by June Francis
She rested her back against it and a deep sigh escaped her. She accepted it might possibly have been worse if it had been feathers, but flock was bad enough. She wanted to kick the torn pillow out of the window but instead she began to pick up the stuffing which had spilt from its striped cover, tears of rage and frustration rolling down her cheeks.
When Peter came home it was to a house that was strangely silent. There was a slight smell of burning in the air which he traced to the cloth-covered pie on a cooling rack. There was washed lettuce in a colander in the sink and a handful of radishes on the chopping board. But no sign of the cook.
‘Lee!’ he called. ‘Tom! Jimmy! Dotty!’
No answer.
He went into every room downstairs and out to the garden, but there was no one visible. So he went upstairs to his room and there he found Amelia sitting on the floor. She had her back to the wall beneath the window and her legs were outstretched. She held a pillow in one hand and was wielding a needle and cotton with the other.
‘Where are the twins? And what are you doing in here, sitting on the floor?’ he asked.
‘I’m sewing,’ she said in a tight voice, not looking up.
‘I can see that. Why in here?’
‘Isn’t that obvious? This is your pillow which your charming sons just burst. I gave them one job to do and you should have seen the mess.’ Her voice cracked.
There was silence as he surveyed the room. ‘It looks tidy enough.’
‘That’s because I’ve spent the last two hours picking up every single bit of flock. They had a pillow fight, didn’t they?’
His fingers curled. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’ve gone to the cemetery with Dotty. Don’t ask me which one. She just called up and said they were going out. Probably gone to tell their mothers how wicked I am.’
‘Come off it, Lee. They can’t believe that.’
‘I hit them. Hard.’ She rested her head against the wall and looked up at him. There was a stricken, blank look about her face.
‘Then they must have deserved it,’ he said firmly.
‘I lost my temper. I hate losing control. It frightens me.’ She bent her head to her sewing again.
‘I see,’ he said softly, noticing there was flock among the fine golden brown strands of her hair and on the bare skin above the collar of her cream blouse. In that moment, she seemed vulnerable and he was so mesmerised by the idea of taking her into his arms and comforting her that suddenly he felt tongue-tied. Then she moved her head to bite off the thread.
He sighed and took off his jacket and loosened his tie. ‘You’re not getting much out of our agreement, are you, Lee?’
‘I’m a married woman,’ she said, refusing to look at him. ‘I’m Mrs Hudson.’
‘It hasn’t changed anything for you, though, has it? Or not for the better. I should be keeping you!’ His voice sounded strained, hoarse almost. ‘You should be able to relax at home, see your friends, have time for cups of tea and a chat.’
She glanced up, wondering where this was leading. ‘I have no friends like that. Tess was my only close friend, though Iris and I were close once.’
‘Poor Lee,’ he said, noticing the tearstains on her face. ‘I never realised you were so lonely.’ He knelt and stroked her cheek. ‘You need a break, woman. A good day out.’
‘I need . . .’ she began and then stopped.
‘What do you need?’ His slate-grey eyes were intent on her face.
Her throat moved as she struggled to get words out but while he was looking at her she could not say them. She cleared her throat. ‘I need exactly what you said. A day out!’ She caught hold of his hand. ‘Pull me up. Tomorrow could be that day. Rosie isn’t coming.’
For a moment, Amelia thought he looked disappointed, but all he said was, ‘Tomorrow and every Sunday during the kids’ holidays we’ll go somewhere. All work and no play isn’t good for anyone, Lee.’ He pulled her to her feet and, with him holding her hand, they walked out of the room together.
Chapter Twelve
Amelia hurried Dotty and the twins off the ferry and ran with them across the landing stage. They panted up the open passenger walkway where the slap-slap of the oily waters of the Mersey could clearly be heard below. They emerged just opposite Edward VII’s statue. Although Amelia had expected to see crowds down at the Pierhead on such a fine day in August, she had not expected so many and in such high spirits.
‘I wonder what’s going on,’ said Tom, eyes bright with curiosity.
Amelia caught the arm of a passing woman. ‘Has something happened? Have the Japanese surrendered? Is the war over?’
‘Where’ve you been, luv?’ The young woman’s face was alight with happiness. ‘Didn’t you see it in the papers this morning? Didn’t you hear the ships’ hooters going off?’
‘No!’ Amelia laughed with delight. Typical! The one morning they had overslept because she had decided not to go to the shop but to take the children out for the day. Somehow the excitement had passed them by.
‘It was them atom bombs that finished them off. Killed thousands and thousands all at once. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’ said the woman.
‘It’s frightening,’ said Amelia, almost in a whisper, unable to stop smiling, though, thinking what a difference this would make to so many of her customers.
‘Yeah. But it was them or more of our men and allies getting killed.’ The woman’s face hardened. ‘My man’s out there. I reckon it’s saved his life so I’m not crying for them Japs. Nor for the Jerries, who they’re saying now are near starvation. Have you seen the pictures that were in the papers of them prisoners in the concentration camps? Beasts! That’s what they are who did that. They’re not human!’
Amelia agreed that it was truly terrible, then thanked the woman and headed for the tram stop.
‘Will there be a party?’ asked Dotty.
‘Oh, yes. There’ll be parties,’ promised Amelia.
And there were. The fighting was over now. People wanted to celebrate and look to the future again, rebuild lives that had either been on hold or shattered altogether by the war.
It would not be easy for some, thought Amelia, reading the letter from her sister which arrived in September after the twins and Dotty had gone back to school.
‘What is it?’ asked Peter, glancing across the table at her as she refolded the sheet of notepaper.
She smiled faintly. ‘How do you know it’s anything?’
Things had been easier between them over the last few weeks. She was going into the shop later and leaving earlier, which meant she was not so tired. He had taken over the garden and seeing to the vegetable patch. She had also handed the accounts book to him and all the additional paraphernalia to do with household bills, and they had had the occasional day out with the children. Even so, there were things that did not get easier. She found his masculinity disturbing still and no longer knew exactly what her feelings were towards him. She was confused, one minute wanting to keep him at a distance and the next longing for nothing more than to be held in his arms.
‘It’s Bill,’ said Amelia, resting her elbows on the table. ‘You know he was badly wounded in the war?’
‘Wounds giving him trouble?’
She nodded. ‘He’s got to have an operation and it’s dicey.’
‘Poor bloke.’
‘And poor Iris. She sounds like she doesn’t know where she is.’ Amelia sighed. ‘I wish I could help her but I don’t know what to do except pray.’
‘Do that. And write. It helps to know people are thinking about you when you’re far from home.’ His eyes held hers a moment and she thought of the last letter he had received from Tess. It did not make their situation any easier, her remembering that. But she took his advice and wrote to Iris, prayed and waited.
Rosie had also received a letter from Canada. Babs, who had always had big ears, had overheard Aunt Iris talking to her brother-in-law.
She doesn’t say in s
o many words that Uncle Bill could die but if he does, what’s going to happen to Harry and me? There’s talk of what will happen to the factory but not us! Who knows? Maybe we’ll all be home for Christmas. Not that I really want Uncle Bill to die. He’s been very good to us, much nicer than Aunt Iris actually. I don’t think it’s her that really likes kids but him, and I could cry when I see him in pain.
The letter gave Rosie a lot to think about. If Aunt Iris, Babs and Harry came back to Liverpool, where would they live? Housing was in short supply after the Blitz, and manpower and materials were impossible to come by. Rosie was aware most grown-ups expected things to improve now the war was over, but shortages and rationing were still in force.
At the beginning of December, letters arrived for both Rosie and Amelia, bringing news of Bill’s death. Iris had been left a half-share in the factory. Bill’s brother held the other half. Iris did not know what to do. Could Amelia and Peter give her advice? Should she sell her shares to Cecil and come home or try and make a go of things in Canada? The trouble was the children. What was best for them?
‘We don’t interfere,’ said Peter positively, lowering the newspaper which was full of the trial of Rudolf Hess. ‘The brother’s in a better position to advise her than us.’
‘He’ll be biased,’ said Amelia, who would dearly love to see her sister again.
‘Aren’t you? Besides, if she came home, where would she and the children live?’
Amelia avoided meeting his gaze, murmuring, ‘She’d have money. She could buy a house.’
His eyes narrowed and he tapped a fork on the table. ‘Even with money she’d have difficulty finding a place. And what’s she coming home to? Bomb sites and rationing.’
‘She’s British. She’ll manage,’ said Amelia, lifting her chin and giving him a challenging stare.
Peter’s smile was sardonic. ‘Tess always said you spoilt Iris. She hasn’t got your bulldog spirit. You know, there’s an article here in the paper saying five hundred Canadian brides will land in Liverpool any day now. They’re in for a shock!’
She smiled sweetly. ‘We must have something over here that attracts them.’
‘I said brides, which means they’ve husbands, Lee. Met them when they were doing flight training over there probably. I knew a bloke from Chester who did that.’
She bit into a slice of toast. ‘I’m getting the impression you don’t want my sister here.’
‘You’ve put your finger on it. I don’t want her, Lee. What’s she going to think, me and you having separate rooms?’
Amelia stared at him and for a moment was transfixed by the expression in his eyes. It was as if he had thrown down a challenge now and was waiting for her to rise to it. But she did not know if she was ready for what he might be suggesting. Did he want to move into her room? If so, why didn’t he say so outright? After what he had said on the evening of their wedding, about her sweeping down the aisle in triumph, she was very reluctant to make any move in that direction.
Suddenly he laughed, folded the newspaper and got to his feet. ‘Tell her how it really is here, Lee, I mean in Liverpool, and leave it at that. If she comes, I suppose we’ll have to make room for her and the kids.’ He shrugged on his overcoat and clapped a trilby on to his thatch of tawny hair. ‘You going into the shop today?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Rosie needs to spend more time with Mr Brown after putting in so many hours behind the counter. She has to serve a full two-year apprenticeship before she goes to college and does the theory. I want her to achieve what Tess and I never did.’
‘She won’t if she carries on seeing that Davey, and you’ll have wasted your time,’ he warned. ‘You should say something to her. Tell her we’re missing her on Sundays.’
Amelia nodded, wondering whether he missed her particularly and feeling a brief stab of jealousy. There had been quite a number of Sundays when Rosie had not visited recently. Perhaps Peter was right about her saying something about Davey, although times were changing and many married women had worked during the war. Life was uncertain and there was still fighting going on around the world, with the British forces playing their part. A woman could be widowed very easily. Better Rosie had something to fall back on to earn her a decent living if the worst came to the worst. Yes, far better, thought Amelia. She would have to say something.
*
Rosie would have been amazed if she had known what her aunt was thinking. Her thoughts were all for Harry and Babs in Canada. She had no qualms about writing a letter encouraging her brother and sister to work on Iris so she would come home to Liverpool.
In a few years’ time I should be able to earn some decent money and I’m sure you’ll be able to get a job over here with no trouble, Babs. Then we’ll be able to find a place where we can all be together. Until then I’m certain I could persuade Gran to take you two in as well. There’s room enough. So see what you can do.
Your ever-loving sister,
Rosie
She sent off the letter and awaited its outcome.
The weather turned even colder. Pavements were slippery and Rosie was reminded of that day in January when they had intended going to the pantomime with their mother. As she shivered in the dispensing room, trying to keep warm by the oil heater, she was reminded that it was her mother’s birthday by Mr Brown’s mention of it being the King’s birthday. Rosie decided to visit the cemetery and lay a holly wreath on the grave, wondering whether she would see Sam there or whether he had gone home yet.
It was a murky day and she had a scarf pulled well over her mouth to keep out the damp foggy air. There was a hole in her shoe and even the cardboard she had put in as an extra inner sole was damp and crumbling as she trudged up Yew Tree Lane.
There was someone at the grave before her and Rosie’s eyes lit up. ‘I was wondering if you would be here, Sam. I wasn’t sure if you’d left. It was kind of you to send me the food parcels.’
He looked uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and gazing down at the grave. ‘I like giving presents.’
She liked giving and receiving and wished there were more things in the shops to buy for Christmas and that she had more money. ‘Were you hoping to be home by now?’ she said softly.
‘Sure. And there’s still a chance.’ He lifted his head and smiled. ‘The folks back home’ll be planning a real humdinger of a party. There’ll be a tree and we’ll have carols and a turkey.’
Rosie sighed. ‘It sounds marvellous. Gran’s talking about corned beef hash for us.’
There was silence, Rosie deep in thought. ‘Sam,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye, ‘Chigago’s up by the big lakes in the north, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is.’
‘D’you ever go across the border into Canada?’
‘Have been.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Why you asking?’
‘My aunt and sister and brother live in Canada. I was wondering if you could look them up?’ It did not seem likely now, despite all her prayers, that Harry and Babs would be home for Christmas.
Sam’s jaw dropped. ‘Have you any idea how far it is across the Lakes?’
She shook her head, the pom-pom on her red woolly hat bobbing. ‘Don’t you have a car? I thought all Yanks had cars.’
‘Sure! Pop has an automobile but—’
‘If I give you their address, will you go and see them and persuade them to come home?’ she said eagerly, slipping her hand under his arm and pressing it. ‘Tell them how much I miss them. How I long to see them. Please do this for me, Sam?’ she said softly. ‘Or, if you can’t do it for me, do it for Mam.’ She glanced down at the grave. ‘You are our stepfather, after all. Please?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Can’t promise, but I’ll do my best.’
She smiled and kissed his chin. ‘Your best is good enough for me. Happy Christmas.’
Rosie did not see Sam again but on the Sunday before Christmas, when she was on her way home after visiting the family in West Derby, she saw Davey stan
ding on the corner of Rothwell Street near the bombed hollow. He was in conversation with a bloke in Army uniform so she did not stop, only waved.
She had not gone far when he caught up with her. ‘I want a word with you. Got another parcel,’ he said, shoulder brushing hers.
‘That’s nice,’ she said, cheeks warming.
‘From guess who?’
‘Sam?’ She felt a mixture of pleasure and shame because she had given her stepfather a big enough hint that her Christmas would be a bit bleak. ‘How kind of him,’ she said lightly. ‘It’ll be the last, though. He’s on his way home.’
‘How do you know? Have you seen him?’ Davey was frowning now.
‘I met him at the cemetery. He mentioned turkey and I mentioned corned beef hash.’
‘Said the right thing then, didn’t you?’ Davey smiled unexpectedly, his hand touching hers. He linked her little finger with his.
‘I should feel guilty,’ Rosie said soberly.
‘Don’t be daft! Thank God the bloke’s got a conscience. That he didn’t forget you at Christmas.’ Lowering his head, Davey kissed her in such a way she almost forgot about Sam. But she knew his present was going to make several people happier this holiday.
Her grandmother for a start. ‘Well, girl,’ she said, rubbing her hands and smiling, ‘you’ve come up trumps! Pity he’s gone back home. But just to show there’s no hard feelings, I’ve got a Christmas present for you.’
Rosie was astonished. Until that moment she would have sworn her grandmother did not go in for frivolities like presents. She was even more amazed when Maggie brought from upstairs a delicately carved wooden box and opened it. Out spilt jewellery – such riches as Rosie had never expected to see in this shabby house.
Maggie took out a ring, forcing it over a fat knuckle, sharp button eyes fixed on Rosie as she watched the light catch the facets in the cluster of gems. Then the old woman removed a brooch from the gleaming pile and pinned it to her shawl. That was only the first of many brooches with which she adorned herself. Next came two bracelets, of gold and silver. After that she unravelled several necklaces. One string was made up of black stones, the other amber, and the last was a double row of pearls.
