‘Everything’s fine.’ The sisters looked at Jack who was staring out of the window through the gap in the curtain, sucking his knuckles.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Josephine quietly, placing the tray on a low table at the centre of the room, pushing aside a newspaper.
Mary nodded and mouthed a yes.
Josephine coughed. ‘I’ll get the coffee.’
‘What?’ said Jack, turning round. ‘Oh yes, thank you. I think I’d better get going actually.’
‘So quickly? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I have to go now.’
‘If you wish,’ said Mary. ‘I do have to get up early tomorrow morning for an early shift.’
‘The bakery?’
‘Yes, the bakery.’
‘Yes, OK. Yes. I’ll see myself out.’
‘But are you sure you won’t stay for a quick...’
But he’d gone. The sisters looked at each other, aghast, before breaking out in a fit of giggles.
Chapter 3: The Order – June 1916
‘Jack, have you sent that order through yet?’
‘Order?’
‘For goodness’ sake, boy, what is the matter with you?’ Jack’s father had returned from a meeting in Piccadilly, shaking the rain off his umbrella, and had found the shop empty of customers and his younger son gazing idly out of the window. ‘Three rolls of cloth, two black, one light grey. All you have to do is write out the order form and post it. Surely even you can manage that.’
‘Yes, sorry, Father, I got distracted.’
‘Distracted? By what exactly?’
Jack was saved further interrogation by a customer arriving in the shop, stamping his feet on the doormat as he came in.
‘Ah, Mister Ince, how are you today, my good sir? OK, Jack, I’ll see to Mister Ince, if you’d be so kind as to continue in the office.’
Thankful for the intervention, Jack acknowledged Mr Ince and made his exit.
Sitting in the back office, Jack set to work, filling out an order form and entering the details on the shop’s ledger. After a few minutes, as he was writing out the envelope, he heard a new voice drifting through from the shop – the reason for his distraction. The office door opened, and in came Mary. He rose to his feet. ‘Hello, what a nice surprise.’
She laughed. ‘Hello, Jack.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘You don’t sound so pleased to see me.’
‘Oh God, yes, I am. Thrilled even.’
‘Steady, Jack.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘but that doesn’t mean you should say it.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It’s nice. But anyway, I thought you might like to know, your mother has invited me to dinner tomorrow evening. I saw her today.’
‘Really? She never said.’
‘Apparently, it’s a year tomorrow since Guy went to France so, what did she say, it’s not a celebration more an opportunity to mark the occasion.’
‘A year already?’ Jack couldn’t help but feel a stab of guilt whenever he thought of his brother. It had surprised him how quickly he had adjusted to life without Guy; he missed him for sure but not to the extent he’d anticipated. And then there was Mary... He still cringed when he thought back to the occasion six months ago returning from the pub. Although neither had mentioned it again, the incident now hung between them. But if he’d feared it would sour their relationship, he was wrong – if anything he felt that Mary saw him now in a different light and there were often moments when he felt she was positively encouraging him.
‘What about your mother? Can you leave her for an evening?’ he asked.
‘I know, the doctor came this morning. She doesn’t have long, but we knew that; it could be any day now.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘It is.’
Jack’s father’s voice came booming through from the shop. ‘Jack, Jack – have you been to the postbox with that order yet?’
‘Just going, Father.’
‘How long does it take, man?’
‘I’ve got to post this,’ said Jack, waving the envelope at Mary.
‘I’ll come with you.’
Outside, the drizzle fell steadily. A horse and cart laden with fruit splashed them. ‘Careful,’ screeched Mary.
‘Almost got me. Perhaps you shouldn’t come tomorrow, what with your mother.’
‘Jack,’ she said, lowering her eyes, ‘your concern is touching, I’m sure, but no, I’ll be there. How could I not be? A year’s a long time, poor Guy. Josephine can always ring the house if I need to get back for...’
‘Whatever reason.’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘Well, here we are – the postbox.’
‘Yes, the postbox.’
‘I’d better post this then.’
‘Yes, you better had.’
He popped the letter in. ‘Look forward to seeing you tomorrow then.’
‘Look, Jack, I’ll be there because of your brother. You know that.’
‘Yes, of course, I know. I appreciate that.’
‘Good.’ She leant over and planted a light kiss on his cheek. ‘Until tomorrow then.’
He watched her leave, making her way along the crowded pavement, pulling her bonnet tighter against the rain. He resisted the urge to touch his cheek where she’d kissed him. It was only when she was out of view he realised he’d forgotten to put a stamp on the envelope.
*
‘And so, I would like to propose a toast to Guy.’ Arthur was standing at the head of the table, glass of white wine poised. ‘To Guy.’
‘Guy,’ returned the chorus of Edith, Jack and Mary, clinking their glasses.
They sat in silence for a few moments contemplating their wine. ‘Have you heard from him lately, Mary?’ asked Edith eventually.
‘Not for a couple of weeks. The last letter I received had been so heavily censored it left nothing of interest.’
‘Ah yes, those bold black lines,’ said Arthur, attacking his shoulder of lamb.
‘We had a letter a week ago, didn’t we, Arthur? He seemed fine and said we weren’t to worry and that he was in good spirits. He’s been a good boy – writes to us a lot.’
‘He never writes to me,’ said Jack, chasing the peas around his plate.
‘Oh, Jack, don’t you know how to use a knife and fork? Anyway, don’t be so churlish; when he writes to us he writes to all of us.’
‘He won’t have the time to be composing lengthy letters to each of us,’ said Arthur. ‘Anyway, boy, you’ll be able to see for yourself soon. Then you can write the letters.’
‘Arthur, please, don’t remind me.’
‘You’re still planning to join up then, Jack?’ asked Mary.
‘Of course. You try keeping me away. Three months’ time. Apparently, you only have to turn up and if the doctor looks into your ear and doesn’t see daylight the other side, you’re in.’
She smiled.
Arthur raised his glass. ‘Good boy, give the Hun a bit of a bashing, eh?’
‘Arthur, don’t be so crude, you sound like a newspaper,’ said Edith.
‘So how does it work after you sign?’ asked Mary. ‘Do you have to go off for months of training, like Guy had to, or is it different now?’
‘We’ll find out when we go along, won’t we, Jack?’ said Edith.
‘No, Mother, we will not find out when we go along; you’re not coming with me. No other mums go along.’
‘I am not any other mum, as you so eloquently put it.’
‘Oh, woman, leave the boy alone; he’s perfectly right, he doesn’t need you there. He’ll be eighteen years old, a proper man.’
‘He’ll still be –’
‘Mother, don’t say it; just don’t.’ He glanced at Mary who smiled into her dinner.
Arthur lifted the bottle of wine and peered in it. ‘Could do with another, I think.’ He rang the little bell
on the table next to him. Within moments, Lizzie, their maid, appeared. ‘Lizzie, another bottle, if you please.’
‘In fact we’re having a celebration soon, aren’t we, Arthur? It’s our thirtieth wedding anniversary, that’s pearl.’
‘Thirty years? Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, Mary. We’ve hired the town hall.’
‘And invited half of London.’
‘Thank you, Arthur. We haven’t sent the invitations out yet but you may rest assured, Mary, that your name is amongst them, and we would be delighted if you could join us. And Josephine of course.’
‘That’d be lovely, thank you.’
‘There’s a piano there, isn’t there?’ said Jack. ‘Would you like me to play?’
‘No, thank you, Jack, kind of you to offer.’
From the hallway, the telephone rang. ‘Who in the Dickens could that be at this time of night?’ said Arthur.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mary, ‘I hope it’s not Jo.’
They fell silent and tried to make out Lizzie’s muffled voice. ‘Yes, madam, I’ll tell her straightaway.’ Knocking, she came in, holding the opened bottle of wine.
‘Who was it, Lizzie?’
‘Sir,’ she said, placing the bottle on the table, ‘it was the sister of Mary.’
‘It’s my mother, isn’t it?’
‘Your sister didn’t say, miss, but she did say you are to return home straight away.’
‘Oh gosh, that doesn’t good. I’d better go.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jack.
‘No, really, it’s OK. If you would all excuse me.’
‘Yes, naturally,’ said Arthur, ‘you rush along. Are you sure you don’t want Jack to escort you back? It’s getting late.’
‘I’ll be fine, but thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘It’s been lovely having you, dear. We just hope everything is OK at home.’
*
Two hours later, the table having been cleared, Jack tinkered quietly at the piano while his parents read – his father, his pipe clamped in his mouth, read The Times, his mother a book on gardening. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’ asked Edith, ‘it all sounds rather melancholy, not your usual jaunty stuff.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Perhaps you should go to see her,’ said his father, a puff of smoke appearing from behind his newspaper.
Jack stopped playing. ‘Who?’
‘Mary, of course – it’s obvious you’re thinking about her.’
‘Jack,’ said Edith, elongating his name, ‘you’re not falling for Mary, are you?’
‘No, of course not. Why would you think that?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be right, you know.’
‘Yes, I know that. I’m just concerned, that’s all.’
‘Like I said,’ said Arthur, ‘go see her, see whether everything’s OK.’
‘Arthur, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I think we should allow them their privacy.’
‘Yes, but then it seems like we’re not concerned and after all, she could well be our daughter-in-law one day.’
‘I hope not,’ said Jack, perhaps too quickly. Edith raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe I should ring her,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘what if the worse has happened? It’ll be awkward on the telephone. Best pop round. Just say we are all worried and sent you round just to make sure everything is OK.’
‘And ask is there anything we can do?’ added Edith.
‘Right, I’ll be off then,’ said Jack with a quick arpeggio on the piano.
*
It was nearing half past ten when Jack knocked on Mary’s door. As soon as Josephine answered he knew by the redness of her eyes that the worse had happened. She didn’t speak, just nodded and let him through. Inside their living room, unnaturally dark, a doctor was closing his briefcase. ‘She was a good woman, your mother,’ he was saying, ‘never one to complain, strong-minded until the end.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Mary acknowledged Jack with a quickest of smiles.
‘Now are you sure you can wait for the ambulance until tomorrow morning? I can arrange for your mother to be taken away tonight if you prefer.’
‘I don’t think I could face the disruption now.’
‘Tomorrow is fine,’ added Josephine.
‘Fair enough. I shall bid you goodnight and I leave you with my most sincere condolences. Good evening, young man.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ said Josephine, leading the way, ‘and thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Doctor, you’ve been so kind.’
Jack waited, leaning against the mantelpiece, as the doctor made his way out. He read the inscription on the silver cup: Fourth Year Swimming Champion, Saint Dominic's Girls Secondary School, 1910. ‘I’m very sorry, Mary.’
‘Knowing it’s going to happen doesn’t make it any easier.’ She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘It must be very difficult.’
Josephine reappeared at the door. ‘I’m going to go upstairs. You OK, Mary?’
She nodded. ‘You go.’
‘Thanks for coming, Jack,’ said Josephine as she took to the stairs.
‘Yes, thank you, Jack.’
He ran his finger across the bust of Queen Victoria sitting on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s fine. I liked your mother. What do you say in Ireland? She was a good crack.’
‘Yes, that’s right. That she was,’ she said in an exaggerated Irish accent. She sat down on the settee. ‘She didn’t have it easy. Come, sit next to me. Father ran off when we were young, I was fifteen. Ma told him, “It’s me or the drink.” He chose the drink. It was New Year’s Day; we’d only been in London a month or two. So here she was, no family, no support, no one she knew, and not able to afford to go back home. Thirty years old and destitute. She got us through it though. Found work and grafted every given hour. Got us this place through sheer determination and hard labour.’ Unconsciously, she had taken his hand. ‘Not yet fifty years old.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘It’s no age to die, is it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not fair. A lifetime of struggle to die so young.’
‘But she had you two.’
‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘She did indeed. She had us. Thank you, Jack, that’s a lovely thing to say.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘She never saw us get married though. She never said but I think it bothered her.’
‘That’s not your fault. If it wasn’t for the war, you’d probably be married to Guy by now.’
‘I used to write to him all the time but in this whole year, I’ve only ever received one letter back. I know your father says it’s difficult to write but I ask you, how long does it take to jot down a few lines to your girlfriend? He writes all the time to your parents, your mother said so. I can’t help but feel hurt. It’s like he’s forgotten about me.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. I thought you’d said he wrote to you recently.’
‘It wasn’t true. I couldn’t face telling your parents that their son has neglected me.’
‘He’s a fool then, a bloody fool.’
‘Well...’
‘I wouldn’t neglect you, Mary. Christ, if I was Guy I’d write to you every day.’
‘Oh, Jack. I know...’ She hesitated, ‘I know how you feel about me and, well, I’m flattered. What I mean to say is...’
‘I know – it wouldn’t be right.’
‘Exactly. It wouldn’t be right.’ And with the words hanging between them, still holding his hand, she leant towards him and kissed him delicately on the corner of his mouth. He touched his lips where she’d kissed him. She smiled, then slowly kissed him again, her lips fully on his. ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ she repeated in a whisper.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he echoed.
‘This is so wrong.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where... where did you learn to kiss like that?’
Chapter 4: On Leave – September 1916
Af
ter fifteen months at war, Guy Searight was going home. And he was decidedly happy about it. The train from Dover sped through the countryside, hurrying the men back to London. Mostly, they sat in silent reverence, staring out of the windows at the passing landscape, the sun beating down. This is what they’d been fighting for – the lush green fields, the hedgerows, the villages and towns, the churches, the farms. Guy had never realised how beautiful England was. And with every passing station, the familiar names of the English towns tugged at his emotions. For this, all of this, they had endured the hardships and depravity of war; had lived daily with indiscriminate death, pain, boredom and fear. For this, they had sacrificed so much – their youth and the illusions that come with innocence. As much as he tried, Guy could not suppress his heart-stirring love and loyalty for the country that had asked him to do so much and, in the process, had taken so much. He was home.
Half of the men were returning because of wounds. Some of them, after a period of recuperation, would return to the war. The others, men like Guy, were simply coming back on leave. A Scotsman from Stirling had buttonholed Guy into a conversation he could have done without, preferring to daydream of dancing with Mary. The Scot was complaining that his nine days’ leave started the moment he’d left base-camp. ‘It bloody means by the time I’ve crossed the Channel,’ he said loudly for all to hear, ‘and caught a train to London and from there up to home, right in the north, mind you, I get two days at home then I have to bloody go all the way back again. But they don’t think of that, do they?’
Once the Scotsman had fallen silent, Guy’s thoughts returned to Mary. Sometimes over the months he had tried not to think of her for he missed her so much that it pained him. It was surprisingly easy to forget – amid the mud, the cold and boredom, the mind fell into a numbness, devoid of thought, in which one could survive indefinitely. But when, just two days ago, the lieutenant had told Guy he was due his next bout of leave (he didn’t like to remind the officer that it was not so much his ‘next’ bout of leave but his first), he’d thought of Mary and nothing but. Suddenly, he’d felt vulnerable. Every shell that fell he was convinced had his name on; every sniper had him, and only him, within their sights. If he could just survive the next forty-eight hours, he’d be safe. He’d made it this far, surely just another two days. And he had. Fifteen months without seeing her. He hadn’t a photograph of her – never thought they’d be separated for so long – and so now, to his shame, he realised the memory of her face had faded. Fifteen months. Not long in a man’s life but it seemed an eternity.
This Time Tomorrow Page 2
