by Lizzie Lane
‘Did any uncles and aunts visit you this Christmas?’ he asked her.
‘No. I don’t have any. At least I don’t think I do. There was just me, Elspeth and her cousin.’
‘Her cousin you say! What was his name then?’
‘Jack. Jack Smith.’
Later that evening, once he and Sally were seated in their cosy sitting room, Seb asked his daughter about the little girl named Joanna Ryan.
Sally, still thinking of Pierre while she knitted, didn’t seem to hear so he repeated himself.
‘I met a little girl named Joanna Ryan. She said she was in your class.’
Sally’s attention jerked up from the socks she was knitting. Knitting socks from wool unravelled from old jumpers for the brave fellows fighting gave her something to do while she wandered through her thoughts. ‘Joanna Ryan? Yes. She’s in my class. Where did you meet her?’
Seb tapped out the contents of his pipe into the hot coals in the grate. He would tell her all she needed to know – except with regard to the dog.
‘At the allotment. Am I right in thinking she’s a bit neglected by her parents?’
‘By her stepmother,’ Sally exclaimed, an angry flush coming to her face. ‘Her mother died, her father remarried and now he’s gone off to war. The woman’s a tart!’
‘Strong language!’ Seb was taken aback. It wasn’t often his daughter reacted so strongly. ‘I take it you’ve met the woman.’
‘Peroxide-dyed hair and her face plastered in makeup and takes care of herself. She certainly doesn’t take care of Joanna, which is a great shame. Joanna is a lovely girl. Quite intelligent in fact. She used to come to school quite decently dressed and plumper than she is now. She’s now a skinny little thing and a bit cowed. As for her clothes . . .’
‘She’s long grown out of them.’
His daughter sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘I wish there was something more I could do to help her. I did visit the woman and gave her a piece of my mind. I should imagine she watched herself for a while, but I doubt she let it worry her for too long.’
‘Is there nothing that can be done?’
Sally lay the knitting to one side. ‘Well, I could report her circumstances to the children’s welfare officer at the council, but I’m not sure I’d be doing Joanna any favours. Despite her stepmother’s shortcomings, a children’s home is not the best place for a child to grow up in. I was hoping her father would come home soon then he could see what’s been happening and do something about it.’
‘Hopefully he will,’ said her father, and looked thoughtfully towards the window. Beyond the front wall of the house were the park and the allotments. His thoughts turned to the puppy that had brought him and the little girl together. ‘I think we might have snow.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the end of January, Harry was going out for regular walks on his lead. On the occasions when Joanna couldn’t get there, Seb did the honours.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll bring him a bit of breakfast and he can share my lunch. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, things to plant and what have you, or we’ll all be starving.’
The end of February saw Pierre shipping out to France. At first both Sally and her father had presumed he had been offered the opportunity to join the British Expeditionary Force. Seb had asked him outright.
Pierre had responded that he had no wish to wear a uniform. ‘Not until I have to.’
He admitted that he had chosen instead to make his own way across the Channel. The reasons he gave were commendable, but unaccountably vague.
‘I want to be close with my people over there,’ he had told Sally. ‘Things are not going to get any better and at least part of my heart is in France.’
‘What about the part of your heart that is here?’
He stroked her face and looked at her with fondness. ‘You do not need to goad me into words. You should know what is in my heart.
‘I know it’s selfish, not wanting you to go . . .’
‘There will be a time for selfishness when this is over. In the meantime there are people dear to me who are likely to be in danger once the Germans march in. There are things I have to deal with. Important things.’
‘You can’t know for sure that they’ll reach Paris . . .’
He’d shaken his head sadly. ‘The German army is unstoppable. There are people over there I need to see for various reasons. Please do not ask me to go into great detail because I cannot.’
His statement had caused Sally some consternation. He wasn’t joining the British army. Neither was he joining the French army. He was going over there to do his bit, though not outlining exactly what doing his bit might entail.
‘I don’t think I can help being selfish,’ she’d said frowning.
They’d been standing beneath the railway bridge, droplets of water plopping onto the ground from the iron framework, Pierre awaiting the train that would take him away.
‘I fear the demise of the army – French and British. But France must fight on and besides . . .’ He held her close against him, her head resting on his shoulder. ‘I know you would do the same if the circumstances were reversed. You would do what you could, even though you belong to no army.’
It was hard to imagine she would do any such thing until she thought of her father, the children at school, the nice neighbours she knew who didn’t deserve to be intimidated and frightened.
‘Freedom demands a high price,’ she said at last.
They clung together soundlessly, her face buried against his chest, each tortured with frightening thoughts, and each wrapped tightly in each other’s love just as strongly as they were wrapped in each other’s arms.
Sally clung to him, wishing their kiss would never end, fearing that if she let go he would vanish at this very moment.
‘Keep safe,’ he said to her.
‘Write to me,’ she replied.
He avoided the look in her eyes, instead gazing over her head at nothing in particular.
‘You have my address in Paris. I will be there for a short time. I will also give you an address of a café ran by an old friend I can trust. I will write to you from there – somehow – for as long as I can.’
From London he would take the boat train to the coast from where he would get a boat to France. It was still possible to do this, but for how long nobody could say. Men had been called up, drilled and sent over to France, but nothing was happening. France was still depending on its Maginot Line and Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain was looking ill, his cheekbones as seen on cinema newsreels more prominent, his eyes more deep set as though he were trying to hide from the horrors of the war he had declared back in September.
The station was crowded with other women seeing off their men. Most of the men were in uniform. Pierre looked a little out of place with his well-cut clothes and black Fedora, the brim pulled down jauntily over one side of his face.
His aunt had come too, hanging back as they said their goodbyes, her giving the excuse she needed a quick cup of tea.
‘Goodbye, mon cher,’ she murmured as he kissed each cheek in turn.
Although everyone around them was hugging, kissing and crying, Sally failed to shed a single tear. The truth of the matter was, she was in shock. Shocked that she’d fallen in love so easily, and shocked that he was now leaving her, off to do goodness knows what in a country that could be overrun by the enemy at any time.
Pierre, as though girding himself for the conflict to come, was suddenly brusque. ‘Goodbye. Goodbye to you both.’
‘Au revoir,’ called Lady Ambrose as he bolted for the train.
‘Au revoir,’ Sally repeated, tears finally stinging her eyes and an empty feeling inside. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Keep safe.’
Lady Ambrose offered her a lift home, which Sally gratefully accepted.
Her ladyship sat ramrod stiff in the back of her car, her chauffeur sitting up front. Normally Sally would consider this very grand, but h
er thoughts were otherwise occupied. In a brief moment she dragged her thoughts back to the present. It struck her that today Amelia, as her ladyship had insisted she call her, was not dressed in the clothes of a working man but in a smart lavender-coloured suit.
The way she was staring straight ahead was worrying. Sally was in no doubt that she had something distinctive to say.
‘Sally, I want to tell you a story. It’s about a young couple falling in love in wartime. They were hopelessly in love and swore they would spend the rest of their lives together. War came and the young man went away to fight. The young woman thought he looked quite splendid in his uniform, every inch the hero. It never crossed her mind that anything might happen to him. Getting killed or seriously injured only happened to other people. Not to them. But . . .’ Her voice dropped an octave and her chin trembled. ‘He was killed at the Battle of the Somme. She didn’t believe it at first, walking around like a lost soul, sighing his name, her health and her heart breaking with each passing day.’
Sally started when her ladyship’s gloved hand touched hers.
‘Place no faith in the saying that it is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all. Having loved and lost leaves a wound inside that can never heal. Let the parting be sweet, my dear, but put it behind you. Step back from loving and you feel his loss easier to bear.’
‘You can’t believe he will be lost!’
The look on her ladyship’s face deepened into greater sadness. ‘Every young man who marches off to be a hero believes it will never be him that is killed. Archibald thought that too.’
‘Archibald?’
Lady Ambrose sighed. ‘He was the love of my life and the reason I never married. That’s why I keep so many animals, the replacement for the husband and children who might have been. The DeVere name belonged to my father. He was French. Ambrose was my mother’s maiden name, hence my double-barrelled title.’
Stunned by her revelations, Sally quickly regained her composure. She stared straight ahead of her, her jaw set in determination.
‘I can’t stop loving just because I might lose him,’ she said finally. ‘I have to love him in spite of that.’
Shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, Arnold Thomas was placing a pot in the sink when he heard the bell. At first he tried to ignore it, scrubbing at the pot with more enthusiasm in the faint hope it would block out the sound.
The bell jangled and kept jangling, the sound guaranteed to get on anyone’s nerves.
Clang! Jangle! Clang!
Friends and professional acquaintances had expressed their opinion that he had the patience of a saint. For the most part they’d been referring to his patience teaching at Victoria Park boys’ school. Those who knew his wife considered him a saint. The woman was bedridden for the most part and although Arnold could afford to hire a day nurse to help him cope – even if only on a part-time basis – he had stubbornly refused.
In fact, he would have loved some help, but the truth was that Miranda refused to have another woman in the house.
‘I know what you’d get up to once my back was turned,’ she’d snarled when he’d dared suggest they employ someone.
When they’d first met he’d considered her as ethereal as Titania, the Queen of Fairyland. Her skin was pale as alabaster, her hair so fair it was almost white and her dark violet eyes glowed like blue flames and were in stark contrast to the shining light that seemed to surround her.
The bell continued to jangle on and on, grating on his nerves until he was clenching his jaw so hard that it hurt, until he was attacking the saucepan with renewed vigour, his knuckles and fingertips red raw from the effort.
He looked up at the ceiling as a loud thudding suddenly accompanied the jangling bell. Resentment surged deep inside as he imagined her sitting up there in bed, bell in one hand, walking stick in the other. Jangle, jangle, jangle and thud, thud, thud.
The pot entered the water with a splash. He reached for the tea towel and dried his hands, then rolled down his shirtsleeves.
‘All right, Miranda. All right. I’m coming,’ he shouted up the stairs.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair awry, her nightdress crumpled above her thin white knees. Her skin had always been pale, but now it was almost translucent, blue veins like skeins of silk thread just beneath the surface. Her eyes were like chips of obsidian in the midst of a snowdrift.
His smile was similar to the kind he might give a crying child who had fallen down and cut his knees.
‘There, there,’ he said soothingly. ‘What’s all this fuss about?’
‘Fuss? Fuss? I’m sick. I’m dying. I’ve every right to fuss, you stupid man.’ Her carping shriek was enough to set a saint’s teeth on edge, but Arnold had got used to it.
‘Now come on,’ he said, just as soothingly as before as he attempted to lift her. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’
Face contorted with rage, she lashed out at him with her walking stick. He caught its tip just before it made contact and prised it out of her hand. ‘Now, now, my dear. There’s no need for that.’
There was no anger in his voice, no emotion at all really, just a controlled politeness as though there was a glass partition between them through which no hurts could penetrate.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me . . .
Arnold had got used to her tantrums, which were flung at him on a daily basis. It often amazed him how one could get used to the most grievous taunts without matching her violence. When it all got too much he just increased her medicine that little bit so she fell asleep a little earlier and a lot deeper.
‘Let’s get you decent,’ he said as he straightened her nightdress, pulling the hem down to her ankles. She had very slim ankles that had once looked graceful in high-heeled shoes. He remembered stroking them all the way up her calves to her knees and beyond. Such wonderful days when she had enjoyed physical intimacy as much as he had. Such joy!
He was still reminiscing when he pulled her bodice across to cover her alabaster breasts. He wasn’t ready for the clout she gave him with the brass bell she used to summon him to her presence. For a moment his head spun, but a moment was all he allowed himself.
‘Now that was a silly thing to do, Miranda.’
After prising that too from her iron grip, he raised his hand to his forehead and felt a sticky trickle of blood.
‘Silly? Silly?’ she exclaimed. ‘Better to be silly rather than a creeping vegetable like you! Look at you! Arnold Thomas, head teacher of a boys’ school in a down-and-out area of the city. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose! Well, I will, Arnold. Boo, boo, boo!’
‘Drink this, Miranda.’
His voice was firm. Arnold never raised his voice even though it was like dealing with an unruly child.
Miranda raised one eyebrow as she eyed the drink he was offering her. She’d watched him pour medicine into her glass then top it up with a shot of whisky. She never refused whisky.
‘It’s your favourite,’ he said to her.
She sniffed. Her smile was hesitant – until she took a sip, Arnold still holding the glass. Eyeing him over the rim with a look of pure contempt, she drank it all down. With his arm around her, he laid her back on the pillow, her white hair spreading like a fibrous halo around her head.
She closed her eyes, deep in a drug-filled sleep.
Arnold sighed and rubbed at his forehead. He was used to feeling drained, but today he didn’t so much feel drained as buried alive. That’s how much it had taken out of him being married to a woman like Miranda, a creature with whom he no longer shared a bed or had intimacy with – not even a kiss. That part of their relationship had died years ago.
As he looked at her, her face almost as white as the pillow beneath her head, he found himself hating her. As a consequence he harboured a great determination to go out tonight, to live again as he deserved to live.
Jaw firmly clenched, he closed the bedroom door and made his
way to the bathroom. Once he’d washed the blood off, he put on his coat, checked the blackout curtains and left the house. Taking great gulps of fresh air was as good as drinking the finest wine. It was free, and so was he. For a time, at least.
Normal people. I need to be with normal people, he thought as he strolled down to the pub at the bottom of Redcatch Road.
Deep down he knew his need was greater than being with normal people. He desired company, female company most of all.
There was something about Elspeth that reminded him of Miranda. Maybe it was her hair, though Miranda’s was natural. Elspeth’s had the look of a bottle blonde, her complexion was flawless only with the aid of face powder, her lips were red with the application of lipstick. Overall she had a more substantial body than Miranda, but the fact that she laughed and smoked with the men, and seemed to like him especially, was attractive to him. It had been a long time since a woman had made it so obvious that she liked him and he needed that. He needed it very much. He hoped she’d be there at the pub alone. To his great joy she was.
She was lounging against an upright piano, singing along with whatever was being played. For a moment his hopes seemed dashed. The pianist had a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth and judging by the glint in his eyes he was obviously enjoying Elspeth’s attention.
She too seemed to be enjoying herself, returning the pianist’s saucy looks with some of her own. Until she saw Arnold, then suddenly all signs of brashness left her features, replaced by something almost demure in its composition.
He gestured that he was getting a drink for himself and did she want one.
Elspeth raised her glass and nodded, her eyes bright with expectation. She mouthed the words, port and lemon. A bit expensive, but he didn’t care.
As he made his way to the bar, she came to join him. She was at his side just as the drinks arrived. They clinked glasses. She smiled up into his face. ‘Hello stranger. Where have you been hiding?’ Her lips were glossy, her eyes bright with welcome.
