Ragamuffin Angel

by Rita Bradshaw

  Aye, he knew all about fear. He’d lived with it and slept with it, ate and drank it for years. It had infested his bones and it crawled in his stomach until he barely recognised himself any more. He had seen men who behaved lower than the animals and others who – confronted by horrors unspeakable – rose nobly to whatever the occasion demanded. He had watched men give their lives for their friends, and others betray their own brothers and become Commandant Moltke’s spies to preserve their own lives.

  Dan sat back in his seat in the train and wiped his hand across his sweating face, forcing his thoughts back to the present. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen, sitting opposite him in the carriage caught his eye and smiled sympathetically, and Dan inclined his head as he thought, Aye, you’ve been to hell and back an’ all. It was in the eyes.

  But now he was facing a new fear, and he was finding this one was the worst of all. It had been four years since he’d been gone and for most of that time Connie hadn’t heard anything. It had been eighteen months before they had discovered that Moltke had destroyed every letter written for outside, although, with the lack of incoming mail, they’d suspected it long before then. Four years. She must have thought he’d died.

  He found he was grinding his teeth together and stopped abruptly when the little old lady sitting next to the young man eyed him disapprovingly from under her felt hat.

  And she was beautiful. Connie was so, so beautiful. The fear gripped his bowels and he had to steel himself not to twist in the seat. He wouldn’t blame her if she’d found someone else. And then, in the next instant, yes he damn well would. He’d want to tear the man limb from limb, he admitted harshly. He turned to the train window against which he was sitting and shut his eyes for a moment at the reflection that stared back at him through the murky twilight. Walking scarecrow he looked; fifty if a day and his hair almost completely grey now. He had weighed nearly twelve stone when he was captured, but was less than nine now, but he was lucky compared to some of the poor devils. Aye, he was, he was lucky all right. He had his arms and his legs and his sight. What would he have done if he’d been blinded?

  The train was approaching Sunderland central station now and the fear became so thick as to be paralysing. He knew the authorities had contacted Art and Gladys – they were down as his official next of kin – but he had purposely spoken to no one. He had wanted to come home quietly, without anyone knowing the day or time of arrival. He needed to see her first, alone. Once he had done that . . . He breathed deeply, his heart racing. It could start then. Feelings, emotions, learning to live again – it could all start. Whatever he found.

  ‘Home for the New Year then, are you, lad?’

  It was the little old lady who had spoken, and Dan nodded and smiled as he reflected, wryly, that only a wrinkled and ancient little body like this one would ever call him lad again. He had stopped being a lad after he had killed his first German.

  ‘Aye, well it’ll be a better year than the ones afore it, that’s for certain,’ the gnarled little woman with cheeks like rosy-red apples said busily. ‘Ten million dead in this war, an’ they call it the “Great War”. Nothin’ great about it if you ask me. Four grandsons an’ one son gone; by, they talk about a lost generation an’ they’re right an’ all. You got any bairns, lad?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Aye, well there’s still time, eh? Now you’re home.’

  Pray God there was. Aye, pray God. Dan nodded again but he didn’t speak as the train shuddered to a halt.

  It was New Year’s Eve – that was portentous, wasn’t it? He hadn’t planned to arrive home on this particular day but it was the way it had worked out. Surely that meant something?

  Stop clutching at straws. The words in his head were caustic, but then the young man opened the carriage door and passengers began to alight. He was home. He was here. His head swam for a moment and he breathed deeply, aiming to get a grip on the dizziness that still assailed him at odd moments. But it was getting better; he’d put on nearly half a stone in the last weeks in the hospital. By, that hospital. Half of them with their minds gone and the other half with their bodies shattered and maimed. What was Britain going to be left with after this lot? Lost generation didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Dan reached for his kitbag and stood to his feet. This was it. In a few more minutes he’d know. His face was as grey as his shock of hair as he stepped on to the platform and began walking.

  He couldn’t get over the fact that nothing seemed to have changed at first and yet . . . yes, things were different. It was a woman in the ticket office at the south end for a start.

  After leaving the station he walked briskly along Union Street and Waterloo Place before turning into Holmeside, and there he stood for a moment gazing down the busy street. Most of the shop awnings were up – the day had been a stormy one – and a tram was laboriously making its way towards him, passing a horse and cart as it came. There were one or two gentlemen on bicycles, a whole bevy of busy shoppers and the inevitable bairn wailing its head off as it was hauled along the pavement by an irate mother. A woman with a perambulator passed him, one of the huge wheels rolling over his toes, and at her harassed apology Dan smiled and said it didn’t matter but he didn’t move. He was feeling strange, very strange. All these people and they knew exactly where they were going and what they were about. And it was normal. It was so, so normal. But he didn’t feel normal inside; in fact he didn’t think he would ever feel rational and well adjusted again.

  But he was rushing things once more; he wasn’t giving himself time. It was the one thing the nuns in the hospital had tried to drum into him – he had to give himself time.

  He began to walk along the street but his step wasn’t as brisk now and he was sweating again. He noticed the glances of one or two passers-by and he thought, I must look terrible. Well, he knew he looked terrible, didn’t he, but that was something else the nuns had said time would rectify. And he had to count his blessings; Sister Bernadette had drummed that into all of them. But his future, his life, hinged on one blessing and one alone – if Connie had waited for him, if she still wore his ring and intended to be his wife – he stopped suddenly, leaning against a shop window as he took great draughts of the bitter northern air-then all the rest would fall into place.

  When he came to the shop he stood looking at the sign above the new smart entrance and his eyes questioned what they were seeing for a moment. ‘Bell’s Restaurant, first floor; Tea-rooms and Bakery, ground floor’.

  He felt a sharp surge of pleasure that was separate to what the next few minutes might hold. She had done well for herself, more than well by the look of it. She had extended the property; it looked a right bonny place now and a restaurant no less. He found he was smiling and it came as a surprise – he hadn’t felt like smiling in a long, long time.

  He stood a moment more, gathering his frayed nerves, or what was left of them after the last four years had taken their toll, and then he opened the door of the shop.

  It had been a hectic day. Connie glanced over the crowded tea-rooms and flexed her shoulder blades wearily. The whole world and his wife had wanted to eat out today, or so it had seemed, and the restaurant was booked to capacity tonight. Not that she should complain, she chided herself in the next instant, and she wasn’t, not really. It was just that she was feeling a touch blue, she told herself silently. It was New Year’s Eve – the old year with all its heartaches and unfulfilled dreams was nearly gone and a bright untouched year stretched before old and young alike. It was a time of new beginnings, new promises, hope, faith and love . . . She ached to see Dan. She couldn’t think of anything else now the furore surrounding little Martha Ellen had settled.

  Why hadn’t he written? A letter, a postcard even? Her heart began to thud as it had done every morning since the day after Boxing Day when she had searched the post frantically for that special writing. He was ill, was that it? Or badly injured? Disfigured even? She wouldn’t care
; surely he knew she wouldn’t care? Or perhaps his feelings had changed. It was a thought that had come to haunt her over the last day or two when there had been no news, and now she brushed it aside angrily. No, she trusted him. She hadn’t trusted him once before and it had driven them apart; she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. But why hadn’t he written?

  And then she turned and saw him.

  She stared at this person who was Dan and yet not Dan, and then she shut her eyes and opened them again and he was still there. He was real.

  The length of the shop was between them but she seemed to reach him in one ecstatic moment as she breathed his name into the air, and as his arms opened and he enfolded her into him she knew what heaven was like.

  ‘Dan, oh, Dan. Dan . . .’ She wasn’t aware she was whispering his name as he covered her face in little frantic kisses, she wasn’t aware of anything but him, his smell, the feel of him, his arms holding her close. He was here, he was alive. He was alive and whole. He had come back to her. He had come back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They sat and loved and talked into the early hours of the New Year in Connie’s little home. They joined Mary and Wilf briefly at twelve o’clock before withdrawing to the flat again as soon as they could without appearing rude.

  Connie cooked them a meal, but interspersed with everything they did they would kiss and hold each other close, their arms locked about each other and their passionate murmurings inarticulate half of the time.

  Connie was shocked at the change in him, although she made no reference to his appearance, but his prematurely grey hair, unnaturally pale face in which the bones showed prominent beneath the drawn skin, and his sunken eyes, created in her an inexpressible desire to make him better.

  At two o’clock they were sitting quietly, so close as to be inseparable, with their fingers interlocked and Connie’s head resting on his shoulder. Every so often Dan would nuzzle the soft silk of her golden hair, shutting his eyes as he inhaled the sweet, fresh fragrance that was reminiscent of apples and orchards and hot summer days. He couldn’t believe Art had gone. He felt the pain stab him again. And John, both legs. He had been shocked when Connie had related that Ann had left his brother, although on reflection he supposed he wasn’t surprised – neither could he altogether blame her. John had made Ann’s life hell for years, they had all known it. But to leave him in that state . . . Anyway it was none of his business and he’d call and see Ann some time to tell her she was still his sister-in-law as far as he was concerned; he didn’t want to lose touch with her and his nephew.

  And then, as though she had sensed the direction of his thoughts, Connie stirred and raised her head to look into his face as she said, ‘You are intending to go and see your mam and John, aren’t you? After everything that’s happened, this war and all, it’s time to make peace don’t you think?’

  Peace. Peace with his mother. He took the words into his mind and considered them and he knew they were futile. He had done a lot of thinking in the camp, and veil upon veil had been lifted from his understanding. His mother was an unnatural woman; cold, virtually without conscience, unloving and unlovable, and part of her obsession with Sadie Bell – and now Connie – was that she recognised in them a drawing power. They drew and held men to them like bees to a honey-pot, and not through fear or emotional blackmail or any of the other tricks his mother used. Women like Sadie and Connie had an elemental warmth, something soft and tender and flowing that made men want to envelop them and in turn be enveloped. It was a voluptuous thing, inexplicable, like the redolence given off by a flower when it was ripe with pollen. He had made his choice – he had made it four years ago – and peace with his mother was not an option. Neither was any form of understanding with John.

  ‘I shall go and see them, Connie.’ He stroked a wisp of hair from her forehead as he spoke. He intended to sell his share of the family business; he wanted out. And he wanted to tell them he was marrying Connie as soon as it could be arranged; it needed to be said face to face.

  ‘Don’t say it like that.’ She straightened now, taking his emaciated, dear, dear face in her hands as she turned towards him. ‘They might have mellowed, Dan. Four years is a long time and they’ve suffered too.’

  ‘Do you believe they’ve mellowed?’

  She looked at him and the answer was in her eyes.

  ‘No, neither do I, but I will go and see them after I’ve got Gladys to call Kitty to the square so I can say hallo to her first. She’s such a dear soul, Kitty. How she has stood my mother all these years I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re all her family I suppose.’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘Aye, that’s it sure enough.’

  But family or no the ties had been irrevocably broken with his mother and John and there was no turning back. Even if things had turned out differently and Connie had found someone else there would have been no meeting point. Perhaps there never had been.

  He settled Connie back in his arms again, tucking her head under his chin. He was going to book into a hotel tomorrow, there was a small one at the end of the street which would serve him very well, and it would mean he was just two or three minutes’ walk away from Connie. Any further and he wouldn’t be able to bear it. She had already said he could stay in her spare room but he wasn’t going to have any gossip about her – this was going to be done properly, he loved her too much for anything else. But tonight, tonight was a night apart. Tonight they would hold each other, like this, so close they could feel each other’s heartbeat and they would watch the dawn rise. And tomorrow he would go and see her old friend, Father Hedley, and arrange for them to be married as soon as the priest could arrange it – Connie wanted that as much as he did. They had waited too long as it was . . . He was asleep on the last word and it was a deep, dreamless sleep, like a bairn’s, and there were no nightmares that night.

  The next day Connie and Dan went to St George’s Square and there was an emotional reunion with Gladys and the children, followed by an equally poignant one with Kitty later in the morning after Gladys had sent Catherine to tell her the good news.

  There were flurries of snow showers that could at any time turn into the blizzard which was forecast for New Year’s Day, but inside Gladys’s snug house all was warmth and light and wet faces as Kitty hugged Dan as though she would never let him go.

  ‘Oh, lad, lad.’ The plump Irishwoman was incapable of saying anything else for a good few minutes, her eyes streaming as she held on to the tall, painfully thin, bony figure of this, her favourite ‘bairn’. ‘Lad, lad, lad.’

  ‘He’s home, Kitty. He’s home.’ Kitty’s naked joy had touched something very tender in Connie’s heart, and her voice was soft and understanding as she put her arms round the other woman. ‘We’re going to get wed as soon as we can, and we want you to know that there will always be a place for you with us if ever you want to leave Mrs Stewart. And of course you’ll be welcome to call any time, any time, Kitty.’

  Connie knew Dan thought of this woman as his mother, and it was as a mother that Kitty now said, her face close to theirs as the three of them remained joined, ‘Thank you, lass, thank you, but I’m a great one in believing a married couple should start off on their own where they can. But I’ll remember the offer, aye, I will, lass, an’ it’s thanking you I am for it. And I won’t be a stranger to your door, I can promise you that. You’re a good lass, aye, a good lass.’ The last words held an inflexion that made them a statement. This young woman Dan had fallen for was no strumpet, whatever her mother might have been.

  Silently now, Kitty gripped Connie’s hand that was resting on her arm, and then her voice was purposely bright as she said, ‘Aye, well I’d best be getting back. I had to make some excuse about seeing me Aunt Ida after Catherine had tipped me the wink in the kitchen afore she went in to see her granny, but she didn’t like it. Not that she could say much considering I haven’t even had the sniff of a day off in weeks.’

  ‘How . . . h
ow are they both?’

  It was noticeable that in the time Kitty had been with them Dan hadn’t mentioned his mother or John, and now Kitty looked directly at him as she said, ‘’Bout as you’d expect, lad.’

  ‘Why do you put up with it, Kitty?’ This was from Gladys. ‘You could easily get another job with your experience. What with all the big houses and such having to give up their’ – she almost said servants – ‘staff in the war, there’s a shortage of housekeepers and the like. Half of them who have come out of service won’t be going back, you can bet your life on that; you could be sitting pretty somewhere else.’

  ‘Better the devil you know, lass, better the devil you know.’ Kitty was smiling as she spoke and Gladys smiled back, but once the goodbyes had been said and Kitty was hurrying back along Burdon Road in the direction of Ryhope Road, she came back to the question Art’s wife had asked. Why did she put up with what Edith Stewart dished out? Better the devil you know, she had said to them back there. She gave a small, mirthless laugh to herself. And Edith was a devil all right; since she’d been obliged to take John in when Ann went life hadn’t been worth living in that mausoleum of a house. She had never thought to see the day she’d feel sorry for John, but she did. Aye, she did, wretched piteous individual that he was now. Was it for him that she stayed?