by Maggie Ford
‘Maybe he’ll come home soon and then him and Dorothy can get married, make that little girl legitimate like, poor little thing.’
Legitimate. The word sent a shiver through Connie’s body like an electric shock. Mum had been suffering all this time over her son’s baby being born out of wedlock. What would she have done if her daughter had come home saying that she was pregnant? It would have killed her. Not that she and Stephen intended on taking chances but her need for him was growing beyond her. It was he who drew back, saying it was his duty to look after her, and she loved him for it, so very much.
She wanted to proclaim to the world that they were one, yet his ring still remained hidden from sight on the end of the ribbon around her neck. She wore it on her finger only when they were together. She was growing daily more angry with herself for her subterfuge and wanted to declare him to the world as her fiancé, whether it proved a disaster or not. Either way, she could never give him up now, even if it meant being thrown out of her family. Deep down she knew Mum would never allow that to happen, but even so …
She could see her mother’s mind working towards getting Dorothy and Ron hitched as soon as possible to save the family’s good name. So how could she give Mum, who was on tenterhooks about Ron and Dorothy, the smallest hint of how she and Stephen were behaving?
Stephen was not being helpful. ‘When are you ever going to find a chance to tell them once your brother comes home? If you feel you’re adding to their burden now, think what it’ll be like once he is home. And to tell you the truth, Connie, I can’t go on like this – all this secrecy, this hiding in corners. Something has got to happen.’
They were standing together at the end of her street before they said goodbye. To her it sounded like a threat and she shivered. ‘I will tell them,’ she burst out in desperation. ‘I will!’
‘When?’
‘Tonight – I promise. Tonight.’
‘How?’
She stood silent. Had she the courage to face them and explain why she’d not told them before? She could hear them asking how long she had known him. If she lied and said it was only a few months, they’d say it was too early to want to get engaged, that they needed to meet him and see what sort of boy he was. She’d have to explain about him, that he was no boy, that he’d been married before, and hear them say no, they wouldn’t dream of her marrying a previously married man who was so much older than her.
He must have seen her anguished expression. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’ll face them together.’
Panic swept over her. ‘No! No, Stephen. Let me tell them in my own way. I promise I’ll tell them tonight – as soon as I go indoors.’
He looked at her sadly. ‘I’ll give you until Friday,’ he said. ‘I realise that you might need to find the right words to break the news to them. But darling, please tell them. For our sake, and theirs.’
‘I promise,’ she said again.
But it was easier said than done.
Connie wouldn’t be seeing Stephen socially until Friday. By then she was to have told her family about their relationship. It was already Tuesday and at work yesterday he’d asked if she’d told them yet.
Forced to admit she’d not found the right opportunity so far with all their worry about her brother on the other side of London, and how he was coping with it – plus Dorothy was not bearing up at all well, worrying herself sick about it – Stephen had merely turned away without a word and returned to his office.
She’d felt devastated but could hardly go and plead with him, with everyone looking on. Some time ago her colleagues had become aware of something going on between Connie and Stephen and she hated that they now caught the hint of a tiff.
Today as she sat at her desk anticipating what she would say when he came to ask if she had done what she’d promised, she tensed herself to make yet more excuses. But he hadn’t once come near her.
As soon as she’d had her lunch she was to be sent out on an assignment. Usually he wouldn’t miss the chance to tell her himself, touch her hand like a secret embrace, but instead he’d sent one of his staff to tell her.
It felt very ominous and left her sick with worry. She promised herself that she would face her parents the moment she got home from work this evening. What other option was there? But what if, after she’d explained, they forbade her from having anything more to do with him? Or if he called it a day if she failed to act now?
She could see it coming and it horrified her even though it would be as much a wrench to him as to her. But she couldn’t lose him. What would her life be without him? That was made starkly obvious at lunchtime. They usually had lunch together these days in a nearby cafe and she’d taken it for granted they would today, no doubt with him coaxing her to take her courage in both hands or suggesting being with her when she told her parents. And this time she resolved to have him with her and have them see him for the wonderful person he was.
Looking up from her desk as she made ready to go to lunch, she saw that his office was empty. Hurrying over, she spoke to Mr Turnbull. ‘Is Mr Clayton around?’
He regarded her awkwardly. ‘Gone to lunch, I think.’
It was like being hit by a steam engine. All she could say was, ‘Oh, I see.’
She bought a cheese sandwich from a local tea bar, eating it at her desk. It was like sandpaper in her mouth. She put it to one side only half-eaten. With most of the newsroom gone to lunch, the place felt desolate. At least she’d be out of the office this afternoon with a photographer and an interviewer: there had been an accident in a factory filling shells – a faulty shell had exploded; one female worker was injured, another killed. She was expected to sketch the shock on the workers’ faces. She did it automatically and much of her own anguish, she knew, also went into the sketches.
Stephen hadn’t come back when she finally returned to the office. Her work had been taken up to her chief editor by Mr Turnbull to receive approval for it to go into tomorrow’s edition. She didn’t ask him where Stephen was.
It was the most awful journey home, sitting on the bus, shops and people passing by unobserved as she rehearsed how she was going to approach her mother, and worse, her father, and what she was going to say to Stephen when she next saw him. Now, she wanted so much for him to be with her when she told them.
The first words that greeted her as she came in were Mum’s. ‘They’re sending Ronnie home. They say they’re ’aving to make room for worst cases than him. Oh Connie, love, ain’t that wonderful?’
There was no chance now to confront them with her own concerns and all she could do was clasp her mother to her and say it was the best news she’d heard in a long time.
It scared the life out of her going to work the following morning, sure he was bound to ask, rather than just ignore her. Her heart pounded seeing him approach her as she sipped her mid-morning cup of tea. He was smiling – that slightly sideways smile of his that always made her quiver inside with love.
She smiled up at him as he came to stand at her desk, but his own smile had vanished.
‘Sorry to ask,’ he began, ‘but have you said anything to your family yet?’
The question sounded cold, as if he were addressing someone about business. She took a deep breath and tried to control the quivering in her chest, which was partly from love, partly from fear and anxiety.
‘I was about to,’ she began. ‘I’d made up my mind to on the bus on my way home.’ She was drawing out the dread moment. ‘But Mum said they’d had a letter from the hospital, that they’re sending Ronnie home. He’s far from better but they need the room for worse cases than his. And Mum was all of a dither and Dorothy was excited and frightened at the same time, not knowing how he’ll be and how she’ll cope with him. I couldn’t push my news on them at the same time, Stephen. I just couldn’t.’
She was gabbling and he stood there listening to it all. At any minute he would turn on his heel and walk off – a signal that it was all over b
etween them. Then what would she do?’
She heard him take a deep breath. Now he’d tell her that it was all over between them. But how could it be after what they had been to each other? How could he say goodbye to what they’d had together?
She heard him exhale slowly. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time.’
What did that mean, maybe another time? In a small voice she posed the question and heard him reply quietly, ‘We can talk about it over lunch. We need to get this cleared up, Connie, once and for all.’
Someone at his office door was beckoning to him. ‘Must go,’ he said tersely, but as he turned, his hand touched her arm briefly. That small touch spoke volumes: warmth and reassurance.
She couldn’t wait for the morning to pass. Sitting at her desk, sorting out the filing which she would do between assignments, the next hours seemed to creep by.
It was wonderful sitting with him in their cafe, all the more wonderful seeing as only yesterday she was thinking that this would never happen again. But she could eat only little of the small lunch, toying with it as he ate heartily.
‘Not hungry?’ he asked at one time, as if nothing had ever gone on between them.
‘I can’t eat,’ she said. This obviously spoke volumes as he put down his knife and fork and pushed away the plate to gaze at her.
‘Right then, my love, I can see you’re never going to be able to do this on your own. I know it’s only Wednesday, and that I gave you until Friday to tell them, but I will come with you. We’ll have this out with your parents together.’
Connie felt conflicted. On the one hand, it would be wonderful to have him with her, so her parents could see the kind of man he was. On the other hand, seeing them together would highlight the difference in their ages. ‘No, Stephen!’
‘Yes, Connie – before your brother comes home. We have to get this matter sorted. If not, I cannot see a future for us.’ That frightened her more than anything, the tautness of his jaw muscles proof enough that he meant what he said.
Giving herself no time to think, she burst out, ‘Friday, then!’
She saw his shoulders droop ever so slightly, revealing that he’d been going through just as much tension as she, and her heart went out to him.
‘We’ll see my parents together,’ she repeated, though in her heart she trembled to think what their reaction might be: the shock on her mother’s face, the frown on her father’s. But they would have had to know eventually.
When she and Stephen had dinner together on Saturday, they would at least have lighter conscience, having their cards on the table and able to go on from there. But she was not looking forward at all to Friday.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. After work, she came home to absolute turmoil. Some time mid-afternoon Ronnie had been brought home, completely out of the blue, by a Voluntary Aid Detachment person. As she entered, Ronnie sat in Dad’s chair staring into the fire, his head jerking at intervals.
Seeing Connie, the VAD worker looked up from where he had been sitting close by him, talking to him in a quiet tone, while Mum and Dorothy sat at the parlour table not knowing quite what to do.
‘I’m glad you’re home,’ the man said. ‘I take it you’re his sister.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, staring at Ron, not knowing what else to say.
‘I am just waiting for your father to come home,’ he went on. ‘Then I’ll have to leave. I’ve explained to your mother what is needed and I will also explain to your father. But the good news is that your brother is doing well, and I shall convey this to your father when he appears.’
Connie nodded as she took off her coat, laying it over the back of a chair, and placed her hat and handbag on the table on which empty tea cups resided.
‘Shall I make some more tea?’ she asked ineffectually.
She saw Ronald look sharply up at her and saw in his eyes the most startled look she had ever seen, as if he had suddenly been confronted by an enemy soldier. It made her blood run cold for a second or two.
She made herself smile gently at him. ‘It’s really, really lovely to see you, Ronnie. We’ve missed you so much.’
She watched the look slowly fade. During her time on the paper she had sketched so many expressions of trauma, but never one like this. She wanted to kiss her brother’s cheek but instinctively knew that such an action would only make him flinch.
‘Tea?’ she queried again.
Mum’s voice said, ‘That’ll be nice, love.’
She found herself glad to get out into the kitchen away from them all. It was there that she burst into quiet tears, tears which continued to fall as she set about making the tea.
Not long after she’d brought the tea in for them all, little Violet began to cry from where she lay in her cot upstairs. Instantly Dorothy leapt up, which made Ronnie jump, although she didn’t see it as she made for the stairs. Moments later she brought the baby down and then, doing something that surprised them all, she quietly moved towards her child’s father and gently placed the baby in his arms. He automatically held out his arms to receive the little bundle. It was like watching a small miracle. Oblivious to everyone looking on, he held the child tenderly, bent his head and kissed her on the forehead.
Violet didn’t cry. She was looking up at him as if she knew him, her wide blue eyes taking her father in. He lifted his head, still holding the baby very gently, and looked at them all one by one, with not one jerk of his head.
‘She’s absolutely lovely,’ he said in a steady voice and Dorothy came forward to kiss him too. His free arm opened out to bring her closer to him – a little family united. It was as if he’d never been to war, had shells bursting all round him, had lost his leg to one, had become shell shocked by his experiences.
Although it didn’t last. He finally had to release his hold on his precious little family and Dorothy took the baby from him, stepping back to the parlour table. On his own again, they saw his head jerk several times in quick succession; his eyes were closed, hiding from Connie any expression there might have been in them. The VAD man was smiling.
‘I think he’s going to be all right,’ he whispered. ‘But it will take time.’
He might have said more, but the crash at the back door heralded the entrance of her father and the onset of another round of emotional turmoil that would last long after the VAD worker had left.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was two days until Connie and Stephen were to tell her family about their relationship, and the hours dragged by. Several times she wondered if she should at least drop a hint, but her courage always failed her at the last minute. It was all too easy to put a spanner in the works. Nothing must spoil her chances. And the sight of Ronnie sitting by the parlour window staring blankly out, head jerking, not speaking unless forced, only coming alive when Dorothy and the baby were with him, would have stopped her before she’d begun.
On Friday, as she and Stephen were getting out of a taxi at her door, she noticed how tightly he was holding her hand. Or was it she holding his?
It was a relief to see it was her mother who had come to the door and not her father.
‘You’re late—’ she began then broke off once she saw Stephen. As Connie introduced him by name, adding that he was her boss, her mother drew in a startled breath. ‘What’s the matter, love?’
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Already she could feel the tension. ‘No bad news. It’s just that me and Ste—Mr Clayton, have something we need to tell you.’
Her mother stepped back. ‘Well, don’t stand there, come in.’
Dad’s voice came from the parlour, where he was enjoying his pipe: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s our Connie and a young man, her boss.’
‘What’s ’e want?’ Connie felt suddenly ashamed of her father’s rough Cockney voice.
‘We’ll tell him ourselves,’ she said hurriedly, letting Mum lead them into her humble parlour. At least the room would be clean and tidy; Mum was a house-pro
ud woman, thank God.
It was all so different to what she had once dreamed about – she introducing Stephen to her family, he politely asking permission for her hand in marriage. That dream was so lovely in its traditional formality.
Now they stood in the parlour, her mother saying, ‘This is Connie’s boss who she works for. He says he’s got something he wants to say to us, love.’
Connie was somehow strangely relieved that Ronnie wasn’t here at the moment but in Mum’s front room where he and his little family now slept, he no longer able to manage the stairs any more. How would it have been, Stephen seeing him for the first time, her brother hardly able to keep his head still as he gazed into space?
Her father had got up out of his chair to come towards his visitor with an enquiring stare. ‘Ain’t nuffink wrong, is there, Mr …’
‘Clayton,’ Stephen said readily. ‘Nothing is wrong, nothing at all.’
‘I’m sorry,’ her father was saying. ‘Don’t mean to be rude, Mr Clayton, but if nuffink’s wrong, why’re you ’ere?’
Connie wanted to hold Stephen’s hand and blurt out that they’d become engaged. Instead she stood at his side, inwardly cringing at her father’s rough speech. Although she loved both her parents, she had always – perhaps unconsciously – tried at least to make an effort to speak as well as the sort of people she’d have liked to be. Not making a great job of it, but certainly better than her mum and dad.
‘Nothing is wrong, Mr Lovell,’ Stephen said. ‘This is a personal thing. You see, I—’
‘What d’you mean, personal thing?’ her father interrupted.
Connie could contain herself no longer. ‘Dad,’ she burst out. ‘Mum. Mr Clayton and I … Stephen … he’s not just my boss, we’ve been going out together for quite a time now. And … well, there’s this.’ Pausing, she reached down into the neckline of the jumper she wore and dragged out the ribbon. ‘I’ve had this for this some time. But I didn’t want to—’
