by Sally Wragg
‘Happen there are other things on her mind.’ Peter sat down. ‘There’s a lot she’s never told us. All that business about Diana, for one. She blames herself that Diana never came back.’
‘So now she won’t talk to me about anything – France, Diana, Silas or Ned!’
And it seemed she wouldn’t talk to Peter, either. Neither knew what their daughter was really thinking.
The River Gardens flowerbeds this year had been given over to leeks, potatoes and beans, but Holly Bates, hurrying through later that day on her way up to Auntie Mary’s flat, scarcely gave them a second glance.
She was thinking about John Bertram, and wishing she wasn’t.
He was away flying over the Mediterranean, and she didn’t even know whether he was safe. If only he was home, with Mary, where he belonged!
Holly had been the only member of Mary’s family invited to the wedding. She ought to have accepted the state of things by now, but she still longed to hear about John.
‘I’m not telling anyone, only you,’ Mary had said of the wedding, swearing her to secrecy. She’d had no idea how Holly felt.
How hectic it had been. Such a hastily contrived affair at the registrar’s office. Holly, and two of John’s best mates, and Mary looking absolutely radiant….
‘Why, it’s Holly! My dear, it has been a long time.’
Holly cannoned to an abrupt halt. John’s grandparents. Adèle and Silas Bradshaw, were walking arm in arm towards her, and Mrs Bradshaw looked inordinately pleased to see her.
According to Auntie Mary, this old couple had been appalled to discover who their precious grandson had upped and married. A Bradshaw marrying a Bridges? It would have been funny if it weren’t so painful.
John said what was done was done, and if his own parents accepted Mary, Silas and Adèle would simply have to make the best of it.
Holly wished she could just walk on, but you didn’t snub people if Maggie Bates had brought you up.
‘I’m fine, Mrs Bradshaw,’ she answered dully.
Adèle gave Silas a little nudge.
‘Silas, this is Holly. Maggie’s girl – remember?’
‘Of course I remember,’ he complained testily, pulling out his watch and frowning – as if time was important to him alone. How rude he was!
‘How’s your mother?’ he barked all at once, taking her by surprise. He returned the watch to his pocket and fixed her with one of his fierce stares.
‘Deuced if she would go to France! I take it she’s recovered?’
‘My mam does fine, thank you, Mr Bradshaw!’
Holly was unable to stop the coldness flooding into her voice. Something about this man got right under her skin. He was still here and obviously enjoying life, and Gramps wasn’t.
‘She’s working back at the hospital, I understand?’ Silas Bradshaw had obviously decided he had a moment or two to spare, and was prepared to waste it in pointless questioning.
Holly nodded, watching him through hostile eyes. How shocked he’d be if he knew what she knew! Holly quite liked Mrs Bradshaw, but as for Silas!
‘Remember me to her,’ Silas murmured kindly, and she nodded, having no intention of doing any such thing. Remind her mam of a man so arrogant he’d forced his own son into keeping his relationship with Gran a secret? What sort of father could he have been?
When Holly thought about her grandma, what she’d gone through, it made her blood boil. She’d rather pass on Hitler’s regards.
‘I must dash. I’m on my way up to our Mary’s.’
The wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her mouth. The smile slid from Adèle’s face, and Silas’s frown deepened.
Her and her big mouth!
‘I’ll tell her I’ve seen you, shall I?’ Holly skirted round them and fled.
‘It’s hardly the child’s fault, after all.’ Adèle watched her scoot up the pathway and out of the gates.
Silas took her arm, gave Holly one backward glance and limped on at his own brisk pace.
Quite unexpectedly, to Adèle’s mind, he chuckled out loud, and she threw him a curious glance.
If only he could own to the connection, Silas was thinking. If only he could say – that young Holly Bates, our own great-grandchild, don’t you think she’s rather wonderful?
The chuckle turned into a deep belly laugh. Holly reminded him of Ned in so many ways – a young lady who well knew her own mind. What spirit! Making her dislike of him so obvious.
‘Silas, is something wrong?’ Adèle enquired plaintively.
‘Why should it be?’
‘I thought the children might have put you out of temper.’
Remembering their precious home, turned into a boarding-school, wiped the smile from Silas’s face if anything could. Only this morning three of the little blighters had barged right into his study as if they owned the place!
‘Must you remind me?’ That sounded more the Silas Adèle knew and loved. ‘Where’s the sense of it, I ask!’
‘But, dear, we all have to do our bit.’
Adèle loved having their home full of children. Silas would just have to lump it.
Ten minutes later, labouring up the steep incline of Mount Pleasant Road towards Mary’s flat, Holly’s cheeks were still burning from making a fool of herself in front of the Bradshaws.
John had bought the place, the top floor of a dignified Victorian mansion, and Holly was pretty sure what she’d find when she got there. It was always the same.
Sure enough, Auntie Mary was dressed up, ready to go out.
‘I’ve come at a bad time?’
Holly enjoyed visiting Mary, but in any case, things being as they were with her grandma, she felt someone had to keep an eye on her aunt.
‘I can spare five minutes, I expect.’ Mary grinned at her niece.
‘I bumped into Great-granddad Silas!’ Holly could make a joke of it now the worst of the encounter was over. Plonking herself down on the neat little sofa, she went on.
‘I’d love to tell him how we’re related, Mary, if only to see his face!’
‘It must have been tempting.’ Mary leaned against the table, one elegantly shod foot crossed over the other. ‘I’d love to, as well, if only to wipe that superior smile from his face, but John says—’
‘Oh, John!’ Holly couldn’t disguise the pleasure the sound of John’s name gave. Fortunately, Mary had taken her powder compact from her handbag, and was too absorbed in the task of checking her face in the mirror to notice her impressionable young niece.
‘John thinks it’s a hoot.’ Mary tilted the mirror this way and that and pouted. Satisfied with what she saw, she snapped the case shut and returned it briskly to her handbag.
‘He always did say his uncle Ned was a dark horse, but he doesn’t want the old folk upset. We ought to respect his wishes.’
‘The whole thing’s so romantic! Who ever would have believed it of Grandma Daisy?’
Then, at the thought of all the pain her strait-laced grandmother must have gone through, her smile vanished.
‘It wasn’t fair, though, was it? Nor on my mam either, no one telling her all this long time. I’m not surprised she’s still cross with Gran.
‘She doesn’t talk about it much. She doesn’t talk about anything much any more.’ Holly had been worried about her mam ever since she’d got back from France.
‘Maggie should talk to our mother more.’
Pretty as she was, there was a sharpness about Mary’s face there’d never been before, Holly thought.
‘She’s not come round yet, and you can’t blame her either. You did drop it on her about marrying John!’
‘She’s had nearly a year.’
‘But you knew how she felt about the Bradshaws!’ Holly understood how her gran felt, even though she also understood John couldn’t be blamed for who his family was.
‘John isn’t a Bradshaw,’ Mary pointed out.
‘He’s still Silas Bradshaw’s grandson.�
�� Holly swung her feet to the floor. No wonder everyone was so at odds!
‘How old are you exactly?’ Mary exclaimed, unable to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘Sometimes you seem so young, and yet other times – well, I wonder who’s older, you or me!’
Sometimes Auntie Mary didn’t make much sense, Holly thought.
‘Where were you going, anyway?’ She’d been meaning to ask since she got here. And why was she so dressed up, with John the other side of Europe?
‘Oh, you know. Just out.’ Mary looked away, defensively, it seemed to Holly.
‘You do look nice,’ she went on slowly. ‘I expect you’re going to Tony’s?’
‘Not exactly.’ Mary’s cheeks fired up, and Holly’s heart sank.
‘You’re going to meet someone, aren’t you?’ she asked abruptly, and hardly needed to wait for the answer.
‘Of course not!’
‘How could you?’ Holly treated the denial for what it was worth. ‘Auntie Mary, I can’t believe you’d do that to John!’
‘Do what, for goodness’ sake?’ Guilt was written all over her face. ‘I’m meeting someone for a drink, if you must know, and there’s no need to make such a fuss.
‘He’s a Canadian gunner in a Lancaster bomber, and he knows no one here. I’m just someone to talk to …’
‘But it’s not fair on John!’ Holly sprang up from the sofa, her good humour gone. Mary could swear it was nothing, but Holly had seen that look on her face too many times.
‘I was never cut out for the single state, Holly! You don’t understand! How could you? I hate being stuck in this flat on my own. It’s making me ill.’
‘It isn’t right, though,’ Holly persisted, and they glared at each other. Auntie Mary had always been too headstrong for her own good.
‘I’d best get off home,’ Holly concluded miserably. ‘I’ll come and see you next week if you like.’
Mary wouldn’t like, not now she’d rumbled what she was up to. She’d never forgive her.
Holly trailed outside, suddenly sunk in gloom.
It wasn’t as if she was surprised. She knew Auntie Mary still liked to go out after work, and why not? But as for seeing other men! Holly couldn’t wait to get home. She needed to talk to her mam.
At the bridge foot by Bradshaw’s factory, she turned away from the tow-path by the river and went on into town – it was the quicker way.
Nearing the elegant grey stone façade of the town council offices, she could scarcely fail to notice a large group of people outside the entrance, some carrying placards.
As she drew nearer she could hear them, too, chanting.
‘No to Churchill – down with war! No to Churchill – down with war!’
The banners were identical – the single word Peace, with a picture of a dove beneath. It must be the Peace Pledge Union. Holly knew of them because they so incensed her Granddad Peter, who maintained their views were muddled and wrong headed.
A group of wrong ’uns, he called them. Fighting for your beliefs was the only way. This war, to Peter’s mind, was a fight for democracy, for the right for people to live their lives as they pleased.
Holly saw the hole in his argument, even if she’d never dared voice it. Hadn’t Peace Pledgers the right to live as they wished, too? Wasn’t that what this war was all about?
Blocking her path on the pavement was a well-built young man with curly hair, and a heavy wad of papers slung across his arm. He turned towards her, intent on pushing a leaflet into her hands, and both of them jumped back.
‘Billy?’ Holly couldn’t believe her eyes.
Her uncle didn’t say a word. Holly shook her head, and hurried on. Uncle Billy a Peace Pledger? Whatever would Granddad say?
There was going to be a row …
‘Mind if I join you, Maggie?’ Andrew Hardaker slid his cup of canteen tea on to her table.
Maggie smiled and sat back, for the first time that day taking the chance to relax. She liked and admired Andrew Hardaker, who’d been a good friend to the family over the years, and she was inordinately pleased he wanted to join her.
The canteen was crowded. From around the room came the busy hum of people with too much to do and too little time to do it – nurses, doctors, porters, all taking a welcome break.
‘I’ve got you on your own at last.’ Andrew was watching her face, and Maggie knew at once that his joining her had been anything but accidental.
‘I hope I’m not in for a lecture!’
He was happy to see her smile again.
‘That obvious, is it?’ He grinned back, and plunged straight in.
‘You’re doing too much, Maggie. You look washed out.’
‘There is a war on, you know.’ Her smile this time showed the deeper wrinkles round her eyes.
She’d lost weight, and her skin was stretched tautly over the fine bones of her face.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’
Maggie stared into the muddy depths of her tea. When she looked up, there was fresh determination on her face. This was Andrew. She knew instinctively she could trust him.
‘I can’t help remembering Dunkirk. I can’t get Diana out of my mind.’ Her eyes were pale blue, opaque almost, and filled with pain.
‘Tell me about her,’ Andrew said. ‘You need to talk about it, Maggie. I should have realised, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be … Why should you have thought?’ She lifted her tea and drank, barely tasting it.
‘She was a brave girl,’ Andrew ventured.
‘Foolhardy, some would say!’ The vehemence of her words startled him – she sounded so bitter.
‘Why Diana, Andrew? Who decides such things? It could so easily have been me who stayed in the water and helped the others on board. I did what Diana told me and got in first …’ Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘I should have been the one who stayed behind!’
‘You’re a mother, Maggie. She had no dependants—’
One of the tears spilled over, and she brushed it away.
‘I didn’t have to do as she said! By the time we got the men on board it was too late. She never had the chance to get in!
‘Who knows what happened? All I know is she never got off the beach. It’s so unfair, Andrew!’
Andrew’s hand covered hers.
‘It’s war, Maggie. It’s what happens in war. It does no good whatsoever apportioning blame, or even trying to understand. You were no more to blame than – than any one of us sitting in this canteen.’
He handed her a clean handkerchief and watched as she mopped up.
‘Please believe me,’ he urged, and to his great relief, she nodded.
Once she’d returned to the ward he sat on, forgetting his urgent meetings, the patients he’d keep waiting, staring down into the dregs of his tea as if he might find an answer hidden there.
What had he been thinking? Maggie Bates was an attractive woman, of course. Why should that concern him?
He drained his cup, and hurried back to work….
Talking to Andrew had done her good, Maggie realised, even if it hadn’t dispelled the ache that was her constant companion nowadays.
Calling a hasty goodnight to Sister Aspen, she grabbed her bag and hurried out for the last bus.
Her luck was in. She sat down, breathing a sigh of relief, and pulled off her headscarf. She had to meet Tony at the club, though all she wanted was a cup of hot milk and early bed.
Her mother was looking after Harry so that Maggie could ‘have some fun for a change’, as Daisy put it. Somehow, though, since she’d got back, fun seemed a thing other people had, not herself.
The bar at Tony’s Place was crowded, the room blue with the fug of too many cigarettes, stale beer and the slinky vibes of the Count Basie Band. Servicemen and women lounged on chairs and bar-stools, stood up to dance, or took the chance to flirt madly with whoever took their fancy.
Life was short and to be enjoyed. Time was too precious to waste.
Having fun had become the national pastime. It was perfectly understandable. No wonder Maggie felt so out of kilter with things.
She couldn’t fail to see the way Tony’s face lit up as she hove into view. He reached for the bottle he kept secreted under the bar and mixed her a gin and bitters, watching affectionately as she sipped it.
‘You’re looking tired. Are you all right?’
‘As right as I’ll ever be!’
At this flash of the old Maggie, Tony’s face relaxed.
‘Is it Daisy?’
‘Why should it be?’
‘Come on, love.’ He paused to serve a young pilot officer. ‘This is your mother we’re talking about.’
The smile left her face. How odd that she’d been able to tell Andrew how she felt about Diana, yet she’d never told Tony what had happened to her in France. He talked to her about less consequential things. If her family’s newly-discovered relationship to the irascible Silas Bradshaw could be called less consequential.
‘I suppose things are strained.’ Maggie sipped her drink. ‘I haven’t really forgiven her.’
‘Is this the business about your real dad?’ Tony leaned his arms on the bar and watched her in amused exasperation. ‘Isn’t it time you laid that old ghost to rest, love? Does it really matter?’
‘Peter’s my real father, of course!’ Maggie agreed hastily, but she still looked unhappy.
‘C’mon, spill the beans. Tell your uncle Tony …’
Maggie frowned. There was that hard line between her brows Tony was too used to seeing of late.
‘There’s something else?’
‘Oh, I know it doesn’t matter, but she never got round to telling me – as if it were none of my business, I had no right to know. My own father, Tony!
‘I feel angry with myself that I never asked in all the time I was growing up, but I’d never really wanted any other father than Peter anyway. But letting me work up at the Bradshaws’ all that time and never even breathing a word!’
She shook her head.
‘And if Gramps hadn’t told me, I doubt if I’d know even now, though Mam says she was going to tell me.’
