Family Pride

by Family Pride (retail) (epub)

  Gilly felt her heart beating faster as she imagined seeing Paul after so long an absence. That he would be changed she didn’t believe. Not now. Everyone said war altered a man, she had thought so herself, but Uncle Sam seemed the same as always, as had others, and Paul would return to her looking exactly as he had when they parted. Their letters had kept them in touch. The months would be as a fleeting moment of time once she looked into his eyes. As she sat in the peaceful and pleasant garden and watched Shirley and Sam playing with little Stella, everything seeming so normal and unchanged, she crossed her fingers and closed her eyes in a brief prayer.

  * * *

  Sam was restless. Every aspect of his life was in turmoil. For a week he pored over the books in Granfer Jenkins’ snug, the spirit of the old man seeming to urge him on when everything seemed past hope. Day after day, each page telling its solemn tale, he searched for some sign that all was not lost, and found little to cheer him. The business that had supported a whole family for three generations was practically extinct. It was unlikely it would survive to see a fourth.

  He thought of Gilly marrying Paul Green. That would see an end to Jenkins’ for sure. Her name would change and she would inherit the bakery of his rivals and be a part of the Green family. The thought upset him. If he could find Lillian, marry and have a son, then there was a hope of seeing Granfer’s dream of a new generation coming true. His home-coming hadn’t been exactly joyful, in spite of arriving as the street-party was in progress.

  In fact, the return to civvy-street, dreamed of for so long, was a bitter disappointment. The freedom so yearned for, that had so recently become an actuality, was already lost. His sister murdered, his brother-in-law a crook and the business in tatters, and Lillian, on whom he had built his plans for future happiness, lost in the chaos of war-time London. His hopes of going to London to find her would have to wait while he set about finding a solution to the family’s problems.

  “At the moment, with no money and very few customers,” he said to Dai Smoky, “it all seems as impossible as hammering a nail into the wall with a soft boiled egg!”

  He had lost touch with Lillian completely. He had written to her, long letters in which he described his life before the war and his hopes and plans for when it was over. He told her about his family and assured her that when she met them she would love them all, even the slow and dull Ivor. He described the town with its beautiful sandy bays, the amusement park where thousands of trippers came to enjoy a week of fun every summer, the pebble beach and the lake and parks.

  Each letter had been written in the hope that it would provoke a reply, that somehow, with this letter, the broken chain of communication would be re-forged. But no reply came.

  The thought that she might have been bombed yet again tormented his dreams. She had laughed as she told him she was indestructable, but luck was an unpredictable, capricious thing and it wasn’t wise to laugh at it. Perhaps a third time fate might not be so kind. Perhaps she was already… He would stand up as his thoughts reached this point and walk around, frustrated that distance and the restrictions of war prevented him from finding out what had happened to her, kept them apart as emphatically as if he were locked in a prison to which there was no key.

  Now he went over the books again, shutting his mind to the need to find her, knowing that this mess had to be sorted first. Without a business to give him his living, what was the point in searching for her? When he found her again he had to have something to offer.

  In between trying to find a way out of the difficulties regarding the bake-house he visited the police and asked for information about the killing of his sister, Fanny. He also went through the newspaper cuttings carefully stored by Gilly, studying every report, seeking some clue among the words that told in an almost casual way of the murder of his sister. But the results were disappointing.

  Someone had shot Fanny, someone who owned a German officer’s pistol, but there was no motive for anyone to want her dead. It was a complete mystery although, as Gilly had said, the police seemed to hint strongly that it was Gerry who had been the intended target.

  “Carrying on with more than one lonely woman he was, mind,” Police Constable Dudley Cowper told him. “Husbands away for months and years, and the women with only a few letters to go to bed with. Flattered by his attentions and the occasional bunch of flowers they were. He had a way with the women, that Gerry Daniels, even in school he used it. Jealous we were to see how the girls melted when he stared into their eyes and them with not a look for us. Yes, even then he was a charming bugger. I ’ated ’im proper I did.”

  “He was married to my sister, Fanny. His carrying on would have stopped then, wouldn’t it? Strange for someone to try to kill him, then, when he’d married and was leaving the women alone?”

  “Him, stop carrying on? Sorry for him being married to your sister, Sam, but he never stopped! That Maisie Boxmoor who he married, she was one of his regular afternoon visits and her not the only one for sure. Told that poor sister of yours he was playing bowls, he did. Bowls! Imagine Gerry Daniels playing bowls can you? Along with all them old men? Never!” He looked at Sam and lowered his eyes. “Sorry, Sam, I shouldn’t have said, you being Fanny’s brother.”

  “I’m grateful to you for talking to me about him. I want to know everything about Gerry Daniels. In fact, if you can help me find out where he’s gone I’d be even more grateful. There are things I desperately want to ask him about the business, and for the purpose he’s vanished from sight.”

  “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know,” the constable promised.

  “I’ve come back to find everyone disappeared!” Sam said with a sigh. “There’s a girl I met in London who I’ve lost touch with and want to find again, and Gerry Daniels has sunk without trace. I’ll be starting my own detective agency if I’m successful. Better luck that trying to revive my father’s bakery business for sure!”

  * * *

  In August the world was facinated then horrified by the sudden end to the conflict. Two atom bombs, the fury of which had been beyond anyone’s imaginings, destroyed two Japanese cities, vapourising people and buildings and vehicles as in a children’s fantasy story. But as news of the British fighting men’s return filtered through, the horror of the massacre faded and rejoicing swelled throughout the country.

  The photographs of the gaunt, ill-treated and seriously undernourished prisoners returning from the prisoner-of-war camps in the Far East made the horror of the atom bomb fade more quickly still. Even the most gentle of people were better able to cope with the thought of all the innocent victims of the atom bombs on seeing their own returning in such a bad way. The enthusiasm of the celebrations clouded the memory with increased speed. It was over. Men and women who had been absent for so long, were on their way home.

  All over the small seaside town from May through to that autumn the celebrations continued. The town gave a lead by sending the sound of church bells ringing out their message of freedom. The ban on them had been lifted at Easter in 1943, but on this day, everyone knew the message they told and rejoiced. Then, at last officials turned on the town’s street lights, banishing the darkness and gloom. The population both young and old hung flags from every available space. Everyone spoke to everyone else, strangers greeted each other like friends; for a few weeks it was as if the whole population consisted of sisters, brothers and favorite aunts and uncles.

  The houses in all the streets burst out once more from the restrictions of their colour-starved years and filled windows and walls as well as the space between the rows of houses with cheerful displays.

  The displays of that summer made the streets a wonderland for children who had grown up in drabness with a lack of everything but the essentials for existence. In every home women and children made posters. School children painted flags on cardboard. The faces of Winston Churchill, Montgomery, and King George VI and Queen Elizabeth and the much-loved princessess were chalked on walls, some brilliant
ly life-like.

  Triangles from torn up dresses and hurriedly dyed rags were impatiently sewn to tapes to criss-cross the streets from bedroom window to bedroom window, making a triumphant tunnel for the great numbers of sightseers to wander through and admire.

  For weeks the town seemed to live on the streets. Outside open front doors along Bread Street and many others, chairs were placed and groups of neighbours would gather to chatter and compare notes on how things were settling down after the conflict. Bedtime was forgotten for the children, who played in the unaccustomed light of the street lamps until they dropped exhausted and were carried to their beds. The lamp-lighter, coming around on his bicycle with his long pole, was followed around with a shrieking horde of children to watch as he lit the gas lamps, as if he were a magician. Vic Smoky even brought his radio onto the pavement so he could hear the news, reluctant to go inside and abandon the rest to listen indoors. “Welcome Home Dad” banners appeared on many doors as the servicemen gradually filtered back to civvy-street and normality.

  Sam walked around the streets with Gilly, marvelling at the ingenuity and excitement of the population. He laughed with them, comforted those whom he knew had lost loved ones and it wasn’t until he had been home for several weeks, and some of the strain had been eased from his tanned face, that he told Gilly he was taking two days off and going to London.

  “I have to find someone,” he said. “I won’t stay more than two days and I’ve persuaded Auntie Bessie to come back and keep you company while I’m gone.”

  “There’s no need, Uncle Sam. I’ll be all right.”

  “I wouldn’t go unless you had someone to stay and your aunt will be glad to help. She feels guilty leaving you on your own and will be glad to make up for her neglect.” He didn’t tell Gilly how angry he had been with his sister for leaving Gilly, little more than a child, to cope unaided. Bessie had cried after his anger had abated and when he had asked her to help while he went to London, she agreed at once.

  Gilly and Sam worked long into the night before he left, discussing what had happened and how best to combat the greed and mis-management that was Gerry’s legacy. Together and with Dai Smoky loyally helping them, they began to see a glimmer of hope amid the ruins of the once proud firm of Jenkins and Sons, the bakers of Bread Street.

  * * *

  Lillian had given up hope of ever seeing Sam again. When the war ended, seeing the casualties of the conflict listed as fifty-five million world-wide, she accepted that he had been one of the victims who would never be given a grave. With men and women returning every day to their jubilant families, those in prisons now accounted for, it seemed foolish to continue to hope. She would accept he was no longer coming back. Like thousands of others she had to accept it and get on with her life. If he were alive he would have got in touch. She believed that absolutely.

  Lillian’s large, noisy, untidy family was sadly reduced in number. Two of Lillian’s brothers had died in the air force, shot down over the sea. Her brother, Geoff, had left the family home and found himself a job and accommodation in Cardiff, after finding his girl had been unable to wait for him to return and was on her way to America as a GI bride.

  With her three sisters now married, and one only brother left at home, she saw a bleak and empty future ahead of her, becoming the auntie who kept the family home going and was at everyone’s beck and call.

  Until she had met and fallen in love with Sam, that would have been sufficient for her; her work was satisfying and fulfilling, but loving Sam had given her dreams of a home and a family of her own.

  On her way home from a Victory Party at the school where she taught, a man bumped into her and made her stagger as he mumbled an apology. He stopped and touched her arm to repeat his apologies, although it had been her own carelessness that had caused them to collide. She smiled her happy smile and assured him all was well, swaying slightly as the drink she had consumed caused her equilibrium some confusion.

  “Please, let me offer you a cup of tea, there’s bound to be a café close by,” the young man said with a friendly smile. “I can’t have you walking home after a bump like that without even trying to make amends.”

  He was in army uniform, his forage cap pushed back on his head giving it a casual look. Regulations had been lax since war ended, although she knew he would have straightened it quickly enough if another uniform had loomed into view. His eyes were dark, smouldering she thought with a frisson of excitement. He had full lips, not unlike her own, and tempting. A slight scar on his upper lip made his smile a cheeky one.

  He was tanned and she guessed he had served in North Africa or some other warm and sunny clime, like Sam. She was glad of the unexpected meeting and of the feel of him walking in step beside her, it made her loneliness and her loss of Sam less painful for a while. She was about to refuse but suddenly couldn’t face being alone, not while she was grieving the loss of Sam, her dearest love. She took the arm he offered, changed direction, and led him to a small rather dingy café where teas and coffees were served.

  He encouraged her to talk, saying little himself, just smiling at her in a way that warmed and excited her. He enriched her tea from a small flask he took from his pocket and she talked and laughed even more.

  From the café they went to a public house and, while they were walking towards her bus stop, she pointed out the air-raid shelter where she had frequently waited through a raid for the All Clear to sound.

  “Show me,” he said, easing her towards the half blocked doorway.

  Giggling, the drink she had consumed making her foolishly girlish, she pushed aside the flimsy wood and stepped into the foul-smelling cement building. In a corner near the light from the doorway was a pile of old rags. The smell of stale air, urine and dampness began to sober her as she remembered the many hours spent in the place. It was all so sad. She leaned towards him for comfort. He wasn’t Sam, but she could pretend, just for a while longer. She knew he wanted to kiss her. She could pretend it was Sam.

  He touched her foot with his own and neatly tripped her up. Still laughing she staggered and sat down on the rags. “Sam, my love,” she murmured. His hand moved her supporting arms and she fell back and felt the pressure of his body as he fell across her. “You’re beautiful, beautiful,” he said and she imagined it was Sam’s voice. This was something she had dreamed of so often in her lonely bed, it was coming true. At last it was coming true.

  He positioned himself with the ease of much practise so she was immediately aware of his desire and almost without thought she abandoned herself to him. His hands were expert in their roving, doing rapturous things to her love-starved body. She impatiently helped him to remove her restricting clothes. Gasping with the wonder of it, unable to resist and not even wanting to, she allowed him to make love to her and said her silent goodbye to her dream of a life with Sam.

  He kissed her gently and with what seemed to her inexperienced mind, genuine affection, but then his warmth and weight left her, his shadow slipped through the doorway and he was gone.

  She dressed slowly, still glowing and floating and mystified by the sensations he had released in her. She dressed herself, abandoning the effort of putting on her stockings and the suspender belt, adding them to the pile of rags, and walked home.

  She would never marry; Sam had gone and there would never be anyone else. But at least she knew what it was like to make love to a man. She felt no remorse at what she had done. She was still on fire from the moments in the gloomy, foul-smelling building. Perhaps the memory of the love-making to savour and the fascination of watching other peoples’ children grow would be enough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gilly called on Shirley one Sunday morning after church and asked her to come for a walk that afternoon.

  “Somewhere special?” Shirley asked curiously.

  “Something I want to talk to you about, if you’ve the time,” Gilly said. “I have an idea for… no, wait ’til later and I’ll explain it all pro
perly.”

  Still dressed in their best Sunday clothes, Gilly guided Shirley to Bread Street.

  “I’d have called for you if you’d said?” Shirley said curiously.

  “I didn’t want Uncle Derek or anyone else to know where we’re going.”

  Bread Street was not very long and it consisted mostly of business premises, although there were a few private dwellings interspersed between the shops, the bank, the dairy and the two drinking clubs. Jenkins’ bake-house was at one end and Derek Green’s was in the middle. At the end closest to the railway station and the bus stop was the neglected and boarded up place that had once been the Nevilles’ bakery. Owned by Jenkins’ but empty since Neville’s sons had retired, it looked to be in a sorry state.

  Shirley looked with distaste at the dirty façade. “You could have told me to change my shoes, Gilly, love. A mess these will be if we have to go in there.”

  “It isn’t as bad as you’d expect,” Gilly promised and she put the key in the padlock, opened the stiff door and they went inside.

  It was darker once they had closed the door, the gloomy late-autumn day casting shadows and forbidding the entrance of the fading daylight. As Gilly had promised, it was clean under foot and the first room they entered was completely empty. Behind the first room a passage led to what had been the bake-house. The ovens were still intact, the whole wall that fronted them was tiled in white tiles and remarkably clear of dust.

  “You’ve been busy in here,” Shirley said and Gilly nodded.

  “I’ve been exploring and like Mam and Auntie Bessie, I can’t resist having a go with a cloth and a pail of water when I see this sort of neglect.”

  The slightly rusting oven doors, one above the other, were partly open and showed the expanse of the large ovens that extended some eleven feet. To one side was the proving oven; in the centre, the damper to control the coke fires, above the ovens was the brass name plate of the makers still clearly readable. Above their heads was the chute to bring flour down into the troughs.