War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  Bettina shrugged and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t put anything beyond that little lad. Right,’ she went on. ‘Now let’s get down to business.’

  She went on to suggest that they wander around the immediate area, Frances going off in one direction and she in the other.

  Frances retraced her steps up the lane then down over the hill towards the church, peering into the cottage gardens to either side of the shop. A few people asked what she was looking for and she told them about Charlie.

  More than one person offered their help in the search. ‘Let me get me coat and I’ll help you.’

  Bettina hadn’t walked very far, but her mind was working logically. First things first: she needed to trace Paul Martin who might indeed have taken the child with him.

  Frances came back with a group of people around her.

  Tom Shepherd, who had once been the village policeman and was now retired, took it upon himself to get his neighbours organised. ‘We’ll go look down the bottom and up in the fields, though it seems a bit far for a little lad of his age to walk.’

  Her heart in her mouth, Frances watched them saunter off down the road, some with the spaniels they used when they went shooting at their side, the animals’ noses tight to the ground, stumpy tails wagging with excitement.

  Bettina watched them go too. Her heart was heavy: strong boy as he was, she didn’t really believe that Charlie would have gone very far. He could walk, yes, but only just. He wasn’t that steady on his feet for that great a distance.

  She was about to send Frances to search out Paul Martin, when there he was, larger than life sauntering down the road.

  There was a sheepish air about him, the way his hands were shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He frowned on seeing the state of Frances’s face and the formidable presence of Bettina Hicks. He thought the fact that he’d sloped off might have something to do with Frances looking so distraught, but would have preferred Mrs Hicks not being involved.

  ‘No needs to take on like that,’ he said to Frances. ‘I only went to check on something.’ It was a poor lie and too vague to be a viable excuse but he could hardly tell her that he’d planned to kiss her, had thought better of it and ran away. Now here he was again, his courage renewed.

  Frances carried on sobbing.

  Paul nodded at Bettina. ‘Hello, Mrs Hicks.’ Again he glanced nervously at Frances. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Charlie’s gone!’ Frances sounded frantic and her words were punctuated by loud sobs.

  Bettina took over. ‘Paul, did you leave Charlie here all alone?’

  An embarrassed flush coloured Paul’s sallow complexion, so deep it made the white of his shirt collar look a dirty yellow.

  Paul shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Well … yes. But he didn’t mind. He was here in his pram.’ He grinned. ‘He nicked a carrot from the box. I tried to get it off him and put it back, but he was having none of it. Determined little bug— devil he is … was … um …’ His words stuttered to a full stop.

  Bettina sighed. ‘He is little more than a baby. It wasn’t long ago he started walking.’

  Paul looked down at his feet, toeing the ground while chewing the inside of his cheek. It was a bad habit, but he always did that when he felt awkward or guilty about something. Earlier he’d thought himself quite the man with all his ideas about Frances. Now he felt like a schoolboy again.

  All three pairs of eyes turned to the carrot crumbs. Bettina sighed. ‘I suppose your uncle Stan will have to be told.’

  Frances immediately erupted into a fresh torrent of tears.

  Bettina patted her shoulder. ‘Now, now. Calm down. Let’s think this through carefully.’ She turned to Paul who was looking more than a bit sorry for himself. The boy’s eyes kept flickering in the direction of young Frances. He was sweet on her, that much was apparent. She wondered if Frances knew that, then pushed the thought from her mind. There was no time for things as trivial as adolescent romance when a baby was missing. Charlie was top priority.

  ‘Paul,’ she went on. ‘Think back. Did you see anyone else around when you were outside the shop with Charlie? Anyone at all?’

  Paul frowned as he tried to remember. ‘The kids from up the Barton were playing with a kitten, though not for long. It ran off up the lane and they ran after it. And Mr Harris looked over the wall and asked me what day it was and what time the Kaiser was expected.’

  Bettina closed her eyes and wiped her perspiring forehead with the back of her hand. It was quite a cold day but she couldn’t help feeling hot and very exasperated. All down to worry, of course.

  The prospect of anyone having seen anything wasn’t great. The children would have been engrossed by the kitten and although Mr Harris had come back from the Great War in the physical sense, his mind was still out there. Judging by his ramblings the Germans had won the war and the Kaiser was travelling around his new domain checking up on all those who had fought against him.

  The poor man, she thought sadly. She also felt sorry for his wife; it couldn’t be easy. Thankfully he did bring in a small wage, bending his brawny back doing causal labour for a few farms and suchlike; that and a small pension was a tiny bulwark between getting by and total poverty. She’d noticed he was one of those accompanying Tom Shepherd in the search for the child.

  Bettina looked thoughtfully at Frances who was dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes. ‘How long were you in the shop?’

  ‘Quite a long time. Twenty minutes at least.’ Frances dabbed again with her soggy hankie. ‘Mrs Powell hadn’t unpacked the boxes. I had to wait.’

  Bettina nodded thoughtfully. ‘How about Miriam? Was she there?’

  Frances shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her.’

  Bettina swallowed a lump in her throat but couldn’t stop her mind focusing on basic fears. She’d heard stories of babies being snatched – in her young days it was always the gypsies who were blamed. She had no idea whether it was true or not. Nobody was sure whether Miriam had had a baby. Perhaps she had and it had been given up for adoption. Or perhaps it had died.

  She knew she was only surmising, but nobody knew for sure whether Miriam had been pregnant or not. A lost baby had turned the mind of many a grieving mother.

  Her rambling thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘Can I do anything to help, missus?’ Paul was looking at her with a mixture of fear and pleading.

  If she’d been able to read his mind, she would know how he was feeling: if only he hadn’t run scared at his intention of kissing Frances, the only girl in the whole village who really interested him.

  Bettina instructed him to fetch the baby’s grandfather. ‘Run like the wind and fetch Mr Sweet. Tell him what’s happened. Tell him I’ll wait for him here. And hurry!’

  Taking his hands out of his pockets, Paul broke into an instant run, his legs kicking behind him, his arms powering him along like engine pistons as he raced for help. By and by his figure became smaller before vanishing altogether as he turned into West Street.

  Bettina turned back to the snivelling Frances. ‘Pull yourself together and wipe your eyes. You stay here. I’ll go in and have a word with Mrs Powell and Miriam.’

  When rationing had come in, Bettina Hicks had purposely avoided registering with Gertrude Powell. In fact, she purposely avoided having anything to do with the woman. Her reasons were numerous, but there was one above all others, one she kept strictly to herself.

  The devil himself would have had trouble dragging her into Gertrude’s shop, but on this occasion she had no choice. Charlie was missing and no stone must be left unturned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE OLD IRON bell above the door jangled in warning as Bettina Hicks entered the dingy shop tut-tutting loudly at the lack of light. Mrs Powell was not one for throwing money around. There was nothing generous about her; there never had been.

  The glass in the door between the shop and the living quarters rattled loosely in its frame as the dark-
clad figure of Mrs Powell came out from the back.

  On seeing Bettina Hicks, Mrs Powell visibly stiffened, her jaw seeming to clamp hard on something in her mouth that was too bitter to swallow.

  ‘Bettina.’

  ‘Gertrude.’

  The two women faced each other like fighting dogs, each assessing the best chance they had of biting the other.

  To say that Mrs Powell had a hostile attitude towards Bettina Hicks was putting it mildly. Gertrude’s features took on a superior look that held more than a pound or two of sanctimonious zeal.

  Bettina held her head high. She knew Gertrude’s opinion of her. She wouldn’t have held the views she did if it hadn’t been for the careless comment of a midwife many years ago just after the men returned from the war – very few men, as a matter of fact.

  The two women sized each other up.

  ‘So the devil’s spawn has gone missing.’

  Bettina sighed. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Gertrude. He’s just a baby and could be in danger. And Charlie Sweet was hardly the devil was he? Just a sweet boy who lost his life in this blasted war. That’s beside the point anyway. Frances said she was in here waiting for you to unpack when he went missing. I know it’s not likely, but did you see anything?’

  ‘As you said, I was here minding my own business. Unpacking. I wouldn’t have seen anything, would I.’

  Her tone was as sharp as her features; deep-set black eyes, streaks of grey running through hair that had once been chestnut in colour, dulling to brown over the years. Her aquiline nose flared at the nostrils like an angry horse.

  ‘I only asked. How about Miriam? Do you think we could ask her?’

  Gertrude’s bony fingers gripped the edge of the counter. ‘She didn’t see anything.’

  ‘But she might have done.’

  ‘Perhaps the Sweets might not want him back.’

  Bettina’s jaw dropped. ‘Really, Gertrude, you always were a bit insensitive, but to say that …’

  ‘The child was born out of wedlock. Better if he hadn’t been born at all. Do you still visit Evelyn?’

  Evelyn was a friend in Stroud who she visited on a regular basis.

  ‘That is none of your business!’

  Bettina found herself boiling with anger at both the words and the way they were delivered. She would have dearly loved to wipe the evil look off Gertrude Powell’s face with the back of her hand. But she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t rise to the truth Gertrude thought she knew but couldn’t prove. Nobody even suspected that Mike Dangerfield was not her brother’s child.

  She felt her heart pounding but told herself it was just the cold she was coming down with, the fever she was feeling. If she hadn’t felt so unwell she might have given Gertrude more than a piece of her mind. As it was, she stood her ground. ‘I need to speak to Miriam. Would you call her please?’

  ‘She’s upstairs.’

  ‘Please.’ It almost choked Bettina to plead like this, but swallowed her pride.

  Gertrude’s black eyes held no shine. Her look varied from sheer malice to disinterest. She turned her back on the shop, pushing the door open to her living quarters, the thin glass in the upper half of the door reflecting her sour expression.

  Bettina pursed her lips. It was difficult to keep her temper under control with Gertrude. They’d known each other all their lives. As a child Gertrude had been precocious and doted on by her father. Her mother, Ada Perkins, had been a gem of a woman. It was noticeable that mother and daughter didn’t seem to like each other, yet although Ada did visit the village occasionally, it struck everyone as odd when a few days ago a note had been pinned on the shop door stating they’d gone to visit Ada Perkins, Gertrude’s mother; Gertrude did not visit her mother. There had to be a good reason for it, though nobody would dare ask her what it was.

  Gertrude had adored her father and replacing him with another father figure was perhaps why her husband, Godfrey, a deeply religious man of great charm and firm belief, had taken over her life.

  Godfrey Powell had taken the fundamental line in Christianity, firmly believing that no woman could enter heaven and be considered a true Christian unless she was married. He also adhered to a rather puritanical version of religion and held to himself that his way was the right way and no other counted. If one had known Godfrey Powell it was understandable that both his wife and daughter attended church a great deal – and not just one church. Methodist, Baptist and Church of England: there they were every Sunday without fail and sometimes during the week if there was a good fire-and-brimstone speaker expected.

  God help the speaker if Mrs Powell thought the sermon wasn’t full enough of fire and brimstone. Godfrey Powell might be dead but his spirit lived on in his wife. Like a frightened dormouse, their daughter Miriam went along with it all because she had to.

  Out of sight of Bettina Hicks, a woman she despised, Gertrude Powell stood looking around her living room. The room was predominantly brown, the curtains thick Victorian velvet, the lighting dim. Religious tracts and pictures hung on the walls. The furniture was Edwardian and polished every day. The room smelled of beeswax. There was no fire in the grate. Fires encouraged laziness. Gertrude’s creed was that if you kept moving and kept working, you didn’t need a fire.

  At no point did she attempt to shout for her daughter or go upstairs to her room. There would be no point. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the cellar where she’d left her either. Somehow or other she’d managed to get out, though not for long. She’d be back and then she’d go back in there and stay in there until she’d mended her ways. A few hours a week of that kind of treatment and she’d be pliable again, her timid, innocent daughter – no – not innocent. She would never be that again, Gertrude thought grimly.

  She fixed her gaze on the wall clock, counting the times the pendulum moved from side to side. Time itself was evil, taking minutes, hours, years from one’s life, and taking other things too. Her husband was dead and as for her daughter – well – she was no longer the little girl she’d melded to her will. She’d been touched by the devil. Gertrude blamed her mother for that, her and those wicked people in the forest who didn’t go to church, who’d turned her head with their pagan ways. As for Stephen Briers, the Methodist minister who had called himself a Christian …! Her lip curled at the thought of him.

  Deciding a suitable amount of time had passed, she let herself back out into the shop. Bettina Hicks was standing straight and tall despite her arthritic hip. Gertrude had always envied Bettina her height and the thick head of hair she’d had when she was young – a kind of apricot colour back then. Off-white now of course and not nearly so glossy.

  Her face was without emotion. ‘I’m sorry. She’s asleep. I’m reluctant to wake her. She’s not been well.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Bettina noted the sharp lines radiating from Gertrude’s pursed purple lips. Only lips long used to being held in abject disapproval could look like that. They certainly weren’t so prevalent in people who smiled a lot. It came to her that Gertrude never smiled – not in her presence anyway.

  Gertrude’s eyebrows arched in thin dark lines. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  Bettina almost smiled. ‘I could call you a lot of things, Gertrude. Liar might very well be one of them. Sanctimonious, certainly. Bitter and twisted, yes. No wonder you have to go to church so often. You need to pray for forgiveness. You need to be forgiven more than anyone else I know!’

  Bettina turned abruptly, clamping her lips together, though heaven knew it was too late now. She had said more than was prudent. But there it was, she thought as she jerked open the shop door; Gertrude Powell brought out the worst in her. She’d never liked the woman even when they’d been children, but later on she’d come to dislike her even more.

  She pushed the memories of that time behind her. Mike was happy now and would never know the truth, not if she had anything to do with it. However, Gertrude Powell was the weak link, the woman who would h
urt them all if she could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  OUTSIDE THE SHOP Paul stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes flickering in Frances’s direction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frances. I shouldn’t have left him. I didn’t think. I mean, people don’t steal babies, do they?’

  Frances glared at him. ‘Are you totally stupid?’

  Paul’s face took on a flat look as though she’d hit him hard with the base of a frying pan.

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’

  Frances shook her head and looked away.

  ‘How about if we walk down to California Pit? The boys might be down there, or will be soon when school comes out. They’ll help us look for him. They can go faster than grown-ups, and so can we.’

  Frances threw him another icy glare. ‘I am not a child, Paul.’

  ‘Neither am I.’ Paul could feel his face getting hot. He’d so wanted to impress Frances at how grown up he was, but every so often he slid back to being a boy again, thinking the way he always had, doing the things that were so familiar. ‘Fran, I feel so bad about this. If you don’t want to come with me, I’ll go by myself. I’ll look for him. If it takes all night, I’ll find him. I swear I will!’

  He started to walk away, hands shoved back into his pockets, head bent. He looked totally dejected.

  ‘Wait.’

  Frances fell into step beside him. She couldn’t help blaming him for this. It was silly of him to slope off, but then it was hardly the first time she’d left Charlie outside the shop. He’d always been there when she’d come back out. Always. Except for today.

  ‘How many boys will be in the den?’ She’d finally stopped sniffing and stuffed her handkerchief in the pocket of her dark red coat. The well-worn coat had belonged to Ruby and was a little big for her. Ruby had offered to cut it down a bit but then reconsidered. ‘It might have to last until this war is over, and goodness knows when that’s likely to be. I think we should leave it alone,’ she’d said. ‘Yes. I think we’ll leave it alone. Anyway, you’ll grow into it.’