They had reached the junction of Holyhead Road and Dudley Street, the point where Katrin must go her own way to Hollies Drive while the other two continued on, Becky to Queen Street and Alice to Cross Street. Who was it Alice referred to? Who had informed the police of Freda Evans’ black market dealings? The urge to have these questions answered had Katrin ask, ‘Do you know who that man is?’
Alice Butler turned to look at the young woman and a trace of envy pricked warm in her throat. Kate Hawley could not be called a beauty, certainly she was not as pretty as Becky, but there was something about her that caught the eye. Not the hair, though that was thick and shone like polished copper. The figure then? No. She was no more shapely than Becky or Alice herself yet . . . the eyes. Alice halted in mid thought, it was Kate Hawley’s eyes. Looking into them now she saw something deep and almost hidden. Yet not quite: a hint of it showed low in those green depths, gleaming like a candle flame amid darkness. Uncertain as to what her brain was telling her Alice was silent, only Kate Hawley’s repeat of her question breaking what felt like a trance.
‘No.’ She blinked, clearing her mind of what she could not fathom. ‘No, I don’t know who that swine is or where he might be found but this I swear. So sure I do find out, so sure I hear a whisper of him, then he and Jim Slater will go down, but not before our Rob and a few of his mates have finished with him, he won’t go shoppin’ nobody else not for a long time!’
‘No, I don’t know who that swine is . . . so sure I hear . . .’
Claiming tiredness she did not feel had provided a plausible excuse for Katrin to retire early. Now in the privacy of her bedroom, she laughed softly at the words in her mind.
‘. . . He won’t go shoppin’ nobody else . . .’
Alice Butler had vowed vengeance on the one who had informed against Freda, had as good as said her brother would give the man a beating should it ever be discovered who was the person responsible.
‘Don’t forget to put your gas mask handy, and lay your dressing gown across the foot of the bed.’
A breath of irritation filling her lungs, Katrin frowned resentment at the call that came from the top of the stairs. Her mother had called that same thing every night since the war had begun, had repeated those words so often it seemed they emanated from the very walls of the house; Lord, was she still a child who needed constant reminding of every least thing? ‘Don’t come home by yourself . . . if there is a raid while you are at work don’t go sitting next to those girls from the factory workshop . . . if you are caught in a raid while on the way home then for heaven’s sake choose a respectable looking house to ask shelter of . . .’ the list went on and on.
Forcing down the surge of annoyance and adopting a mumbling half-asleep tone designed to persuade her mother not to enter the room, Katrin replied that all was as instructed then clamped her teeth hard on the tut of exasperation as the nightly practice continued. ‘I’ve made each of us a sandwich and the flask is ready for filling, it is all on the tray in the kitchen; them there German bombers don’t leave time for doing much once they be here so it’s best to be ready to run. And, Katrin, remember; shoes for the air raid shelter not bedroom slippers.’
‘Yes mother . . . shoes.’ Letting it drift dreamily Katrin listened with bated breath. Her mother might yet come in, to ensure all of her instructions had been carried out; more than that, seeing her daughter still awake would evoke more enquiry as to her day at the office. Every question was aimed at learning one thing, had her daughter perhaps caught the attention of senior management, senior meaning Arthur Whitman, the owner of Whitman Engineering? But what could catching the attention of the boss achieve? Promotion . . . senior position in the typing pool? No, that was not what Violet Hawley was angling for, she was fishing for the main catch and the fish she hoped to land was Arthur Whitman.
Beyond the closed door a slight clink released the tension holding Katrin’s mouth. That was the torch her mother placed each night on the small table on the landing, ready to light their way to the air raid shelter – her final act before going to bed. Assured at last she would not be disturbed Katrin slipped from the bed and listened several moments.
There was no sound from the landing. Releasing a breath she had not been conscious of holding, Katrin eased back the dark cloth with which each window of the house was covered in order to comply with blackout regulations. War! Touching a finger to the pretty flowered curtain the drab material had hidden, she stared into the moonlit softness. War was cruel, it scarred so many lives, yet war could not be blamed for the scar on Katrin Hawley’s life. That blow had been struck years ago, hurled at her by angry children in a school playground. It was a scar only revenge could remove and Katrin Hawley would have that revenge.
4
‘You tricked Jacob Hawley . . .’
‘. . . others might not fool so easy . . .’
‘. . . the loss of a husband . . .’
Like insistent bluebottles of thought, her sister’s words buzzed in Violet Hawley’s brain, words which had plagued like a thorn in her flesh since her return to Hollies Drive, words which even now, sitting in her gleaming sitting room, refused to be silenced.
‘Jacob knew of your lying with a man who refused to wed you, knew your backstreet abortion had deprived him of a family.’
Staring at patterns of sunlight trickling through windows criss-crossed with brown sticky tape, a precautionary measure against glass shattered by bomb blast, Violet heard other words, words spoken some twenty-one years before.
‘. . . He told me of the child you carried, the child he were father of.’
Jacob had stared at his pain.
‘. . . he laughed on saying I’d been hooked like a fish, taken in by a wench no better than her should be.’
‘. . . Jacob that is a horrible lie. . . !’
In the space of a moment the look of pain so vivid in his eyes had become cold anger then disgust.
‘No Violet, the lie is the one we have lived this twelve month, the lie of believing we can have a life together, now that lie is ended, tomorrow . . .’
Violet’s eyes followed the dancing gold of afternoon sunlight. What might Jacob have gone on to say of that tomorrow? What was his intention?
He had not said, not that night nor at any time since; but instinct told then what passing years had confirmed, whatever love Jacob Hawley may once have held for her was dead.
Caught in the web of memory, Violet saw again a young fair-haired man, grey eyes regarding her across a dimly lit room. They held no trace of righteous anger, no look of disgust nor the dullness of pain, the eyes that looked at her were devoid of emotion: empty, soulless, robbed of life.
‘Tomorrow . . .’
He had begun to speak again. To say what she had kept hidden in her own heart these twenty-one years? To tell her their marriage was ended? That the next day would see him gone from the tiny terraced house? It had not been said yet nor had it been foregone or renounced. Ella had been right. Jacob was biding his time, simply waiting to see his daughter wed and then he would leave, turn his back on a life he had no pleasure in, on the wife he held no love for. And Katrin? Violet drew a long breath. Surely the child she had taken and reared as her own would not leave, she would not turn her back on the mother who had given her everything. Katrin had not been born of her body, but that would prove of no consequence! Violet shrugged away the sudden coldness touching her insides. Katrin loved her, that was evident in every aspect of the girl’s behaviour and marriage would not alter that.
So what if Jacob left her?. . . Life would not be so very changed. From the day he found out about that pregnancy, discovering she had married him not for love but for security of name, they had not lived as man and wife. They shared a room but not a bed, he had provided food and home . . .
Jacob had provided a home! He had taken her from the smoke-blackened two up two down, tiny back to back in Cross Street, one of a long line of terraced houses each sharing a garden privy with
four other families. Jacob had taken her from that drab dark house and brought her here to Hollies Drive, to Elm House, a tall detached villa with its own garden, a private toilet and running water piped directly into the house.
Hollies Drive! A flush of pride warmed away the last lingering vestige of cold in her stomach. A house here was a status symbol in the town, it carried the mark of a man’s success, it commanded respect of the kind due Jacob Hawley as manager of Prothero Steel and Tube manufacturers. And it commanded the respect due his wife. Yes, she was respected by the shopkeepers of Wednesbury, she was held in esteem.
Elm House was her pride and joy, no other member of her family could claim such. That was the true reason for the snide remarks thrown at her by Ella; her sister was jealous of what Violet had, of Jacob’s rise in the world; they were all of them filled with envy. They had expected her to remain as they still were, living in those tiny grime-covered terraces, but they had all been proved wrong. Violet’s lips spread in a satisfied smile. They had thought Jacob would leave her when he found out about her past; they had not expected him to keep up the pretence of all being normal between them and certainly not to provide her with a home in so prestigious an area as Hollies Drive; Jacob had provided.
Until now! How much longer would that provision continue? He had stayed on for Katrin’s sake, but now Katrin was capable of taking care of herself; there was no longer anything to hold Jacob here.
But what if he were not the one to leave?
What if he turned her from this house? If he disowned her as his wife?
The shame of that, the embarrassment of people talking, sniggering as she passed on the streets . . . how could she live with that?
Alice’s resentment flared fresh and bright as she bit into the slice of cold toast she must eat while still operating her machine: no ten minute break now the country was at war. Half a bloody crown pocket money! And that wouldn’t be long in her pocket, not with her mother going through them once she had left for work. Not that the hours away from the factory afforded much opportunity to spend her money, time was another thing snatched by her mother.
‘. . . them there bedrooms wants a turnin’ out . . . the windows needs be cleaned . . . blacklead the grate . . .’
Her mother’s non-stop instructions beat in Alice’s head, keeping rhythm with the slap of drive belts powering the many machines.
‘. . . I don’t get the time to do it all . . . what with the cookin’ an’ the washin’ . . . it ain’t easy what with the little ’uns . . .’
Always the same moans and excuses! Of course it were no easy job seeing to a family day in and day out, but then neither was her own job easy, certainly it was no less tiring, but try telling her mother that! She had never seen the inside of a factory, much less wrestled with a machine large enough to almost fill their living room. But she would not be wrestling with it for much longer. Alice fed the cutting tool into the revolving steel, slicing off one more gleaming silver bolt. She had made up her mind. Knowles Street was not so far away, she could run there during her dinner hour, enquire at the Labour Exchange Office on how to apply to join the Women’s Forces and be back here at the factory before the afternoon shift began.
There was only one flaw in her plan. It had been Becky had voiced it. ‘A girl can apply to become a member of the Women’s Forces at eighteen years old, but eighteen don’t be twenty-one, you’ll need to show your birth certificate.’
With the familiarity born of repetition, Alice’s hands seemed to work independently of her mind, which ranged over the conversation she had held with Becky on their way into work.
‘That’ll be no trouble,’ she had answered, ‘all of them sort of papers be kept in a box in mother’s bedroom, I can take mine out next time I clean, she’ll never know it’s gone.’
‘I’ve no doubt you can get a hold of it, but you can’t go alterin’ the date, that’ll be breakin’ the law, you’ll get sent to gaol same as Freda.’
Alice’s teeth clenched. She had not reckoned on having to produce a certificate. It was obvious she was fit enough for the forces, and wasn’t she already doing the work of a man? Lord, what more could the authorities want?
Becky had the answer: parental consent!
‘You’ll need . . . hand them recruiting officers a letter . . . proving your father and mother gives permission for you to go leavin’ home, they won’t take you without that. I knows cos Lucy Phillips from our street had to take a letter signed by her folk afore she was accepted for the ATS.’
A signed letter! Alice wrestled with the dilemma Becky had raised in her mind. She could smuggle her birth certificate from the house but as to a letter of consent . . . ? Could she write one herself, sign the names of both parents? That was as much a crime as changing the date on her birth certificate, maybe not one which would have her sent to prison but certainly one her mother would not let pass easily.
‘Tekin’ money from the ’ouse . . . robbin’ the little ’uns of food an’ clothin’ . . .’
Her father would consent, he would understand she wanted to do more to help her country than work in a factory. But her mother? No, she would not be pacified by the promise of forces pay being sent home, nor would she be duped like her husband. She would view the business of joining up for what it really was: a chance to escape the monotony, to escape her mother’s domination. More than that, she would see herself doing all the chores she demanded her daughter do: that alone would have her refuse consent.
Yet there might be a way. The works’ hooter signalled midday break and Alice thrust her time card into the clock before sprinting across the yard to the washroom. There might be just one way.
‘So sure I finds out . . .’
Sitting at her desk, the letters she had typed awaiting only the Whitman signature, Katrin Hawley smiled.
Alice Butler had meant every word of that threat, but first she had to find the one who had committed the offence. And Alice Butler would never know who had informed against Freda Evans, never discover who had given the information which had led to the girl’s imprisonment. Nor would Freda herself ever know. Shuffling the typed letters into a neat pile, Katrin allowed the smile to spread. She had achieved the revenge she had so long promised herself, but only in part; as yet just one of those who had jibed at her in that school playground had been made to pay. Five years! Katrin tasted sweet satisfaction. But as Becky Turner had said, those five years would not end with Freda’s release; the stigma of having been convicted and gaoled would walk with Freda Evans the rest of her life. Yes, one girl had paid. The smile vanished as Katrin’s fingers tightened on the sheaf of papers.
It had been so easy. All it had taken was a telephone call to the local Office of Information. She had not needed to say who was making the call and she had not, she had simply given the name of the suspect, Freda Evans, and the added tit-bit of the girl’s place of work and probable place where a transaction was to be carried out. Freda had been caught, ration books and all.
One had paid. The sweetness of satisfaction became the tart bite of revenge. One had paid but there were two yet still to pay and one way or another they would.
‘If you have finished those letters I will take them into Mr Whitman.’
Katrin looked at the woman standing at the desk, one hand already reaching for the sheaf of papers. Fifteen years as Arthur Whitman’s secretary had other employees treat the woman with careful civility, a civility Katrin also observed, if only on the surface.
‘They are all done, Miss Simpson.’ Her mouth curving in a superficial smile, Katrin handed over the letters and watched the plumpish figure tap on the door marked ‘Managing Director’. Harriet Simpson was sixty if she was a day, why didn’t the woman retire? She was like a starving dog who had found a bone, nothing would separate her from it. There had to be some way of getting that woman to leave, there had to be a reason somewhere, it was simply waiting to be found. Switching her glance to a separate pile of papers taken from her in-
tray, Katrin appeared not to pay attention to the fawn clad figure emerging from the inner office but beneath the apparent lack of interest her mind seethed. So long as that woman remained at Whitman Engineering there would be very little prospect of Katrin Hawley’s promotion from office clerk.
Simply waiting to be found! Katrin’s teeth clamped behind firm set lips. Katrin Hawley was quite competent at finding a means to an end.
5
A prayer answered!
Touching a kiss to the cheek of both parents, her slightly wan ‘Goodnight, God bless’ holding to the pretence she had practised for days, Katrin retired to her own room, where she let the curtain of deception lift from her face.
What had happened had been a blessing, though not bestowed by God so much as His adversary.
Taking time brushing her hair she smiled at her own reflection. So many people condemned Mister Adolf Hitler but Katrin Hawley had cause to thank him, for it had been his bombers that had led to this satisfactory state of affairs.
Setting aside the brush, she removed pale blue artificial silk cami-knickers. Her mother had frowned at this new form of underwear declaring ‘it would never have been allowed in my young days’. But these were not her mother’s ‘young days’, this was nineteen forty one and Katrin Hawley would decide her own underwear. Placing the cami-knickers with other clothing for laundering, Katrin wrinkled her nose at the flannelette pyjamas on her pillow. These were not to her taste but for now she would comply with her mother’s instruction and wear them; she deemed pyjamas preferable to a flimsy silk nightgown ‘in case of having to take to the air raid shelter; you never know as to somebody on the street asking to take cover with us, they can’t very well be refused.’
Katrin’s mouth assumed the tightness it had held upon watching Harriet Simpson come and go from Arthur Whitman’s office. Like that woman her mother had jurisdiction, but neither of them would enjoy it for much longer. In fact the plump Harriet had already been temporarily relieved of her authority, now it remained only for ‘temporary’ to become ‘permanent’.
A Step Too Far Page 4
