My Father, My Son

by My Father, My Son (retail) (epub)

  November saw another Zeppelin raid. In December, Lloyd George formed a War Cabinet. Rachel, still affected by her only son’s death, continued to act the recluse, the blinds on the Micklegate store pulled down. The old Rachel who constantly dusted and cleaned was gone. In her place was a much slower-moving creature – though there were spells of nervous activity when one of the girls failed to arrive home from school at the correct time, when she would chew her fingers and plait the tassels on the tablecloth nervously until they came in. But mainly, the only time her children saw any life in her eyes was when she was ticking Charlie off – which, for him, seemed to be his every waking moment. He could not do a thing right. Since regaining the use of his arm he did all sorts for her – filled the coalscuttle, cleaned the grate, lit the fire, helped the girls get ready for school, washed the dishes, cleaned the carpet, even cooked some of the meals – but she gave no thanks.

  Even when she wasn’t in the same room he could feel her hate, feel her thoughts: why was it Robert and not you? It was as though the very walls had soaked up all her bad feelings and released them on Charlie. Inevitably, her depression infected him. But what could he do? Before Bertie had died she had said that Charlie would have to get a job if they didn’t hear from Father Guillaume soon. She appeared to have forgotten all about this. Charlie could have reminded her – it would get him away from the house – but then who would look after the place and see to the meals? Certainly not Mrs Hazelwood, in her state of mind. The only remedy, he decided, was to get her out of the house and back to the shop. Risking more displeasure, he made this suggestion.

  ‘And who is to look after the house while I’m out all day?’

  He did not remind her that he had been the main contributor to this for months now. ‘I’ve plenty of time.’

  ‘And you’re qualified to run a household, are you?’ He told her that he could try. She became meditative, her thoughts a jumble. How long had it been, this nightmare? Almost four months, a long time for the shop to be closed. But then why should she worry? Earlier in the year a scheme had been set up to give financial assistance to the wives of serving soldiers who were left with a business to run. Rachel had applied for it, so there was no more concern about the mortgage and rates; the shop could stay closed… but then she did have a family to keep. A sovereign was worth only three-quarters of its pre-war value, all the essentials had rocketed – coal, milk, bread, potatoes – they might soon be unaffordable if she didn’t make some effort. Oh, but she had the money from the Army and from her millinery work, she would get by somehow. Why should she put herself to the trouble of running his blessed shop?

  And then she glanced at Charlie and was given a reason: if she were out of the house all day she wouldn’t have to see him, would she? Not that she saw much of him now, but he was there all the same; she could feel him creeping about the place trying to avoid her. And Robert… she was going to have to put her mind to something else if she wasn’t going to go completely insane.

  ‘I’ll reopen tomorrow,’ she decided suddenly, to his great relief. ‘And we’ll see how you frame. You can manage Regina, I presume?’

  As Charlie had been sharing a room with this child for the last couple of months he felt confident enough to say, ‘She’s no bother. You know, she doesn’t seem to need anybody to play with, she amuses herself quite well.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that, I’m her mother.’

  Again he had said something to annoy her. He had become used to these tight-lipped displays to know that.

  But she took heed of his idea and the next morning saw her preparing to reopen the shop. Before the girls had left for school she was on her way, leaving barely an instruction for Charlie, apart from to say that they would have their main meal in the evening as she wouldn’t be coming home at midday, and if anybody called wanting a new hat he must tell them that Mrs Hazelwood was fully booked at the moment.

  After all had departed, Charlie lifted Regina from her chair. ‘Are you going to help me with the washing-up, Squawk?’

  ‘Ooh, yes!’ She reached her arms onto the table to transfer the dirty crockery to the sink but Charlie rushed forward as her incompetent hands knocked a cup over, saying he would put them in the sink and she could wash them. He lifted her onto a chair at the sink and instructed her to make sure she washed all the marmalade off the plates. Each plate she pulled from the water was handed to him with the question, ‘Have I got all the marmalarmalade off?’ He laughed – Regina often added an extra syllable to the words her tongue could not cope with.

  This task deducted a good half hour off the morning. When the blobs of ‘marmalarmalade’ had been sponged from the tablecloth and the drips wiped off the hob, Charlie prepared to go to the shops. ‘No sheets today,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Becky’s a good girl now, isn’t she?’ ventured Regina.

  ‘Very good – come here, let me wipe your mouth and do your hair.’ She squealed and wriggled as he pressed a cloth to her face. ‘Sorry, am I too rough?’

  ‘Yes, and that cloth smells!’ She screwed up her eyes, one of which was brown, the other blue.

  Charlie put it to his nose. ‘You’re right.’ He searched the kitchen and finding a bottle of likely-looking stuff he sprinkled it neatly onto the cloth, sniffing, ‘That’s better,’ and dabbed at her face.

  There were more screams as he tried to drag a brush through her long fine hair. Finally he gave up and simply encased the mess in a bonnet. With her coat on, Regina was put into her folding car and trundled down to the shops.

  His first purchase was bread, which had, long ago, ceased to be a home-baked commodity. Seeing Charlie was going to leave her outside, Regina squawked and so he had to take her into Mrs Phillips’ shop, where she immediately ran around pointing and touching. ‘What’s that? What’s this?’

  ‘Mrs Hazelwood’s got you doing the shopping now, has she?’ said Mrs Phillips, hands planted on counter, round face congenial.

  ‘I don’t mind – could I have one of those loaves, please?’ Charlie pointed and Mrs Phillips reached for it. Normally, in this shop there was an unidentifiable smell; a combination of everything in stock; a sort of oaty, peppery, bready smell. But today, that was obscured by the onions frying in the back room.

  ‘How is she these days?’

  ‘All right.’ Charlie tried to take the loaf but she held on to it.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time – till this morning, that is.’

  Charlie said, ‘Oh… can I have the bread, please?’ and held out his hand.

  Before handing it over, Mrs Phillips said, ‘Somebody told me she’d closed the shop.’

  The boy took hold of the bread and stuffed it into his bag. ‘She’s reopened it this morning.’

  ‘Has she? Who’s looking after you lot, then?’

  ‘I am,’ said Charlie and turned to go.

  ‘Eh, Charlie Chaplin, haven’t you forgotten summat?’ Mrs Phillips laughed at his face. ‘The money!’

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ He came back hastily and gave her half a crown.

  She took her time in scraping his change together, trying to squeeze more information from him. ‘Will she be getting herself another maid then, now Biddy’s gone?’

  ‘I don’t know – can I have my change please? I’ve got a lot of things to see to.’

  ‘I’ll bet he has,’ murmured Mrs Phillips to a customer when the boy and his small charge had left. ‘No wonder she doesn’t need a maid when she’s got herself a genuine slave.’

  ‘Ow! Watch where you’re going, Charlie.’ Ella lifted her foot off the ground and puckered her mouth. In his hasty exit he had jumped off the step onto her toe as she came around the corner. He showed compunction, and tucked his hands under Regina’s armpits, swinging her into the pushchair. ‘I hope you haven’t emptied the shelves in there, I want something special for Mr Daw’s tea – he’s home on leave.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’ Charlie paused to smile. ‘That’s nice
for you.’

  ‘It is, love. A pity it’s not more than seven days, but you can’t crib when some folks’ll never be seeing their husbands again.’

  She was about to move into the shop when Charlie said, ‘Er! Did Mr Daw say how my father is?’

  Ella looked back at his anxious face. Jack had spoken briefly about their neighbour, saying that Russ was very badly affected by his son’s death. ‘He didn’t say much, Charlie, but he did mention that Russ was still going strong when he left him.’

  ‘Was he… was he very upset about Bertie?’

  ‘I should say that’s only natural, love, wouldn’t you?’

  Charlie nodded. Ella wondered what was going through his mind. Then he lifted his head abruptly and said, ‘Right, thank you!’ He left her with a tight smile and pushed the pram on to the butcher’s.

  With the purchase of all his requirements, he told Regina that they had time to visit the swing before the others came home for dinner. This took them down by the river, the sight of which had a relaxing effect on Regina’s bladder. No sooner had she been sat upon the swing than she said, ‘I want to pee-wee.’

  ‘Oh, you little pest! Why didn’t you ask to go at home?’ He lifted her down. She stood there and he asked what she was waiting for. She replied that she needed him to help her. ‘I’m not doing it!’ It was all right at home but somebody might see him here! She crossed her legs and said she couldn’t go on her own. He tutted and said they had better go behind those bushes. After a brisk walk he helped her to do the necessary, her dress getting rather damp in the process. He was on his way back to the swing, grumbling over her inefficiency, when he stopped and said, ‘Where’s the pushchair?’

  ‘Maybe it’s fallen in the river,’ she said helpfully.

  ‘It can’t have done, the brake was on!’ Idiotically, he rushed back behind the bushes to search. ‘God, it’s been stolen! And it had all the shopping in it. Oh, no!’ He made another futile search, then turned to stare at the child. ‘Oh, no!’ Flopping onto the swing that hung from the tree, he pressed his hands to his cheeks in despair. Mrs Hazelwood would kill him!

  ‘I haven’t had my go yet.’ He frowned at Regina as she repeated her claim. ‘It’s not your turn.’

  ‘Oh… bugger the swing!’ Leaping up, he grabbed her. ‘We’ll have to find whoever took it. They can’t have got far.’

  She made wailing complaint as he set off, and demanded to be carried. With a sound of exasperation he hefted her onto the crook of his arm and proceeded in an ungainly jog. It was hopeless, of course. The culprit had long gone. Hampered by his burden, Charlie had no chance of catching up. All that remained was for him to go home. Regina’s weight made the journey seem twice as long.

  At midday the girls – all except Rowena, whose school was on the other side of the city – came in for lunch. They beheld their plates in astonishment. ‘Is that all we’re getting?’ was Lyn’s demand.

  ‘It’s all there is,’ Charlie told her. ‘There’s some cheese and…’

  ‘There’s not enough to bait a mousetrap!’ cut in Beany. ‘I thought you were meant to be looking after us.’

  ‘Somebody stole my pram,’ announced Regina.

  Lyn asked what relevance this had. Charlie told her, ‘The shopping was in it.’ She asked couldn’t he buy any more. ‘Lyn, I’ve no more money! Even if I did they wouldn’t sell me any.’ The shopkeepers had begun their own form of rationing.

  ‘Well, we can’t exist on this!’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Becky. ‘It’s not Charlie’s fault.’

  ‘Yes it is! He didn’t take care of the shopping so it’s his fault we’re starving.’ Lyn sat down and ripped off a mouthful of bread. The others joined her, all save Becky showing animosity. Then Lyn grasped the full horror of the situation and laid down her bread. ‘I hope we’re getting more than this tonight?’

  Looking sick, Charlie shook his head. There were cries of protest. ‘Well, you’re getting more than I am!’ he retorted. ‘I’ve gone without my share.’

  ‘I should think you bloody well have after you’ve been so careless with our food,’ shot Lyn.

  ‘Stop being so mean and stop swearing!’ defended Becky.

  ‘It’s nowt to what Mother’ll say!’

  This was just what Charlie had been thinking. Oh, God! What would she say?

  After their paltry lunch, the girls returned to school. ‘Shall I wash the pots?’ asked Regina, bringing a sigh to Charlie’s lips.

  ‘That won’t take much doing, will it?’

  ‘Are you angry at me?’

  He looked at her solemn face, then raised a smile and swung her onto the chair. ‘No… come on, let’s get cracking.’ He had just put the plates into the sink when a breathless Becky entered. Her face was pink with exertion and pleasure as she dropped her burden onto the table. ‘There you are! No need to worry now – except about the pram.’

  Wiping his hands, Charlie came up to gape at the cabbage, carrots and potatoes that had rolled out of the newspaper parcel. ‘Where did you get those?’

  ‘Mr Payne’s allotment. I didn’t pinch them. I saw him working as I passed so I asked if he could spare a cabbage to stop you getting into bother. He gave me all this. Isn’t he kind?’

  Charlie was grinning now. What a relief! Even without the meat he could have some sort of meal ready for Mrs Hazelwood’s homecoming. ‘Becky, you’re a cracker!’

  She smiled her pleasure and dashed off to school.

  This wasn’t her only accomplishment that day. On her return from school she carried another parcel which turned out to be a loaf of bread. ‘It’s yesterday’s but it’s not stale or anything. Mrs Phillips gave it to me.’ At Charlie’s surprise she added sheepishly, ‘Well, I did happen to mention that we were rather famished. She likes me, does Mrs Phillips.’ The poor child was not to realize that the bread had been given as an inducement to gossip about her family affairs. When Rachel entered shortly after six o’clock, looking worn out, Charlie was lifting tureens onto the table. ‘Right, now your mother’s here we’ll have the plates out, Beck.’

  Rachel lowered exasperated eyelids at the shortened name, but did not feel up to remonstrating. She had just turned into the street to see Ella Daw’s rear view – and strolling beside her in his officer’s uniform was her husband, their arms curled round each other like a couple of sweethearts… it made Rachel sick. She had purposefully stepped back around the corner and waited so that she would not have to follow the spectacle all the way to her front door. But the sight remained with her. How did he manage to stay alive, while her son…

  She accepted the warmed plate that Becky handed to her. ‘So… what have you been doing at school today?’ She tried to sound as if she cared.

  ‘Makin’ sandbags,’ said Lyn.

  ‘And digging an allotment,’ Becky reminded her sister.

  ‘Huh!’ said Rachel disdainfully, then glared at the youngest, who was tapping on the table with her spoon. The tapping stopped. Her attention drawn to the child, Rachel noticed a red rash on Regina’s chin and in an alarmed fashion leapt up to feel her brow for signs of temperature – it could be measles! But when Charlie assured her that Regina had been perfectly well all day, she sat down again.

  ‘Doesn’t it smell good, Mother?’ Rowena viewed the meal eagerly.

  Rachel offered half-hearted accord and took the lid off each tureen in turn. ‘Where’s the meat?’

  Charlie tried not to look at Becky’s guilty face. ‘I’m sorry, there isn’t any.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘I wasn’t aware that there was any shortage.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t, but…’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any of anything,’ revealed Beany, ‘if it wasn’t for Becky.’

  Charlie froze, while Becky fired a look of hatred at her sister. Mrs Hazelwood was waiting for enlightenment. ‘I’m afraid the shopping got stolen.’ When she demanded to know how, Charlie muttered out the facts.

  ‘So in e
ffect it’s not just the shopping which was stolen but the pushchair too!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Charlie didn’t bother offering the excuse that Regina had been partly responsible. Blaming the baby now, she’d say.

  ‘So where did you get the extra money to buy all this?’ Rachel indicated the food.

  Before Charlie could speak, Beany explained, ‘Becky got it from Mr Payne’s allotment.’

  ‘You stole it?’ Rachel’s face was clothed in horror.

  ‘No! I’m not a…’ Becky snatched an abashed look at Rowena, then went on, ‘I told Mr Payne what had happened and he very kindly donated these. Mrs Phillips gave us the bread. She said she wouldn’t see us starve.’

  Rachel was outraged. ‘You’ve been begging!’

  ‘Not rea—’

  ‘My own children scavenging the streets for food! That woman will be telling all and sundry, saying I’m not fit to look after my family… and all because of your stupidity!’ Her finger was directed at Charlie. ‘You said you could manage! I’d never have entrusted you if I’d known you were so lackadaisical. You wretched, wretched boy! Well, we can’t eat this. I refuse to allow you to lower us to charity!’ She bounced from the chair and began to scrape the food into the waste bin.

  Charlie felt his eyes burn. He watched her destroy the meal that had taken him ages to prepare, watched the horrified and hungry faces of the others turn slowly to him in condemnation. Then something went pop! He leapt from his seat, face on fire and hurled at her, ‘I’ll bet you even blame me for the bloody war, don’t you!’ and rushed from the back door.