the bag. ‘I’ve come to measure you up. I’ve some very nice material left over from when we made the blackouts. It’ll make good mourning frocks.’

  ‘This year’s latest fashion? Just what I wanted to wear,’ said Rosie.

  Amelia took out paper and pencil. ‘I’m glad you’ve a sense of humour, Rosie. You’re going to need it in the months to come. Dotty, come over here.’

  The girl got up swiftly and Amelia began to run the tape measure over her trembling figure. ‘There’s no need to shake so much. I’m not going to eat you. Keep still or this frock will fit someone the size of Thumbelina instead of a tall girl like you. Wouldn’t spectacles have helped?’

  ‘Rosie!’ There was a note of panic in Dotty’s voice.

  ‘If glasses could have helped, Mam would have seen Dotty had a pair,’ said Rosie without a hint of doubt, rubbing at a candlestick with a duster.

  Amelia glanced at her. ‘I have a friend who’s half-blind. Glasses do help.’ She jotted down figures on a scrap of paper but the girls were silent. When Amelia was done with Dotty, she told her to go and call Babs in.

  ‘Me?’ Dotty’s voice was startled.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ murmured Amelia. ‘You now, Rosie.’

  But she was already making for the door to fetch Babs. Amelia was across the room in seconds, pulling her back. ‘I said, Dotty can go. Dotty, you’re quite capable of finding your way up the lobby, I’m sure. After all, you manage to get yourself upstairs and down. It’s time your sister stopped smothering you.’

  ‘I don’t—’ began Rosie, only to fall silent at the expression on Amelia’s face. Reluctantly, she moved out of the doorway and stood stiffly as her measurements were taken.

  ‘I want to go to the funeral,’ said Harry, having accompanied Babs indoors. ‘I want new clothes and to meet the Holy Ghost. He’s coming to take Mam to Heaven.’

  ‘Oh, aye!’ said Amelia, measuring Babs swiftly.

  ‘And angels, lots of them,’ he said with relish. ‘All singing and playing harps.’

  ‘That I’d like to see,’ said his aunt, straight-faced. ‘If they turn up, I’ll let you know, Harry. But I think you’re much too young for funerals.’

  He jutted out his chin and looked ready to argue with her but she seized him by the shoulders and marched him out of the room, telling him to play out. Then she commandeered the table and, taking out a brown paper-wrapped parcel, cut a pattern out of the paper before spreading a swathe of black material over the table and setting to work pinning and cutting.

  By four o’clock, Amelia had the three frocks tucked away in the holdall, ready to sew on the machine she had at home. Next she entered the parlour and set about moving furniture about, so that two straight-backed chairs faced each other in the bay.

  Rosie entered with the candlesticks. ‘It had to be done, before you say anything,’ said Amelia.

  ‘I know. They put Dad’s coffin there,’ said the girl, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘I spoke to the priest at St Michael’s, by the way, and he only vaguely remembers our Vi. I know Joe had no religion when he met her, but I thought she would have managed to change his mind by the time Babs was born.’

  ‘The church didn’t do her any favours. It refused to marry them,’ said Rosie defensively.

  Amelia looked scandalised. ‘Are you saying they weren’t married? I know Joe wasn’t your normal barrow boy. He had some unusual ideas about love and marriage, having read a lot of modern stuff, but . . .’

  ‘Of course they were married!’ Rosie’s voice was angry. ‘What d’you think Mam was? They were married in the good ol’ C of E. It’s perfectly legal. The priest wanted Dad to sign a paper saying we’d be brought up Catholics. He refused.’

  Amelia frowned but only said, ‘You mustn’t mention any of this to the priest when he comes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I’m not in the habit of talking to priests.’

  Amelia got to her feet. ‘You’re trying to get me going. But faith can be a great comfort at a time like this. I’ll arrange for you all to have instruction as soon as I can.’

  Rosie determined to resist with all her being. ‘I was baptised C of E and confirmed, and that’s good enough for me. I’m not taking instruction from no priest,’ she said, whisking herself out of the room without waiting for her aunt’s reaction.

  They brought Violet’s body home at dusk when Rosie was out delivering the evening papers. When she returned, it was to find the curtains drawn in the parlour and the coffin placed on the two dining chairs.

  With due ceremony Amelia inserted candles in the silver holders and set them in place at the head and foot of the coffin. She had draped the sideboard mirror and mantelshelf with black crêpe, placing a crucifix on the sideboard. Then she knelt on the linoleum, silently beckoning the children to follow suit.

  Rosie glanced at her mother’s still face and felt lost and lonely. She gripped Dotty’s hand and tugged on it, bringing them both to their knees beside Harry and Babs, who had their eyes closed and hands together.

  Amelia, with a black veil over her head, prayed concisely for mercy and compassion for Violet’s soul, as well as for her children in the days to come. The three younger ones crossed themselves obediently at her command, and at a ‘Stand up now, children,’ scrambled to their feet. ‘Now, kiss your mother. Then into the kitchen. We’ll have some supper then bed for you younger ones.’

  Rosie’s lips barely brushed her mother’s face. The parlour had suddenly become a place of which nightmares were made. Dotty drew back swiftly as her fingers touched Violet’s cheek. ‘She’s freezing!’

  ‘Like marble,’ said Amelia, clearing her throat. ‘But there’s nothing to be scared of. Your mother wouldn’t hurt you.’

  ‘Bu
t it’s not Mam! She’s not here!’ cried Dotty, bursting into tears.

  That set the others off and without a word Amelia hustled them out of the parlour and into the shabby, comforting warmth of the kitchen and put on the kettle. She stared at her nieces and nephew, sitting on the sofa. A sobbing Harry was on Rosie’s knee. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. A weeping Dotty and Babs sat to either side of her.

  ‘I shouldn’t have given in to you, Rosie,’ said Amelia, vexed. ‘I should have taken her home. But what’s done is done and tomorrow is Sunday. Let’s hope you – we – can all find some comfort in church.’

  ‘No church,’ said Harry lifting his head. ‘Stay here with Rosie.’ He buried his face against his eldest sister’s breast.

  ‘Someone’ll have to do the washing tomorrow,’ said Rosie, eyeing her aunt defiantly. ‘I’ll be at school on Monday. I certainly can’t go to church.’

  ‘I’ll go to church,’ said Babs on a hiccup. ‘I like church.’

  ‘We’ll all go,’ said Amelia firmly. ‘The big wash can go to the nearest laundry. You mustn’t let your mother down. The priest will be expecting us in church. Now, I think we’ll have some supper. How does spam fritters and scrambled eggs sound? That’s one meal I can cook well.’

  The three younger children’s faces brightened. ‘Real eggs?’ asked Babs.

  ‘Be realistic, girl!’ Amelia ordered Rosie to get out the frying pan. She switched on the wireless. Dance music flooded the room and the Kilshaws looked at their aunt, expecting her to switch it over or off. But she left it on and they all felt less sad.

  They were just finishing supper when the letter box crashed shut. ‘Now who’s that?’ muttered Amelia, toasting her toes on the fender while enjoying a second cup of watered-down tea.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said Rosie, pushing back her chair. ‘It’ll probably be one of the neighbours asking about the funeral.’

  But she was wrong. Before her stood a man in the uniform of the US Air Force. He was small and slightly plump, with a young, chubby-cheeked face. When he removed his cap he revealed mousy hair that was already receding. Rosie was completely taken aback.

  ‘Is this the home of Mrs Violet—?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ interrupted the girl, hoping to God none of the neighbours was looking out of their window. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I’m not here to cause trouble, little missy. Just to pay my respects and ask when the funeral is,’ he said in deep rumbling tones.

  Rosie cleared her throat but her voice still came out as a squeak. ‘Tuesday, St Michael’s church at one o’clock.’

  Thanks.’ He hesitated. ‘You must be one of Violet’s children?’

  She could not speak, thinking they must have been close for him to know her mother had children. Suddenly, she was remembering how glamorous Violet had looked, going out in the evenings in sheer nylon stockings and high heels. Had those stockings been courtesy of the US Air Force and not the black market? Oh, hell!

  ‘Who is it, Rosie?’ called her aunt. There was the sound of footsteps.

  Rosie panicked and did the only thing she could think of. She slammed the door in the Yank’s face.

  Chapter Three

  Amelia pushed open her own front door and hurried inside, putting her foot on the paper before she could stop herself. It was Sunday afternoon and she had left Rosie and Gwen Baxendale in charge of the younger Kilshaws. Placing the milk bottle on the occasional table, she dropped the holdall on the rug and peeled the paper off the damp sole of her shoe.

  Carefully, she unfolded the single sheet and read the scantily worded page: Aunt Lee, something terrible has happened. Mum’s dead. Could you please come as soon as you can? Chris.

  Amelia’s arm curled round the newel post and she hung on tightly as if needing to anchor herself to something solid in a world that seemed to be rocking beneath her feet. Tess dead! How? She could not believe it. She had only seen her a couple of days ago. She couldn’t be dead. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She could see her friend’s face in front of her, hear her voice saying how bloody everything was.

  ‘Purrrr!’ The cat stropped his head against Amelia’s legs. He walked round her, forcing his way between her ankles, purring heavily. She picked him up and walked slowly through the hall and the morning room into the kitchen. She switched on a ring on the electric cooker and placed the kettle on it. Then she poured milk into a saucer, watching Sooty lap it up, as if by focusing on the commonplace everything would feel normal again.

  She could not believe it. Maybe she had misread the words? She leant against the sink and read the note again. Dead! Tess dead! She repeated the words over and over as if by doing so their meaning would become real to her. How could she be dead? Had she gone into a diabetic coma and not come out of it? Or—Suddenly, Amelia remembered the sleeping pills.

  Oh, Jesus! She crossed herself and straightened with a quick jerky movement. She would have to go right away. The sewing could wait. She switched off the stove and rushed to the shed, wheeling out her bicycle. She pedalled swiftly past Leyfield Farm and the Carmelite convent before turning and heading in the direction of West Derby village.

  ‘It had to have been an accident, Aunt Lee,’ said Chris, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. One long arm rested on the mantelshelf; the other hung limp at his side. He looked completely lost and bewildered.

  ‘Of course it was an accident.’ Amelia’s voice was soothing as she patted the fifteen-year-old on the shoulder.

  ‘There – there’s talk of it being suicide. Although there’s no note. They asked me had she been worried about anything – about Dad and the war and all that.’ He rubbed his left eyebrow with the back of his hand. ‘The doctor had prescribed sleeping pills. But you’ll know about that. They’re doing a post-mortem.’

  ‘But you told them she wasn’t worrying about Peter?’

  ‘Of course I did! She always said she believed Dad would come through.’ He drew on the cigarette so deeply the end glowed a fiery red, paper and tobacco burning swiftly. ‘They’re getting in touch with the Army. It’ll be OK when Dad’s here. He’ll know how to cope with things.’

  Amelia felt certain Peter Hudson would. He was a capable man, steady, reliable and kind. Only once had she known him to lose control and she had been intensely grateful for his actions then. Since that time, her feelings towards him had been a mixture of warmth, confusion and regret. In her opinion, Tess had possessed the best of husbands, though perhaps she had not appreciated him enough.

  ‘The twins are running wild.’ Chris flicked ash into the fire.

  Amelia gave him her full attention once more, wondering as she had not done for a long time just who his father was. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I chased them out. They were sliding down the stairs on a tray. When I told them off, they started bouncing on the sofa and hitting each other with cushions. Generally acting crazy.’

  Amelia made no comment. Her godsons’ behaviour did not surprise her. Tess had let them get away with murder. Not that that was completely her fault. As she had said the other morning, her eyesight had been getting worse. ‘I suppose there’ll be an inquest as well?’ she murmured, half to herself.

  Chris nodded, rubbing his eyebrow again.

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Unfortunately, my sister’s just died and I’m having to see to her kids and arrange the funeral, but I should be clear in a couple of days. Even so, don’t let that stop you asking for help,’ she said rapidly. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the arrangements.’ It was not something she was looking forward to, already being in the middle of such arrangements. Oh, Mary, Mother of God! she thought. How am I going to cope with all this?

  Chris looked relieved and escorted her into the back yard, wheeling out her bicycle for her, pausing outside the gate. Noisily, he cleared his throat. ‘Mum never had a sister but she always said you were as good as one,’ he said huskily.


  Words were beyond Amelia so she just reached up and kissed his cheek and held him close a moment. Then she climbed on to her bicycle and rode off.

  For the rest of the day, she sat at the old Wellington machine, which had belonged to her mother, stitching the three frocks for the girls, thinking of Tess and feeling angry with herself that she could not have done more for her friend. Then she caught the last tram to take her back to the children.

  Monday was taken up with making the final arrangements for the funeral and Amelia also managed to put in a couple of hours at the shop and go to ‘Eden’ to tidy up and check her cupboards for food and drink. It was then she found the letter on her doormat, addressed to her in Tess’s handwriting. The contents almost swamped her in misery and dismay. She destroyed the letter, tearing it into tiny pieces before burning it.

  By Tuesday, the temperature had risen and the frozen pavements were slushy underfoot. Amelia led the three girls into church, looking neither left nor right. There were shadows beneath her eyes and her mind was taken up more with that final letter from Tess than Violet’s funeral.

  It was on the way out that Amelia noticed the Yank sitting in a pew behind Gwen Baxendale. Rosie stopped dead and received Amelia’s knuckles in her back. ‘Keep in step,’ she hissed. The girl quickened her pace almost to a run until Amelia’s exasperated voice told her to slow down.

  It was not until the car began a dignified crawl behind the hearse that Amelia noticed they were being followed by a US jeep. The three sisters were squeezed on to a long seat facing the way they were going, while she sat on a pull-down one facing the way they had come. She kept a weary eye on the vehicle, considering the contents of the brown envelope she had found in Violet’s handbag. So many secrets, she thought.