by Mary Wood
Theresa shivered. She’d never known the anger of a man, and had never thought to experience a man being violent to her. And yet she knew it was part of everyday life for most of the wives of the pit workers and farm labourers. And, worse, they had to accept their plight, as there was no one to help them escape it. Most even thought of it as a normal part of their lives – herself included, though she felt differently about it now. Maybe the war would change things. After all, women were being empowered, taking on work the men normally did and bringing home a wage. They were making decisions in the absence of their menfolk and gaining positions in life that before were closed to them. She hoped so, for she hated the thought of them living the fear she’d lived after her own experience. The worst of it had been the threats if she’d exposed him. He’d meant every word, and she’d feared for her own and her family’s lives. Darling Terence had helped her to cover up the resulting pregnancy, and together they had conjured up a story of her being raped by a stranger whilst out riding. Father had believed it and had taken care of the rest.
Some of her time in Scotland had been spent thinking about her life. She regretted now not staying married to the Hon. Raymond Hawthorn. His confessing his homosexuality to her on their first night together had shocked her. But now, what he’d offered her – a life of being able to do as she wanted and have affairs with whom she pleased whilst under his protection, as long as she allowed him to do the same – would have suited the person she became after their divorce. Always a flirt, and having had many experiences girls of her age shouldn’t have had, she wondered now why she even considered the shame she thought would have come down on her from society. She would even have been able to keep her child . . . Still, that’s as it was. Done and dusted.
The rest of her time she’d spent waiting for Terence’s visits. The servants thought her husband had died suddenly and that she needed to be away from home to come to terms with things. They didn’t know Terence was her brother and may have gossiped at how close they were, but it hadn’t affected her or Terence. They had cemented their relationship as lovers as often as they could. They’d become inured to the sin of it, and their love was the most passionate she’d ever known.
Sitting back and relaxing a little as the car whisked her further and further away from all that had gone before, she reflected on how she couldn’t remember the exact moment the idea came to her to serve her country. Something had stirred her conscience, and she’d had a time of feeling sick with shame at how she’d behaved in her life so far. It had come to her that she had to do something to assuage that, and so she had contacted Derwent, an old friend who worked in the Foreign Office. He had told her about the Special Operations Executive.
‘It’s going to be a very big part of our war effort. Winston Churchill and the Economic Warfare Minister, Hugh Dalton . . . you’ve met him, I believe?’ he’d said, and she’d told him she had and that she’d also met Mr Churchill on many occasions.
‘Cracking Prime Minister. The best man for the job,’ Derwent had said, and she had agreed. ‘Well, they formed the SOE together. It was Dalton’s idea, but Winston took it on and is championing it despite some opposition. It will be British-led. Its members will facilitate espionage and sabotage behind enemy lines. We need the best calibre of men and women, and you have every qualification except . . .’
He’d skirted around his reservations, but she’d known what he was getting at: did she have the courage and tenacity? Up to now she hadn’t been called upon to show any of those things. Derwent had seen her as a flippant, rich, good-time girl, and who could blame him?
‘Look, old thing, if you are serious, then join the Army. Go through the training. I will keep an eye on you and have your progress reported to me. If after that you still want to do specific work for the war effort, and you show the guts we are looking for, we’ll see what we can do.’
Something in his words had fired her determination. She wanted to prove to him, to the world, that she was worth something. And at that moment she’d made up her mind and looked into enlisting.
‘You’re quiet, darling.’
‘There’s a lot to think about.’
‘I know.’
His hand reached out for hers. The touch burned like a hot poker searing the memory of everything they had to leave behind. She snatched hers away.
‘Sorry . . .’
‘No intimate moments. We agreed!’
Silence that gave her no comfort fell between them, and her thoughts drifted to Billy Armitage’s final act. How happy she’d felt when she’d heard the news of his death. Her immediate reaction had been elation at the release from the fear he’d bound her in. But then she’d given her thoughts to how devastated Jack Fellam and Sarah must have been. Billy had brought so much suffering down on them. He had beaten Sarah almost to death and killed Megan, his own mother. In losing Megan, Jack Fellam had lost the love of his life, and Sarah, Jack’s daughter, her beloved stepmother, come mother-in-law.
A funny tangle, the relationship between them all. Jack’s marriage to Megan had made Billy and Sarah stepbrother and sister. At some point along the way that must have turned to something deeper. Nothing illegal of course as they were not blood related. But surely, Billy’s mental state and his murder of Sarah’s sister and then his own father, when they were all children, should have prevented any such feelings developing? Unless it all happened through fear? This seemed the most likely scenario. From all she knew of Billy Armitage, he should have remained sectioned for ever, not released to kill again. It appears his killing himself was the only decent thing he’d ever done in his life.
Thinking of Sarah, she remembered Terence had told her she’d given birth on the same day as herself. She’d had a girl too. Funny, that. Two girls born on the same day to the same father, but to different mothers – not that Sarah or anyone else knew anything about her own little girl. They all thought she’d spent these last few months away doing war work – a clever story that even her mother had been told to cover her absence from Breckton and Hensal Grange during her pregnancy.
She should feel sorry for all Sarah had gone through, but she didn’t. She envied her. Billy’s suicide had released her from the shackles he’d held her in, and she’d been able to go to her true love. It appeared she’d only married Billy out of fear of what he might do if she didn’t. Well, that turned out to be a farce – he did it anyway.
Sarah having a love waiting for her wasn’t the source of her envy. No, it was the fact that she could keep her baby. But then, I have to admit, she deserves to and I don’t.
Guilt overrode all of her emotions once more as she thought about her own actions. She knew she couldn’t always blame her sexuality or the fact that it seemed to drive her back then. Not now, though, and she would never allow it to rule her again. She would never return to thinking there were no boundaries, no lines that she shouldn’t cross. How had she ever considered it her right to have sex with her own brother, and with Billy Armitage – a married man – and with a woman, their Land Girl, Rita? Her only saving grace was that she hadn’t used any of them for anything other than pleasure. She couldn’t say that of Terence. Sex to him was sometimes a means to an end, as it was when he’d had Rita, she was sure of it.
1963
Lizzie slammed the book shut. My God, Rita! And . . . and with BOTH of them! And those two together. Brother and sister – twins, even . . .
A sick feeling took her. She swallowed hard. Her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of it all, and with the feeling she’d delved into something very private. Not the biography, for Theresa wanted that to be read by all those concerned in her life or affected by it – her children, the wife of that Billy, and yes, me. As the niece of one of her lovers I qualify as someone who should know – but by the intimate nature of everything Theresa had disclosed.
Was Rita still her lover? It did sound like she was involved in getting the bag, and she’d said she hadn’t got much out of her lately, which sug
gested she was still seeing her. The thought had Lizzie shrinking back onto her pillows. Could she read more? Already she’d found out the reason for Rita spending fifteen years in prison. A fire! Rita had set a fire and destroyed someone’s life. Or had she? This Theresa seemed to think she’d been set up by her brother, Terence Crompton . . . Yes, she had to read on. She owed that much to Rita. And this woman, this Theresa, she owed her that much too, as reading on would surely unfold the reasons.
A noise from the lounge had Lizzie grabbing the rest of the books. Her heart raced as she pushed them under the mattress. A crash had her manoeuvring her chair frantically towards her door.
Shards of glass lay strewn across the floor and a broken bottle neck swivelled like a spinning top in the doorway. She stared at the red-blotched face of Rita, framed by greasy tendrils of bleached-blonde hair. ‘What did you throw that for?’
‘It’s empty. What’s the use of a bleedin’ empty gin bottle, eh? Go and get me another, love. I have some money in me purse.’
Anger made her snap, something she rarely did at this woman who’d at first seemed like their saviour and was still, in a way. ‘How come yer have money for drink? Has Ken paid yer out for betraying the owner of the bag? That was a foul act, Rita. What if he hurt her?’
‘What’s it to you? They don’t call me Resourceful Rita for nothing, yer know.’
Her toothless mouth opened and the room filled with her cackling laughter. The sound repulsed Lizzie, and yet her repulsion mingled with love. Rita had given her reason beyond measure to hate her, but she didn’t. In moments during the dark hours she’d spent soothing the sorrow of this woman, she’d heard the story of how she’d tried to better herself. Taking any road to achieve that, she’d seized an opportunity she’d thought might open up a few choices for her and had turned her hand to war work. ‘A Land Girl, I was, Lizzie,’ she’d said. A bleedin’ Land Girl. I could tell you some tales about them toffs in the country with their acres of land. You wouldn’t credit what they get up to. Manipulative, they were. Took someone like me, naive to their ways and trying to make me life better, and framed me, they did.’ She’d gone on to tell of her fifteen years in prison before explaining how she’d come to lose everything. ‘I made good when I came out, but I just trusted the wrong one – Vince bleedin’ Yarman. I thought he loved me, but he bleedin’ took everything I had, he did. Anyway, I still have a goose who lays the golden egg, and so she should.’
Lizzie hadn’t taken much notice of this last at the time, but now, even though she knew the answer, she challenged Rita with the question, ‘How do you know the lady that Ken got the bag from, Rita? Is she the one you visit?’
‘Stop asking bleedin’ questions and get down the pub and get me gin.’
Afraid to push things further, Lizzie took Rita’s purse from her bag. Once outside she breathed the evening air deep into her lungs. She couldn’t call it fresh, clogged as it was with the smog that often hung over London, but just being outside the confines of the home lifted her. It wasn’t far to the pub, but some of it was tricky going as her wheels caught in the ruts of the uneven pavement.
A familiar voice shouted, ‘Evening News, read all about it!’
The billboard in front of the kiosk caught her eye, and she stared at the headline: POLICE SEEK WITNESSES. WAS 52-YEAR-OLD MISS CROMPTON ATTACKED?
As she came up to the stand, Ray, the paper-seller said, ‘Evening, Lizzie. Shocking, ain’t it? And in our own back yard, so to speak – or at least not far away. She’s from those houses on the edge of Brixton. Most of ’em have been made into flats now, but it used to be a posh area, that did, when I was a boy, but now the gentlefolk still living there have found themselves surrounded by all sorts. What’s the world coming to, eh?’
‘I know, Ray. Rita says the same. I’ll have a paper, thanks.’
‘Here you are, luv. I’ll tuck it next to you. Where you off to? It’ll be dark soon and it ain’t safe to be out.’
‘Oh, just going to the pub for Rita’s gin. I’ll be home in no time. See yer.’
Still reeling from the headline, Lizzie didn’t want to linger. Ray could keep you talking for ages once he got started.
Back in her room and with Rita content with her bottle, Lizzie laid the paper out on her bed.
The story sickened her, but the picture wrenched at her heart. Blackened, swollen eyes holding a deep fear looked out at her. This Theresa didn’t seem at all related to the heroine of the memoirs, and yet her hair still fell into the same style – rolled at the top – although the smooth wave had gone. It fell down round her ears in wiry strands, and the dark lights were now grey streaks. A clip like the one in the ID picture held it in place.
Lizzie traced her finger over it. Tears of anguish ran like a river down her cheeks. This battered and bruised lady, who looked older than her years, had risked her life as a young woman for the liberation of France, and therefore for their own freedom.
A knock on her door stiffened her body. She closed the newspaper and turned it over so the sports page was face up.
‘What’s that you’re reading, darlin’?’ The soft strokes on her head made her cringe. She knocked his hand off. ‘Don’t, Ken. I don’t like you doing that.’
‘Is that right? So you’re no longer me little sis, then, eh?’ He turned the paper over. ‘Well, well, been doing some detective work, have yer? Where’s the bag? What did them papers in it say about her?’
‘I . . . It’s over there on me dressing table stool. Is the lady in the newspaper the one it came from? Have you stooped that low? You’re vile, Ken. You sicken me. You’re no better than Dad . . . Don’t . . . No!’
Her head stung, and his grip on her long fair hair brought back the stinging tears she’d managed to hide.
‘You bitch! Don’t you ever compare me with him!’ The glare in his eyes chilled her bones. Smoke, alcohol fumes and the sweet scent of marijuana made her retch. His fist clenched. He drew it back. It hovered. She waited for it to smash into her face, but after a moment he lowered it and grabbed her arm. Twisting it behind her, he leaned even closer. ‘Don’t push it with me, sis, I’m warning yer.’
With her free hand she clawed at him. ‘Leave me alone, you bastard!’ Her nails dug into his cheek, scraping skin and flesh. The ugly wound seeped blood.
The injury triggered one of his episodes. His regression showed in his voice and how he cried like a child. For her own safety, she hoped it played out how it often did, with him losing all sense of time and place. And then, tired beyond anything normal, falling asleep only to wake hours later and not remember a thing.
‘Oh, Lizzie . . . Lizzie, I’m hurt. Look, I’m bleeding . . .’ His tears mixed with his snot, leaving a silvery line on his sleeve as he wiped it across his face. Stumbling towards the door, his expression one of a lost child, he left the room.
Lizzie hugged her slight body, and rocked herself. Sick fear stayed with her. She knew his episodes didn’t always last. In her despair lay questions: why did he think he could treat her like he did? When did he lose respect for her, or put her into a different place in his mind to where she belonged? Oh, God, what if one day he really lost it? How would she defend herself? She had to speak to someone, but whom?
‘Get out of me way!’
His voice coming from the living room jolted her out of her thoughts. It was no longer child-like. Rita screamed, ‘Lizzie, Lizzie . . . He’s got a needle!’
The drumming of her heart against her ribs was as if it demanded freedom from her body. She rocked to its rhythm. Trapped by her useless body, she had no escape.
‘You leave her alone, you pervert . . . Agh!’
The sentence swam into a holler of pain that died into a silence. An agony entered Lizzie at the thought of him hitting Rita. The door flew open. Ken stood in front of her like a smiling demon. ‘I’ve got a treat for you, sis.’
A watery-red trail of blood mingled with his sweat and ran down to his neck. It matched the thread veins
in the whites of his staring eyes. She could not look away. The evil inside him bored into her soul.
Shrinking back from the phial he held didn’t help. The fluid glistened as he pumped some of it into the air. ‘What is it? What’re you going to do? Ken . . . No!’
‘It’s something to make you shut your mouth and do as I say. You’ll like it. You’ll like it so much You’ll beg me for more, just like she does.’
Her shocked mind wouldn’t give her the enormity of what he intended. She knew Rita used drugs now and again when the gin wasn’t enough, but didn’t know she’d got to the stage of begging for it. And she’d heard that more and more young people were becoming addicted to hardened drugs like heroin. No, please don’t let it be that!
‘Please . . . Please, Ken, don’t—’
The jab stung her.
‘Little sis is going to be a good girl now.’
The pink walls of her bedroom wobbled like blancmange. Voices mocked her. Her body seemed to float round the room, passed by her school picture, and up to the light dangling down from the ceiling. The lightshade began to dance, the blue dots on it twirling round then jumping off and sticking to the ceiling. She laughed. ‘Naughty dots. Get back where you belong.’
‘Now! Go on, get her onto the bed.’
Arms held her. Lifted her. A chill shivered through her. ‘Don’t take my clothes off. I’m cold.’
‘This ain’t right, Ken. You said she was willing.’
‘Just do it, Laurence. She needs it. Who’s going to take her on? She needs showing about life and to have experiences. Besides, yer bleedin’ fancy her, don’t yer?’
‘Not like this . . .’
‘Fucking do it! You arsehole, you owe me. Besides, I’m bleedin’ doing it for her.’
‘Get lost.’
A door slammed, making her jump. Ken’s voice, angry, shouting at Laurence, calling him loopy and spineless. But she wasn’t afraid, not like normal. Just confused and . . . and light-headed. Nothing mattered. There were no cares, no fears, nothing . . . She could do anything and be anybody. She wanted to close her eyes. Beautiful dreams came when she closed her eyes. Colours. Wonderful colours swirled around her, brushing away all hurt. All pain. Making her feel safe.
