Soldier Girl

by Annie Murray

  But the more the brief incident came back to her, the more Em realized how odd it had been. If it was her she’d have wanted to stop and show Robbie off to anyone she knew – even Katie. And even stranger had been the hunted look in her eyes.

  Reaching home, Em went gratefully inside and straight over to greet Robbie. But over her tea she told Cynthia about her strange encounter.

  ‘They always were a peculiar family,’ Cynthia said. ‘I never got to know her mom at all – she could be pleasant enough but she was never what you’d call friendly. Never really talked to anyone much. She always seemed to think she was a cut above everyone round here. I’ve not seen her for quite a while though, not round here. I thought they’d moved on.’

  ‘So did I,’ Em said. ‘It was just, the way she was just now – I mean, I know we’re not friends any more. But even so – it just wasn’t normal.’

  Cynthia gave a laugh, pushing back her chair. ‘Whatever that is! Well – perhaps we’ll hear more, sooner or later.’

  What is Family?

  Forty

  February 1944 – St Margaret’s Bay

  ‘Hey you two!’ Jen’s grinning face appeared round the door of Molly and Cath’s room. ‘Want a cuppa tea?’

  ‘You offering to make it?’ Cath asked, surprised.

  ‘Why aye!’ There was a glint in her eye.

  ‘Mine’s two sugars,’ Molly called, adding, ‘Ow – bugger it!’ as the needle she was using to darn her stocking plunged into her thumb. Again.

  ‘Mine’s three!’ Cath lay back on the bed, boots kicked off. ‘This is the life. What’s got into her?’ she giggled as Jen disappeared downstairs.

  ‘God knows.’ Molly sucked at her thumb, squinting at her dreadful sewing. ‘But we might as well make the most of it.’

  When the girls had first arrived in Dover, they were appalled at the state of it. The town had been bombed, and shelled from across the channel since the summer of 1940, and the wreckage was terrible. Almost every building they drove past in the city seemed to be damaged to a greater or lesser degree. So they had scarcely been able to believe it when the truck pulled up outside a graceful house on the edge of town, high on the chalk cliffs, and they were told that this was their new billet. They had run round inside, excited as children, bagging beds again in the rooms with a choice of views, across the blue expanse of the Channel, or looking westward along the cliff to the South Foreland lighthouse. There were other service personnel along the road – general duties staff and, as they realized soon after they arrived, a group of Kinnys.

  ‘I’ve just seen Ruth!’ Cath reported on the second day, imitating Ruth’s voice with a comical face. ‘Oh, hullo girls!’

  ‘What, again? Oh, super-dooper!’ Molly grinned back.

  It felt like a holiday at first. The town was swarming with smartly dressed GIs, with their currency of gum, nylons and sheer novelty. And there were free tours for service people round Dover Castle. But it was not to be a holiday at all. At the end of January, another intense round of bombing on London had begun again, and what soon became known as the ‘Little Blitz’ also affected Hull, Bristol and South Wales. London, as ever, took the brunt of it, and the batteries all around the east coast were kept busy.

  This particular day was an off-duty lull for the girls after intense periods of activity. The previous night there’d been a very heavy raid and they were recovering. Jen, though, seemed to be full of beans.

  ‘She’s got some new fella in tow,’ Cath said of the surprisingly effervescent Jen, idly waving one leg in the air. ‘Some Yank, I bet. God, I wish it’d warm up and we could get out on those cliffs and sunbathe.’

  ‘I’ve had quite enough of the sodding cliffs,’ Molly said. ‘I’m surprised the wind hasn’t blown our flaming heads off out there.’

  ‘Here we are!’ Jen breezed in bearing cups of tea, a tattered-looking newspaper and the post tucked under one arm.

  ‘OK – who is he?’ Molly asked. If Jen was treating them to waitress service, there was obviously some new bloke to tell them about.

  Jen clanked the cups down on the dressing table. ‘Well – his name’s Frank . . .’

  Cath sat up rolling her eyes. ‘I knew it – is he one of them black ones? Oh, letters!’

  ‘No, he’s not, he’s got hair the colour of corn, for your information.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Cath drawled, teasing. ‘Ah, hair the colour of corn – how poetic! Has he got eyes the colour of emeralds and muscles like the ripples on the sandy strand?’

  ‘What? No! Just shut it, you. His eyes are grey, and he’s just nice, if you want to know. And no – no letters for you. One for Molly and a card for Nora. Sorry.’

  ‘S’all right – I’m not expecting any. And ta for the tea, Jen. You’re a darlin’.’ Cath sat up, tousle-headed, and reached for her cup. They knew she felt very alone in the world, despite her large family back in Ireland, but it was moments like this that seemed to bring it home. There was never any post for her. ‘Ooh Molly – is that another begging letter from himself?’ she asked.

  After weeks of silence, Molly had recently received a letter from Len, imploring her to reconsider and go back to him. ‘Everything was so hasty. You just panicked and ran away, Molly, and I wonder if you’re too proud to admit it. I know I love you like no one else . . . There’s only you for me . . .’ Hearing from him had been a shock. Not knowing what else to do, she had ignored it, pretending it had not affected her, but of course this was not entirely true.

  ‘No—’ Molly peered at the writing. ‘It’s from Em – my friend from home.’ She said this rather proudly. Even now, it seemed astonishing to her that she had friends. She opened it and began to read, then exclaimed. ‘Blimey!’

  Cath and Jen were on each side of her instantly. ‘What? Tell us!’

  ‘It’s just – this girl, both of us were at school with her – proper stuck-up little cow she was . . .’ Molly read on incredulously. ‘I mean we ain’t seen her for years – she got some office job and thought she was far too grand for the likes of us . . . She’s gone and turned up – with a babby!’

  ‘So what? Jen sounded disappointed. ‘People do have them you know.’

  ‘No, but . . .’ Molly’s eyes were racing down the paper, covered with Em’s childish writing. ‘Blimey . . .’

  ‘What?’ Jen said, exasperated. ‘Come on – spill the beans!’

  So Molly read out some of what Em had written:

  I didn’t think much more about it, but then Dot turned up and said she’d seen her as well. She’s got lodgings somewhere, wedding ring, the lot, I suppose making out he’s away in the forces. But Dot said she found out from someone who knows Mrs O’Neill and seemingly she’s disowned Katie because there is no father . . .

  ‘Sounds like our plaster saint Katie O’Neill has gone and had a babby out of wedlock!’ Molly crowed.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ Cath breathed.

  Molly was immediately ashamed of her glee.

  ‘Sorry, Cath – only this is a hell of a surprise – she was always little miss perfect. Thought she was above everyone.’

  ‘Maybe she was taken advantage of,’ Cath said gently.

  ‘Well maybe – but even so – Katie O’Neill! You don’t know what she was like!’

  They moved on to other things: Jen bursting to tell them all about Frank; chores to catch up on; the paper to read. Once they’d finished their tea, Jen went off amid a wave of thank yous and Cath said she was going to coax the plumbing into letting her wash.

  Molly sat on her bed, her mind spinning, completely oblivious of the rain banging against the window. Em’s news was astonishing and she was very curious about what had happened. She found herself longing to see all the Browns. It was nice the way Em kept in touch. But suppose that had been another letter from Len instead, begging her to see him again, to reconsider? The thought filled her with terribly mixed feelings. She knew that now he was gone, she didn’t miss Len, except for the feeling of being
flattered that he wanted her, and that he had felt like a safe haven. And she missed having a man to be close to. Being wanted – preferably by someone nice like Len – oh yes, that felt lovely. There was nothing like it. So many of the blokes just bothered her for her looks and assumed, or hoped, she was ‘easy’. What she mainly felt now was guilty. Len had broken off his engagement to Sheila, who sounded like a superior person in every way. What he should do was eat humble pie and go back to her! The thought of Len and all that had happened just left her feeling a fool, ashamed of it all and glad to put it behind her. She told herself he was the last thing she wanted to think about. But she still found herself wondering, hoping even . . .

  To distract herself she leaned over and reached for the tatty newspaper that Jen had picked up somewhere. It was a two-day-old Daily Telegraph.

  She laid the paper on her pillow and settled down on her front, shoes off and legs bent up behind her, idly turning the pages as headlines flashed by. News from Russia, the Allies were bombarding a monastery at Cassino, bombs over London. Drowsy again, now she had time to relax, she didn’t read the full stories.

  It was the name that leapt out of the page, even before the headline, which her eyes raced to next: STRANGLED WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN BIRMINGHAM CANAL. Then her own surname – her brother’s name: ‘The suspect, Albert Fox, 24, a local man, appeared at Birmingham Magistrate’s Court this morning.’

  ‘Oh my . . .’ Her blood was pumping. She sat up, gasping for breath, thankful that no one else was in the room, so that she could try to take this in on her own. ‘Oh my God . . . my God!’ She got up and moved in agitation about the room. Everything seemed to swim and she had to sit down again, panting. It felt as if something was pressing in on her chest. She had tried to shut Bert, and home, and everything about it out of her mind. He was somewhere else, as if he didn’t exist. But now all she could see was her brother’s loathsome face and slicked-back hair, feel the cold, metallic barrel of a gun pressed against her neck.

  Molly leaned forward, pushing her head down between her knees as bright lights flashed at the corner of her eyes. She should have told somebody about him before, shouldn’t she? What should she have done, knowing that her brother was capable of . . . of what? Of lying, cheating, stealing, assaulting – of pulling the trigger on his own sister in cold blood? She should have turned him in months ago. But to grass someone up, turn in your own brother – you just didn’t do that . . . She had reasoned herself out of denying the real horror of it all, not wanting to face up to just what a monstrous freak Bert had become.

  But now, seeing it here in black newsprint, the terrible message of his actions, it didn’t cross her mind for a second that Bert might be innocent. Innocent was something none of them in the Fox family had ever been.

  Forty-One

  Over the next two days this appalling knowledge burned in Molly’s mind.

  How can I tell anyone? What am I supposed to do? her thoughts whirled round. My brother – could he really have done it? Is that monster really my brother . . . ?

  She was in turmoil. Her skin, mostly clear since she had been in the army, erupted now into itchy sores, but nothing would have persuaded her to tell any of the other ATS what had happened. Even with Cath, she had avoided talking about her family, except to dismiss them. As far as she was concerned, she had joined the army to get right away from them, to a place they couldn’t reach. She didn’t want them invading it. Here she could be someone else and believe better of herself.

  But now she was infected by dark, disturbing thoughts. She may have thought she’d got away, but she was fooling herself! The family would always be strung round her like dead rats on a poacher’s belt. They were part of who she was, she with her shameful past and frigid relationships. She wasn’t a real woman, was she? Not like Em or Cath. Did she really think she was better than Iris and Bert? Wasn’t she just another of them, another of the Fox family – dirty and vile?

  A hasty note arrived from Em:

  So sorry Molly to tell you terrible news. I don’t know if you’ve heard. Your brother Bert’s in Winson Green. It was that girl of his, Agnes – they found her in the cut . . .

  Her work suffered, concentration becoming almost impossible. As she sat through the long, cold nights staring at the location screen, her eyes kept blurring over and she had to wrench her mind back to the job over and over again, a bag of nerves in case she made a serious mistake. Her eczema flared up and she tried to resist the burning itching on her inner arms, her back, behind her knees. She even had patches of dermatitis on her face – something that hadn’t happened since she was a child. On the nights when she wasn’t on duty, she lay awake for hours, scratching, her eyes open, only dozing a little before dawn and waking pale and irritable, her pyjamas spotted with blood.

  ‘What’s got into you, Mol?’ Cath asked on the third day as they clung on in the transport that took them to the gun site on the cliffs. It was a grey day, raining again. ‘You look really groggy. Has something happened?’

  Molly felt so desperate she almost broke down in tears, but she gulped them away. ‘Oh—’ She invented something quickly, though she felt bad lying to Cath. ‘It’s my mother – she’s been taken ill. I’m a bit worried, that’s all . . .’

  Cath looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know you’d had bad news. Well, should you not be asking for leave to go and see her?’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Molly said. She felt a blush rise in her cheeks.

  ‘After all, she is your mother. You should be by her side if she’s really sick. You never know, do you?’

  This little statement, harmlessly made, felt like an accusation. Especially when Molly knew how much Cath missed her own mother. Iris was her flesh and blood – didn’t she still have a duty to her, despite everything? She must be distraught over Bert – after all, he had been her favourite, had kept her all this time, and now he was gone. What was Iris going to live on now? Had the police found out what was going on in that house? Even though the reason was not the one she had given to Cath, she started to wonder if she should go home. It was a long time since she had set foot in Birmingham. She found herself longing to see Em, to pour her heart out to someone who knew more of the truth and who understood. And she wasn’t doing any good here at the moment – in fact, she was a danger to shipping.

  After the shift she went to her CO and requested compassionate leave, which she was given for an overnight stay. The next morning, she was on a train heading north.

  Riding on the bus to Nechells, Molly found herself feeling both at home and like a foreigner in her own land. It was all so familiar, people’s voices, the good old Brummie accent, the smells and sounds. There were changes of course – the bomb sites, all the marks of the war, but she had seen a lot of those before. She was surprised, though, how much it already felt like somewhere in her past. She was the one who had changed the most.

  She couldn’t bring herself to walk along Kenilworth Street, not yet, at least, and see the wrecked shell of the Buttons’ house again, so she went round another way, all the time aware of people staring at her ATS uniform. Then she wondered with a horrible lurch inside whether they were staring for another reason. Did they all know who she was – whose sister she was? She was very glad to reach the house, where she could take refuge inside.

  Everything seemed quiet at the place in Lupin Street. The front door was open a crack, and Molly could already smell the damp, frowsy smell which her homes had always had. It made her spirits sink even further, made her feel six years old again, taking her back to poverty and cruelty and neglect. She wanted to turn and run away, never to see this place again as long as she lived.

  Against her will she pushed the door open further. The stink grew stronger, laced with booze, and she was in the front room with its fancy furnishings – the Welsh dresser and dark leather chairs, the carriage clock alongside a host of other little knick-knacks. Molly looked at it all sourly. All through her childhood they had barely had two sticks of
furniture to rub together, and now all this was garnered, or filched somehow, by Bert’s criminal doings. She remembered Iris sitting filling the scent bottles in her fancy frock, grotesque and ridiculous, in the murky room upstairs.

  Nothing seemed to have been touched. Whatever Iris’s part in all the crooked goings-on, she seemed to have got away with it. Had the police been too interested in catching a murderer to worry about Bert’s black-market activities? Or had his associates cleared the house at a whiff of trouble? Molly was too disgusted to care. The back room still had its new things in it, but in spite of all these possessions, the place had degenerated into a grim state, as Iris’s dwellings always did. It stank of grime and booze, there were greasy plates and overturned beer bottles left on the table, and the floor round the gas stove was ringed with grease and filth. The scullery sink was choked with scum and greasy water, a pile of unwashed plates and pans was jumbled on the floor, and something once white was soaking in a pail. Molly looked round, sickened. How had she lived like this for so long? How had she stood it?

  Of Iris there was no sign, but Molly decided to carry on nosing round the house. As she started up the carpeted stairs, she heard the sound of snoring. Typical! Her face creased with contempt. Four in the afternoon, and Iris was still sleeping it off.

  The snoring grew louder, and reaching the top of the stairs, Molly realized that it was the sound of not one, but two people. The deep hoggish noise she had heard had been joined by something almost as loud but lighter in tone. She tiptoed to Iris’s room and peered round the door.