by Rosie Clarke
‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘I think it’s what my father would have wanted. He obviously cared for his mother. He continued to send her money regularly all his life. If I had known about them at the time of his death, I would have given them something. I think Gwen must have been quite desperate to come to me the way she did. It can’t have been easy for her. My father was a proud man, very harsh at times, even cruel – and I think his sister would be proud, too.’
‘You’re a generous woman, Emma,’ Sol said. ‘You didn’t have to do this, but it shows character. I like it in you.’
‘I’ve been so lucky,’ I said. ‘You and Margaret … all my friends. But I know what it is like to be trapped by lack of money. I know what it’s like to feel that there is never going to be anything better, that your life will always be the same. If the money helps my aunt a little, I’m glad to give it.’
‘I’ll arrange to have it paid to her through my bank,’ Sol said. ‘It will be easier that way, and saves sending money or postal orders through the mailbox. She won’t want her mother to know about the ten pounds.’
‘I’ll write to Gwen and tell her,’ I said. ‘You will need details of her own bank I expect.’
‘You do that,’ Sol said. ‘But if she comes back for more – you leave her to me, Emma.’
‘She won’t do that,’ I said. ‘I’m sure of it, Sol. I quite liked Gwen. I think she is a very honest, straightforward person. I shall try to get down to visit her and my grandmother one day.’
‘I’ll take you when I get time, Emma.’
‘Thank you.’ I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been thinking, Sol. Perhaps it would be a good thing if I learned to drive …’
‘Would you want to?’
‘Yes, I think I might.’
He grinned at me. ‘It would come in useful, Emma. I could send you off to your mother’s for a few days, and you could go to the factory and see how things were going. Save me a lot of time and trouble.’
‘How do I learn?’ I asked. ‘Should I book lessons – or what?’
‘Professional lessons are best,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me, Emma. I would have suggested it ages ago, but Margaret never wanted to drive.’
‘Well, I do,’ I said. ‘It will give me some independence, Sol – and I can use Jon’s car. He left it at his mother’s house. It will mean I can visit Mrs Reece more often, too.’
‘That’s if you can get the petrol,’ Sol said, grimacing. ‘But we’ll manage something. You just leave it all to me …’
Christmas arrived. I received so many cards and small gifts, many of them from the customers at the showroom. I still went in for several hours every day, and it was surprising how many of them came in when they knew I was there so that I would serve them myself.
‘We like it when you’re here, Emma,’ they told me. ‘You always know just what we want – and you always have a smile to cheer us up. It makes things look brighter no matter how hard the damned government tries to knock us down!’
‘I could retire now,’ Sol joked sometimes. ‘I believe you could run the business single-handed, Emma.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘You still deal with all our suppliers, Sol. I’m not sure I could get such a bargain on some of the materials as you do – and how you manage to get hold of things like elastic is beyond me …’
He tapped the side of his nose and grinned at me. ‘Ways and means, Emma. It’s not what you know these days, it’s who you know – and how well you know them. I twist a few arms when I need to.’
The workshop was still doing surprisingly well despite everything. The government had not yet dared to bring in clothes rationing, but like Sol I believed it was getting closer with each month that passed.
Christmas Eve brought a card from Gwen Robinson and her mother. Gwen had already written to thank me for my help, and she did so again now. I was pleased to have made life better for her and the woman who was after all my own grandmother.
So despite the war, the festive season was happy enough for me, my friends and my family. We were able to buy a turkey and confectionery, though the government had asked us to make what sacrifices we could, but in Sol’s house there was not much evidence of austerity. His cellars were still stocked with wines and spirits laid up before the war, and we had saved two of Jack Harvey’s tins of red salmon for Christmas tea.
As the carols were sung and the celebrations went on all around me, I thought of Jon, longed for him, prayed for him, but I tried not to let anyone else see that only half my heart was in the celebrations.
It was just after Christmas that I received the sad news that Sheila’s husband had died in the sanatorium.
‘I can hardly believe he has gone,’ Sheila had written.
I went to see him just before Christmas, and he seemed better. We were talking about him being home by the summer, but then he deteriorated almost overnight and they sent for me. He died soon after I arrived. I’m not sure what to do, Emma. I would like to try to keep the shop on, but I shall have to think about it over the next few months. I thought I should tell you …
I felt so sorry for my friend. I wasn’t sure that it had been a great love affair, but I knew she had been fond of Eric. And when they had first taken over the shop, she had been so full of plans for the future. I wrote back and told her to take her time about making her decision. She was welcome to stay there in the accommodation even if she couldn’t manage the shop.
You might be able to sell the stock, and then we could let the shop to someone else … but I’m in no hurry, Sheila. Think about it for a while, and then let me know …
Life went on as usual. I looked every day for a letter from Jack Harvey, but though the occasional parcel reached me from time to time, there was no news of my husband. So far no one had heard anything about a British airman taken prisoner in France who might be my husband, or if they had they were not prepared to disclose details.
It would have been very easy during the next months to have given up hope, but I refused to let go of my belief that Jon was alive … that he would come back to us one day despite his suffering.
For I knew that he had suffered in some way. I had shared his pain that night, and I believed that Jon had almost died then. My family and friends were all convinced that he must have been killed in the crash when his plane was shot down, but I did not believe that.
In my heart, I felt that Jon was alive. I could not know where he was, but I was sure he was somewhere … still living, perhaps a prisoner, perhaps in hiding. I was anxious for him, and I often felt close to tears. How could Jon bear what was happening to him? It was hard enough for me, how much worse must it be for my sensitive husband?
I believed now that this was what had been in his mind when he spoke of what might happen to him. It was not so much that he might die, but that he might not be able to contact me, that we might be apart for years. He would be so alone, without friends or hope … knowing that I would have been told he was dead.
Yet as long as I believed he still lived, there was hope. And I would cling to that hope for as long as I could …
Chapter 6
‘This damned government,’ Sol muttered, throwing down his letter in disgust. ‘The way things are going, we shall soon need a licence to go to the bathroom.’
‘Sol dearest,’ Margaret reproved gently. ‘Please don’t upset yourself. Surely it can’t be that terrible?’
I wondered what had upset him. The clothes rationing we had expected had arrived in June 1941. It was now the beginning of December. At first we had needed margarine coupons to purchase our clothes, but the new coupons had been in circulation for a while and people were getting used to the idea. The rationing had made little difference to families on low incomes, but for women who could afford to dress smartly it meant cutting down considerably.
Sol frowned as he handed me his letter to read. It was an official notice to employers, about the call-up of unmarried women between the ages of
twenty and thirty.
‘That means we shall lose Janice from the showroom,’ Sol said, clearly annoyed. ‘I’ve had difficulty in holding on to her as it is. She wanted to volunteer before this, but I persuaded her to stay. Now she will be off like a shot.’
‘We’ll lose some of our best girls from the factory, too.’
I understood how Sol felt. It was already difficult to find the labour we needed, and this was going to make things harder.
‘They are going to register women up to forty, Emma, married and single – but I’ll make sure you’re exempted. I can’t afford to lose you.’
‘Mrs Reece …’ Mrs Rowan hesitated in the doorway. ‘There’s a telephone call for you.’
I excused myself and went out to the hall.
‘Emma … it’s Gwen. I hope you didn’t mind my ringing? I just wanted to make sure you were coming today. Mother was asking and she hasn’t been too well …’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Gwen. Yes, I’m coming. Sol has managed to wangle me some extra petrol this month. I’m driving down later this morning, bringing James, and we’ll stay for two days – if that’s all right with you?’
‘You know it is. Mother looks forward to your visits so much. She knows you’ve been giving us money now. I had to tell her, but not that I came to you. She doesn’t know I asked, Emma. She would hate that …’
‘I shan’t tell her. Besides, it’s so little, Gwen. I’ve asked Sol for extra money this Christmas, and I’ve managed to get a few bits and pieces to bring down. James is excited. He knows he is coming to see Grandma today.’
‘I shan’t hold you up then. We’ll see you later.’
I went back to the breakfast parlour. Sol had already left. Margaret was lingering over her tea. She seemed tired, her skin a little grey, her eyes heavy.
‘Are you feeling unwell today?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, Emma dearest. I’m no worse than usual. It’s just the war and what it is doing to us all. Sol seems so agitated these days. He isn’t like himself. I’m worried about him. He never tells me anything.’
I went to sit on the chair next to her. ‘Please don’t fret over Sol, Margaret. If he has been a bit short-tempered of late it’s not his fault. He’s just frustrated. It has been difficult for him recently. We’ve got the government breathing over our shoulders the whole time, and I think it can only get worse. Sol knows that profits are down, but it’s more than that. The factory has had problems. Our best machinists keep leaving to join up or work elsewhere. Sol can’t afford to offer them inducements to stay. And we had another fire. There was so much fuss and bother over spoiled material, it would drive anyone crazy.’
‘Thank you for taking the time to explain.’ She smiled. ‘Sol refuses to answer my questions. He won’t talk to me about his work, but I’ve sensed something was wrong.’
‘He only refuses to tell you because he thinks you would worry and make yourself ill.’
‘I worry when I don’t know what’s going on, Emma. Sol always has taken risks, but things were different before the war. Life was easier, more gentle somehow. I don’t like what’s happening to us now. Everything seems ugly, harsh …’ She sighed, looking unhappy.
‘It’s a struggle to keep things going. At the start, the factory made a lot of money very quickly. I think Sol invested some of that abroad. These days, we’re only just managing to keep our heads above water. We might have to think about closing the factory. It depends on how things go this next year.’
‘You invested your money in the factory, Emma.’ She looked at me in concern.
‘So did Sol. Don’t worry. I’m sure Sol will turn things round – but he has a lot on his mind just now.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘I’m going to fetch James down. I want to get started. You know what my son is like in the car. He never sits still for five minutes together, and he wants the toilet every few miles.’
Margaret laughed, the shadows banished from her eyes. ‘I think you are brave to take him with you, Emma. But you are always so good with him, and you have so much energy.’
It made me sad to think of Margaret always being so tired. She had missed so much in life through her illness. Her heart was not strong. The doctors never seemed to explain exactly what was wrong with her; they spoke of her heartbeat being irregular, of a weakness in the valve, but did not offer any solutions. She was just delicate and must take care not to overtire herself.
I was thoughtful as I carried all my baskets and parcels out to the car. In my grandmother’s case, it was easy to see what ailed her. She was a tiny, frail lady of seventy-odd years and crippled with a painful arthritis. It was difficult for her to walk even with assistance, and her fingers were so twisted that she could not dress herself. She was often in pain, but remained good-tempered despite it, her smile so sweet and gentle that it was impossible to do anything but love her.
The first time I’d seen her, a few months ago now, I had been pleasantly surprised. Her eyes were bright, still youthful despite her wrinkled skin and thin white hair, but she had obviously been pretty once and was not at all like her daughter or my father.
‘So you’re Harold’s girl,’ she’d said, nodding at me. ‘You must be like your mother. You are far too pretty for a Robinson.’ She smiled at me. ‘So, child – come and kiss me and tell me all about yourself. We’ve been strangers for too long.’
We had taken to each other at once. She was very different to my beloved Gran. Grandmother Robinson was very much a lady. She might have been reduced to poverty by her husband’s careless spending, but she refused to let her standards drop. She had kept her dignity and Gwen was never allowed to set the table with anything other than the best linen, what silver she had left, and the finest bone china I had ever seen.
I was looking forward to my visit with Gwen and Grandmother Robinson. Their village was rather old, its name Saxon in origin, and attractive. About the triangular green, duck pond and beautiful old elm tree, were grouped timber-framed, brick and tiled cottages, many of them dating from the sixteenth century. Also a whipping post and stocks, reminders of a harsher age. Beyond were the rising beechwoods, a Doric column crowning their summit.
In the summer the village had seemed to slumber in the sun, a tranquil haven away from the noise and hustle of the city. I had thought then how much Jon would have liked it. We would go there together one day, when the war was over.
There had been no news of Jon. It was more than a year now. I had hoped to hear something from Jack long before this, but his last letter had not been hopeful. My husband’s name was not on any of the lists compiled by the Red Cross or other international agencies who were able to make contact with prisoners of war.
It seemed likely that Jon had died in the crash, but I was not willing to accept his death as fact. Sometimes I almost gave in to my despair, but then I would feel him close to me again. I would feel that inner certainty again, and something inside me refused to let go.
I still wanted to believe that Jon would come home.
My visit to Gwen and Grandmother Robinson was pleasant, but I was a little concerned about my grandmother’s health.
‘She hasn’t been at all well,’ Gwen told me when we were preparing supper together. I had brought some tinned food with me – courtesy of Jack’s last visit in the summer – and we were making corned beef hash. ‘I’ve been a bit worried, Emma. I’m not sure she will get through this winter.’
‘I’m so sorry, Gwen. I must admit I have noticed a difference in her this time.’
‘Well, she is seventy-seven,’ Gwen said, sighing. ‘I suppose it’s a good age, but …’ Her face crumpled as she gulped back her emotion. ‘I shall miss her. To be honest, I’m not sure what I shall do. I’ve never been alone.’
‘Well, you won’t need to be,’ I said. ‘We’re so short of help, Gwen. I know Sol could find you work.’
Gwen laughed and shook her head. ‘I’m not clever with my hands, Emma. I can’t set a stitch
straight. I wouldn’t be much use to you.’
‘I’m sure we can find you something,’ I said. ‘Promise me you will come to me if …’
‘It’s a case of when not if,’ Gwen said sadly. ‘I know it can’t be long, Emma.’
I shook my head, but in my heart I knew she was right. It made me feel sad. I wished I had known Grandmother Robinson sooner, and I regretted all the years we had lost.
‘Go and sit with her now,’ Gwen said, as if she could read my thoughts. ‘She has talked of nothing but your visit for weeks.’
I went through to the tiny parlour. There were a few nice pieces of furniture which Grandmother Robinson had managed to cling on to despite having seen most of her precious possessions sold to pay her husband’s debts. However, the room still had an air of shabbiness despite some bright new curtains I had sent Gwen.
Grandmother smiled as I entered the room, lifting her crooked fingers to beckon me closer.
‘You are such a lovely girl, Emma. I can hardly believe you’re my Harold’s child, but I know you are. He told me about you in his letter when you were first born. I remember particularly how excited he was, how proud of his daughter …’
‘Was he? Are you sure?’
My father had always accused my mother of cheating him, but if he had told his mother about me he must have thought of me as his own child.
‘Oh yes. I think I might still have the letter somewhere. I’ll ask Gwen to look one day.’ She smiled at me. ‘And now, my dear, I have a little present for you.’ She pointed at a small, faded box on the table next to her. ‘That was my mother’s, Emma. It has always been special to me, and I want you to have it.’
I opened the box. Inside was a gold brooch that must have been new when Queen Victoria was a young bride. It was set with tiny turquoises and pearls.
‘It is beautiful,’ I said. ‘But are you sure you want to give this to me? Should it not go to Gwen?’
