Time Passes Time
Page 2
Rita, her mum’s youngest sister, had taken her and Ken on, which couldn’t have been an easy thing to do. Rita had come back from Australia after her man had conned her out of everything she had. Knowing what had happened to them hadn’t stopped her going, but she’d thought one of the other family members would take care of them. Finding her, a fifteen-year-old, in a children’s home and sixteen-year-old Ken in Borstal had enraged her. She’d not given up until she had them both with her, falling out with all of her sisters and brothers in the process and never speaking to them again. Five of them, there were – well, five still alive though there had been ten altogether. There’d also been two aunts on her dad’s side, and not one of them had stepped in to help her and her brother. They would have let them rot.
She and Ken hadn’t known Rita very well, and their mum hadn’t spoken much of her. Their dad had referred to her, for as long as she could remember, as ‘that bitch in jail’, and as being no better than her mum’s brother Alf, but that hadn’t meant much at the time. Now it didn’t seem possible that Rita coming into their lives was just four short years ago. It had been wonderful at the time, but things deteriorated when Rita took to the drink and Ken’s carry-ons caused friction. Ken had no respect for Rita.
These last thoughts held in them the misery of their lives today, but they still couldn’t hold a candle to what had gone before, nor stop the quiver of her nerves when she wondered about the future. But dwelling on it didn’t help. Physically shaking herself free of the terrible recollections, she felt the pain of her nails digging into her palms. Taking her time, she unfurled each cramped finger from the tight fist they had curled into, took some deep breaths, and wiped the sweat and tears from her face.
The bag came into focus. Leaning forward, she pulled it towards her. Maybe she could get a clue as to the owner by going through it. An address, perhaps, though if she did find that she’d have to post the bag back to whomever it belonged to, as taking it might implicate Ken.
A frayed, faded-green, wartime ID card lay on top of the pile of paperwork that had dropped from the upturned bag. Opening it revealed a black-and-white image of a young woman. Her face, though not smiling, was beautiful. Her hair – old-fashioned in its style: rolled on the top and falling into soft waves – caught the light in its dark colour. Something about the eyes and the expression told of this girl having hidden depths and a strong determination. She read the information: Theresa Laura Crompton, born: 23.3.1911, York, United Kingdom.
Looking at the date stamped on the card told her Theresa would have been thirty at the time. That would make her fifty-two now. Oh, God, please don’t let her have been hurt . . .
Something had fallen out from inside the ID card: a similar document in French, though smaller and brown in colour and with the same picture inside. And yet, it bore a different name: Olivia Danchanté, date de naissance: 24.5.1911, Paris, France. Puzzled and with her interest piqued, Lizzie shuffled through the rest. An envelope tied with ribbon revealed several scribbled notes, again written in French. If only she’d paid more attention to languages in school. But, excelling in history, English and maths, she had given little to anything that bored her, and her education had been cut short after . . . No, she’d not let those thoughts in again. They had already taken her spirit and shredded it.
Laying the letters down, she picked up the photos. Some of them were in sepia, while others were in black and white. There was one of Theresa or Olivia – confusing with the identity cards showing different names – with a young man of the same height and very similar in looks and age, around twenty to twenty-six-ish at the time. She’d have thought them to be brother and sister, as there was another photo of them with an older couple that had Terence and me with Mater and Pater written on the back, but in this picture, their way of leaning close and how he looked at her suggested a lover; turning it over, Lizzie read, 1938, Terence and me at Hensal Grange.
There were others of Theresa/Olivia with young people in uniform, and in a separate envelope there was one of her in a man’s arms. They were holding a baby, one of a few months old, and looking into each other’s eyes – clearly lovers. Husband and wife, even? In this one she noted that Theresa/Olivia had pencilled a Margaret Lockwood beauty spot on her cheek, and that she had exaggerated the fullness of her lips with her lipstick. This made Lizzie smile. As a young woman, she must have been a romantic and a follower of the latest fashions. A happier thought from Lizzie’s past surfaced, bringing the image of her mum all dressed up and ready to go out with her dad and looking similar to the young woman in the photo. Her dad, looking dapper in his dark suit and white shirt and with his white silk scarf dangling from his neck, had leaned forward and tickled her with the scarf’s tassels. The memory cheered her as she looked at a photo taken in a field. Remnants of a picnic could be seen in the background. Theresa/Olivia was bending forward with her arms outstretched. Her skirt clung to her legs at the front and billowed out at the back. It must have been a windy day. A little boy held on to a wooden truck as if he might let go and walk towards her, but he looked only around ten or eleven months old. His face was a picture of joy. On the back it said, my son, Jacques, August 1944. And yet another of the man on his own – a foreign-looking man, with floppy hair parted on one side, nice eyes and a handsome face, though his smile, tilted to one side, gave him a rakish look. This connected with Lizzie. She loved a sense of humour in a man. On the back of this photo she read, Pierre Rueben, October, 1943, the father of my son. Then in French, and in a different handwriting, Je t’aime, jamais m’oublier. With the little she remembered from her French lessons, she could just make out that this said something along the lines of: I love you, never forget me.
Putting these to one side, Lizzie picked up the roll of exercise books. The strong elastic band rasped along the cover of the outer book as she forced it to release a bulk that was almost too much for it.
With edges resisting her attempts to straighten them, the books – ten in all – lay curled in front of her. On the top one, written in neat handwriting, she read:
MY WAR – MY LOVE – MY LIFE
Theresa Crompton
With her imagination fired, Lizzie opened the book. On the first page she read how Theresa had begun the memoir in September 1953, to commemorate the tenth birthday of her lost son Jacques, whose whereabouts she did not know. The milestone of his birthday had prompted her to write about her life and her war, as now the world was at peace she felt she could hurt no one by doing so.
Even though she did not know Theresa, it saddened Lizzie to read that as she wrote Theresa was fragile in her mind and body and hoped the writing of everything down would act as a cathartic exercise for her.
The dedication fascinated her and she felt her heart clench with sadness.
This work is dedicated to Pierre Rueben, my love and my life. And to our son, Jacques Rueben, and to my first child, my Olivia, who will probably never know who I am but whom I have never stopped loving. Not a day passes that I do not think of her and of Pierre and Jacques, and of course Terence, my beloved late twin brother.
To Lizzie, these words held a story in themselves. One of a lonely woman, left without everyone she’d ever loved. But why? So many questions she hoped the books would answer.
King’s College Hospital – London 1963
‘So, no one has come forward to claim the old girl, then, nurse?’
‘No, Officer, and we think her general frailty is giving us the wrong impression of her age. She tells us she is fifty-two, but as you can see, she looks nearer seventy. Who she is, is a mystery. One moment she is Theresa Crompton, and the next she says she is Olivia Danchanté. But then, she is obviously suffering some kind of mental illness or dementia. She seems to be reliving the war years, talking of the Nazis and someone called Pierre. Sometimes she speaks in English, sometimes in French. Poor thing thinks we are the Germans and have captured her. She’s terrified.’
‘That would explain her house. The whole
place is barricaded with old newspapers and cardboard boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. There’s just a small gap to get in and out through, and the smell . . . Well, anyway, as of yet we haven’t found her bag or any private papers, but the woman who found her confirmed she is Miss Crompton.’
Theresa lay still, her fear compounded. What are they saying? They’ve been in the house? How did they find it? What of Monsieur et Madame de Langlois? Smell . . .? Have they gassed them? Please, God, no . . . But they haven’t found my papers. Oh, Pierre, they don’t know of you yet. My darling, please wait. I will get to you. How brave you are, my darling.
‘Oh dear, she’s getting agitated again. It’s alright, love. Miss Crompton, come on. You’re safe now. You’re in hospital. No one can hurt you. Look, I’m sorry, Officer, you can see how distressed she is. I’ll have to fetch the doctor. She needs a sedative. There’s nothing more I can tell you at the moment anyway, but if she does have a lucid moment and gives us some indication of what happened to her, I’ll contact you.’
‘I’d like to try to talk to her if I can . . .’
‘Sorry, not until the doctor says so. I won’t be a moment.’
Fear once more gripped Theresa as she listened to this conversation. Oh, God, they want to talk to me. Pierre, take over my thoughts. Help me through this.
The scent of the meadow on that Sunday afternoon when they’d picnicked filled her nostrils. Was it last week? Her mind gave her the moment she’d said, ‘Look, Jacques is sleeping. We have tired him out.’ Laughing, Pierre had picked a buttercup and she saw in her mind’s eye how the sun had reflected the gold of the flower as she’d held it under his chin. His giggle at her funny British custom tinkled in her ears. ‘Ma chérie, how can a reflection tell if I like butter or no?’
Explaining how the myth amused children in England on sunny picnic outings had brought a happiness into her as she’d thought of her and Terence, but, as always, thinking of him had prickled her conscience. For hadn’t they tainted such innocent moments?
Pierre left her no time to let her thoughts drift to those painful parts of her inner self as he’d gently laid her back onto the soft grass and lifted her face to his. ‘Let me show you a good French tradition, ma chérie.’ His kisses had reeled her senses. Her body had yielded to his with a passion that released her very soul from the shackles that held it. But something gave her the truth of the moment and brought her back to now, and she knew it hadn’t stayed free for long.
Three
Lizzie Meets the Theresa of the Past
London 1963
Flicking through the books and aching to know more about Theresa’s life, Lizzie read a bit here and a bit there. Excitement built in her as the work transported her back in time to Theresa’s world . . .
South-west Scotland – Spring 1941
Theresa knew her innermost core had undergone a transformation. It seemed the dawning of a new season had unfurled the last resistance in her and made her ready to face the challenges ahead. The trees around her burst with buds that swelled with impatience to be allowed to bloom. Daffodils danced in the wind, and the sun, though weak with its warmth, shone down on her as she closed the door and looked around the garden and at the view beyond. None of it helped assuage the pain and guilt she held in her. If anything, the beauty of it all compounded the thought that she did not deserve to be part of it. Not yet, she didn’t, but her plans might make a difference. She looked up at the windows of the house where she had spent the last few months sitting out her pregnancy, before shifting her gaze to the little party about to drive away from her, taking with them a love that had attached to her very soul.
Her father stood, uncertain, holding her gaze and ready to change everything if she gave the nod. She almost did, but Terence calling out to her stopped what would have been a foolish act: ‘Come along, darling. No point in dwelling on it all.’
She didn’t miss the catch in Terence’s voice, and knew he shared her grief – a grief that gave a physical sensation as if lead weights had been placed where her heart should be. The cry of her daughter still reverberated in her mind. Now sleeping and peaceful, she was just a bundle swaddled in a blanket and held by the nurse Pater had brought with him.
Watching them get into the car and then hearing the sound of the wheels crunching on the pebbled drive as they pulled away crushed her soul. She wanted to cry out, ‘No, no, I can’t let her go.’ But she knew she had to. The moment froze. A deep breath released it and steadied her. Her father turned and looked back at her through the car window. He smiled and waved in what seemed like a final gesture, closing the part of her life that included her child. She walked in the opposite direction towards Terence and got into his car.
The driveway sped by tree after tree. A grouse danced into their path. Terence’s hooting of the car horn was a rude intrusion into a moment that should have held silence for a lot longer. The stupid grouse scurried towards them. Terence braked hard. The action jolted Theresa forward and brought her out of the daze she’d descended into.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Darling, we said we wouldn’t go into this and I—’
‘I have to know.’
‘She resembled Billy Armitage’s mother, Megan Fellam.’
Hearing Billy’s name jarred her, but she didn’t say so. Instead she continued to probe. ‘Had she the same golden-red hair?’
‘She had. Look, old thing, it is best not to talk about it. It won’t do any good.’
This reluctance on Terence’s part to discuss it all with her, made her realize how deeply her dear brother had been affected by it all.
‘I’m glad she looked like her grandmother. Maybe Megan will look down from wherever she is and take care of her.’
‘That’s a bit religious for you, isn’t it? I thought you only gave lip service to all of that mumbo-jumbo?’
His stilted reply cut into her, and yet it marked the change that had taken place between them. My Terence, my love, my sin. All in the past – no longer . . . It didn’t have to be said. She knew and she knew that he did too. Their incestuous love affair was over.
‘Will you marry Louise?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to be happy, my love. We have to carry on.’
‘But why should carrying on mean you having to go into the bloody Army? For goodness’ sake, Theresa, won’t you give that ridiculous idea up, please, darling?’
‘No. Try to understand. I have a skill that will help in the war effort. Besides, I need to do it. It is the only way I can cope.’
‘Cope? Will any of us ever cope again?’
The question shuddered through her, bringing to her the reason for it. It wasn’t just the war, which now seemed almost secondary to all that had happened in the last months.
Rita came to her mind. A niggly feeling had never left her where Rita was concerned. She wondered what it felt like to be incarcerated in prison. Did Rita deserve to be? Or was she really a victim of the ambition Terence had ached for and now looked like achieving?
‘Has Father consented to you taking the stud farm over?’
Terence shifted uncomfortably in the driving seat. They were so tuned into one another that he would know what had prompted the question – know she suspected him of setting Rita up and that he was guilty of destroying the Fellams’ stables, and for what? So that he could manipulate their father into at last funding him to take over the business that poor Jack Fellam could no longer sustain. Not now, he couldn’t. And it wasn’t just the question of finances, but after the murder of his wife he was a broken man. The fire had compounded that.
‘Theresa, are you determined to chew over everything that is upsetting to us both? I know you are hurt. God knows I am too, but we can’t do anything about it all. We have to accept that life has changed. Our cosy little existence has been torn away at the roots. But barbed accusations won’t help. Rita burned down the stables because she wanted to get into my good books . . .’
‘And you weren’t? For God’s sake! Look, old thing, we have to stop this or we’ll destroy each other.’
‘Hitler has already done that. If it wasn’t for his bloody war, none of the Land Girls would have come into our lives. No Rita, no Louise . . .’
‘Is that why you want to join up? You can’t fight Hitler alone, you know. And you aren’t the right kind anyway. You’re like me: a good-time sort of person. We don’t take up arms and fight in a physical sense. We fight by manipulation to get what we want, and you can’t do that to Hitler, no matter how much you blame him for everything.’
Of course he was right, but she would feel better hitting back even in a small way. Because what had happened in her life, and in all the lives of those of Breckton, could be laid at Hitler’s door. Hadn’t the country’s need for soldiers led to the release of the evil Billy Armitage from the mental institution? Billy Armitage – a murderer who, yes, she had to admit, had fascinated her and appealed to her need for different experiences to satisfy her deep sexual hunger.
Billy, whose actions had been put down to mental illness, had been considered cured when they released him. She’d believed it. They all had. Even Fellam, whose daughter had been Billy’s victim, had found forgiveness for Billy and had allowed him to marry his only surviving daughter, Sarah.
But the evil core of the man had been unchanged. She’d seen for herself the depth of it. Seducing him had been easy and exciting, but she hadn’t been prepared for his lack of sexual prowess. Teaching him things had added to her enjoyment, as had his rough ways, but when he’d not even had the common decency to pull out of her at the end and she’d berated him angrily, his true colours had shown. Fear still visited her at the memory of how he’d beat her, kicked her and threatened her life.