by Lizzie Lane
Ruby knew her father well. He’d been mother as well as father to her for many years, the unchanging lighthouse in the shifting sea of life. ‘Dad, do you know where she might have gone?’
He remained unmoved.
Ruby tried again. ‘Dad, Frances needs to know.’
‘Even if I’m no longer welcome in this house,’ added Frances.
Ruby looked at her cousin, suddenly alert to the fact that she was no longer a child. This was a brave new Frances, a young girl on the threshold of life who needed to know her mother in order to know herself.
‘Please,’ whispered Frances, turning the full force of her velvet brown eyes to him. ‘If you know where she is …’
There was a guarded look in his eyes when he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘That was all the information I had. She left here. She didn’t ever get in touch again, and that’s an end to it! If you want to go searching for her, then go. But as I said, if you do go, then never darken my door again.’
‘Dad! That’s terrible!’ Ruby was beside herself.
Frances eyed him more coolly. She glared at him, suddenly angry and wondering if she did in fact hate him. At this moment, it certainly felt that way.
Her anger came pouring out. ‘She probably knew you didn’t like her! That was why she ran away, wasn’t it! Because you hated her!’
Alarmed at her outburst, Stan took a step back. As he did so, the corner of the newspaper he held in his right hand went too near the fire.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’ He was shouting at the top of his voice and at the same time attempting to beat out the flame on the top of the kitchen range. Deducing that his newspaper was beyond rescue, he crumpled it between both hands, opened the door of the range and threw it into the fire.
‘There! Satisfied now?’
Her anger undiminished, Frances glared at him. He’d never shouted at her like that before. She felt as though he’d slapped both sides of her face.
Being threatened with banishment might have frightened some people, but not Frances. All Stan had done was make her angry and more determined to find her mother. There was always a way out, always an option to pursue. That was what Declan had told her.
‘Never mind facing a problem head on. Take a side step. Sneak up from behind,’ he had counselled.
Frances folded the letter up and slid it back into the envelope.
The silence in the room was deafening and outside wasn’t much better. The feel of thunder was in the air. Clouds shielded the promising sun. The dull day and the difficult silence persisted.
Frances headed for the stairs. ‘Well, at the moment there’s nothing more to be done so I might as well go up and make the beds – while I’m still here.’
Ruby attempted to follow. ‘I think I should go upstairs and give you a hand …’
Stan Sweet intervened. ‘No. Leave her on her own for a while. Give her chance to get over it.’
Ruby wasn’t so sure, though she certainly hoped so. She might have defied her father, but Charlie’s behaviour intervened.
‘Charlie!’
Ruby grabbed the spoon with which he was supposed to be eating his porridge. Instead, he was spooning it into his hair.
A jug of water was poured from the kitchen tap, an old towel borrowed from the bathroom, and a comb with big teeth borrowed from the top of her father’s tallboy.
Ruby frowned. Frances had not confirmed the situation as regards her mother one way or another. ‘I wonder what it says exactly in her letter. She didn’t really say. Not really.’
Her father was surly. ‘As long as it says Mildred isn’t there, that’s good enough for me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Upstairs in her room, Frances eyed the pink satin eiderdown that had slid from her bed during the night. It could stay on the floor until she’d read the letter for a second time. Never mind what her Uncle Stan thought or had said. Never mind that Ruby had taken her part. She was glad she had not divulged the contents of the letter. It was about her mother and thus very private.
Sitting herself down on the eiderdown’s cool satin silkiness, she took the letter back out of the envelope. The thin paper rustled as she unfolded it. The words danced in front of her eyes.
Dear Miss Sweet,
In reply to your letter, I have to tell you that your mother did indeed reside at my boarding house some time ago, but then left to live with a friend in Cecil Street just around the corner. Her friend’s name was Mr Mackenzie. I used to see her now and again, and when Mr Mackenzie died, she told me she had to get out of the house because his mother wouldn’t have her there any longer. She moved out in a bit of a rush, leaving some of her things behind. Old Mrs Mackenzie, not allowing her over the threshold ever again, got in touch with me to fetch the few things she’d left there and forward them on to her new address. I do have that address somewhere. As soon as I find it, I’ll send it to you and I’ll make a note if I hear anything of her in the meantime.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs B Kepple,
Sunshine Boarding House,
77 Victoria Buildings,
Stokes Croft,
Bristol
Letter clutched in her hand, Frances stood up and grabbed the eiderdown, threw it on to the bed and slumped on to it full length, the satin cool against the heat of her cheek. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but most of all she wanted to get her hands on that information as quickly as possible. The best way to do that was not to wait for a letter to arrive, but to find Sunshine Boarding House and speak to Mrs Kepple direct. A little time was needed in which she could plan her escape – for escape it most certainly was. Despite any misgivings on anyone else’s part, she was determined to do this.
The breeze coming in from the open window sent the familiar pink curtains billowing in. The colour almost matched the eiderdown. The walls were wallpapered, bunches of flowers scattered randomly in no particular pattern. All this she would leave behind if she went off to find her mother.
No matter the harshness of her uncle’s words, and his statement that she would not be allowed to return, she would go. Her mind was made up. Besides, if he was this angry now, how would he be if he knew she was pregnant? How would her mother react?
She convinced herself that her mother would be over the moon, getting her daughter back and gaining a grandchild. Somehow it seemed only right that her mother should know first before anyone else – including the baby’s father.
Although Ruby appeared to be understanding of Frances’s predicament, it was not possible for her to truly comprehend just how much finding her mother would mean to her. As she’d said to her uncle, it didn’t matter what her mother had done, she was still blood of her blood, still her mother.
Holding the letter up over her head, she smiled as she re-read the address of Mrs Kepple’s boarding house, where her mother had once stayed.
She smiled as she thought about what Declan would say. His gravelly tone was easily brought to mind.
‘Get out there and do it.’
That was indeed what he would say.
Get out there and do it.
After carefully refolding the letter, she lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Some of the paint was flaking off. There were fine cracks in one corner, a fresh cobweb in another. None of it mattered. She’d leave it to Ruby to flick a feather duster at the cobweb. The cracks and the paint wouldn’t be attended to until the war was over.
A plan began to form in her mind. It was no good telling her uncle that she had a definite lead to her mother’s whereabouts. He’d made his feelings known in no uncertain terms: if she wanted her mother, then he considered her ungrateful. He might even forbid her to do what she intended doing, after all, she was only sixteen years of age. Nor would she tell Ruby.
Declan was the only person she could tell. She smiled at the thought of his face as he nodded approvingly, his deep eyes fixed on her as though she was the most deli
cious box of chocolates that had ever been.
He’d told her to follow her dream and she would do exactly that. She would run away and find Mrs Kepple, talk to her and then discover what her mother was like before going along to the address Mrs Kepple would give her. It would mean staying for one, perhaps two nights in Bristol. Declan would come with her! He would love to come with her. But first she had to get in touch with him.
Their meetings depended on a duty roster, a copy of which he’d given her a while ago.
‘Just so you know where it’s at.’
‘Where it’s at?’ She’d laughed at some of his American slang.
She kept the duty roster in the drawer that also held her underwear, stockings – such as they were – and blouses.
‘Same time, same day, same place.’
The time was always at two in the afternoon, on a Wednesday or a Friday. The place was the field at the top of Jarrow Lane, the place where they’d first made love.
As long as the weather was dry, their only company was the trees, the wide-open sky and the cows. Declan always brought a blanket if they were staying. Inclement weather meant a disused barn they’d found at the top of Tog Hill, halfway between Oldland Common and Siston.
Today was one of those days and she was feeling excited. Saying that she was going for a walk, she left the bakery heading for Jarrow Lane and the stile that had become her secret meeting place with the man she’d fallen in love with.
Wednesday, two o’clock, their usual time when he would drive along or, if he couldn’t come, send a message.
Although she didn’t own a watch, she could tell that roughly fifteen minutes had passed. Leaning against the gate behind her, she craned her neck so she could better see the end of the lane and the main road beyond that. The day was chilly so there was not a soul in sight. While waiting, she debated whether she should tell him she thought she might be pregnant. Only about six or seven weeks, but she felt different. Then there was the sickness. How long would that go on?
Still he hadn’t come.
In an effort to see further, she clambered backwards on to the gate, finally sitting on the cross bar. Not that it achieved anything. There was no sign of him. No sign of anything, in fact.
Usually there were a few army vehicles passing by, but today there was nothing.
Half an hour or so went by, perhaps more. Finally, she conceded he wasn’t coming. Gloomily she made her way back down the lane to the main road. She’d just got to the corner when she heard the unmistakeable sound of a motor vehicle.
Bursting with a new rush of happiness, she turned round. A Jeep was coming towards her at high speed, skidding to a halt just feet from where she was standing.
Ed Bergman gave her a perfunctory salute.
‘Hi, Frances. How are you? Long time no see.’
His teeth shone white in his tanned face. He was chirpy, glad to see her. She guessed that he wasn’t here by chance. She got straight to the point.
‘Hello, Ed. Did Declan send you?’
He nodded. ‘Captain O’Malley’s compliments, but he has a prior engagement elsewhere.’
Frances picked up on the gloating tone, the message reluctantly delivered. She and Ed could have been closer, but once Declan O’Malley had put in an appearance, he didn’t stand a chance.
It was pure instinct that she asked if he’d been posted.
‘I’m not sure.’
Glowering at him, she folded her arms. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean I can’t tell you where he’s gone.’
His manner was casual and she couldn’t help thinking he was enjoying having to give her the message. Ed Bergman had lost, Declan O’Malley had won, but today his win was hollow. He wasn’t here. Ed Bergman was.
‘So you don’t know. Is it top secret?’
He shrugged and looked away. ‘Could be. You know how it is.’
His grin was fetching and full of confidence. Yes. She knew how it was, all right.
A draught of air stirred the trees and sent her hair flying across her face. She eyed the oak while pushing her hair back from her face. The sight of the oak tree made her tingle.
‘Fancy coming out with me this afternoon?’
She turned her head to look along the road, wishing that Declan would come driving along, tell Ed to skedaddle, and claim her for the rest of the day. If she did go with Ed he might think he could have what he’d had before. That alone did not make her feel nervous. Only a matter of days had passed between making love with Ed and making love with Declan. Declan didn’t know about her condition, but she’d tell him soon and hope, just hope, that he would immediately assume it was his. Was that dishonest?
Again she looked up and down the main road through the village. There was no sign of any vehicle. Everything seemed strangely quiet.
‘When will Declan be back?’
Ed made a snorting sound and didn’t look too happy at being asked. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Is it something to do with the invasion of Europe?’
She knew she’d hit the nail on the head when his cheeks turned as red as a girl’s.
‘No matter,’ she said, holding up her hand, palm facing him. ‘No need to answer. I think I already know.’
Declan had outlined reasons he might not turn up to meet her. The number one reason was the impending invasion of Europe.
‘It’s got to happen sooner or later,’ he’d said to her. ‘But, honey, never fear. I will return. Wait for me.’
Sooner rather than later, she thought to herself. In a sudden moment of comprehension, she rested her hand on her stomach. She began to walk away from the lane, the Jeep and the young GI who was fond of her.
‘Hey! Frances! How about a date?’
She smiled at the way he’d asked his question, full of hope and flattery, but she didn’t answer.
Her mind was made up. Before leaving home, she would give her uncle one last chance. She had a question to ask her uncle and although she had an inkling what his answer would be, she would still ask him to sign a document giving her permission to marry. It didn’t matter too much if he refused. She now had another string to her bow. Mrs Kepple, her mother’s ex-landlady, knew her mother’s whereabouts. All she had to do was go to Bristol and find her.
She had enough savings to do that, and she would tell no one, not until she’d found her mother and told her that all was forgiven and that she wanted her to come home.
Your home or her home? asked the prickly voice in her head. She didn’t know the answer to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ruby was getting a fish pie out of the oven when the phone rang for the third time that day.
‘It’s that creepy man again,’ said Frances. ‘Andrew Sinclair.’
Leaving the pie to cool on the window ledge, Ruby made her way out into the hall. She’d avoided Andrew throughout the time when Charlie was ill, deciding to postpone his suggestion that she give a series of talks and demonstrations to his mother’s friends at a top-notch hotel in London. Andrew was persistent.
‘Ruby! How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Everything’s arranged. They want you next Wednesday.’
‘Well, they can’t have me.’ To say that she was exasperated was putting it mildly. ‘I’ve told you already, I have to wait until I’m sure my father and my cousin can cope with my nephew by themselves.’
‘Ruby. You have to understand that they won’t wait for ever.’ He used a condescending tone as if she were a disobedient child.
‘They might bloody well have to,’ she snapped and slammed down the telephone.
Charlie had long been over his illness and was becoming quite a handful. Owing to the fact that Andrew had no sense of timing and not a clue about children, Ruby had continued to make the same excuses not to go to London, despite the fact that Charlie was perfectly well.
Anyway, Ruby was enjoying life and had just started dating yet another Polish flyer
. ‘It’s not serious but I think it’s the accent,’ she said to Frances, whom she had started to confide in, Mary being too far away although she did write to her fairly regularly. There was always the telephone, of course, but it wasn’t too reliable over a distance. Somebody said it was because the military had priority traffic. Chit-chats between families were low priority.
Once he’d mentioned that the allies had landed in France, Stan had spoken his thoughts about Ruby over his wife’s gravestone.
‘She goes out and enjoys herself with different blokes, but that’s it. I asked her about Johnnie Smith. She told me that as long as there’s no word otherwise, he’s still alive. She’s afraid that if she does get involved with somebody else, well then he’ll die. It’s superstitious nonsense, of course, but she’s convinced that as long as she believes he’s coming home, then he will.
‘Mary is fine and so is baby Beatrice. Michael has got himself a position teaching new pilots the rudiments of flying. We’re all grateful for that.
‘Charlie is getting to be something of a handful, just like his father was …’
He did not mention Frances. The fact that she was so determined to find her mother stuck in his throat.
‘You should go away and have some fun,’ Frances suggested.
‘Should I indeed?’ Ruby was busy working on some recipes the Ministry of Food had asked her to test for usefulness. Some of the recipes had been forwarded by ordinary housewives keenly patriotic to do their bit. There was something very satisfying about rubbing fat into flour, feeling the crumbs of energising nourishment between her fingers. She made a point of rubbing the two ingredients together above the bowl and letting the mixture drop into the bowl. ‘It takes in more air that way,’ she’d explained to Frances.
Her thoughts far from cooking, Frances watched silently. ‘Mary doesn’t live very far from London,’ she exclaimed while smearing fat around the edges of the baking tin that Ruby intended using.
‘I’m not sure you’re right. I think it’s quite a way.’
