It Had To Be You

by June Francis

  ‘She always did have it cushy,’ said Teddy, his eyes dark and resentful.

  Elsie did not agree but did not say so. ‘It goes to show that she made the right choice when she married William, that’s all,’ she said, springing to her sister’s defence. ‘Anyway, Lizzie’s idea was that when the time came and the children left home, we’d sell this house and move to somewhere smaller. She would go up to Lancashire and see if Emma was still alive and give her the money that she was owed.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s complicated,’ said Teddy, rasping his fingernails on his unshaven jaw. ‘So you’ve known about this other daughter of William’s all this time. Why have you never mentioned her and why have you never told me about the house not belonging to you? Or does it belong to you now Owen and Lizzie are dead?’ His mud-coloured eyes raked her face.

  ‘It doesn’t, not really,’ said Elsie swiftly. ‘Anyway, getting back to my story. After Lizzie was killed, I was in no state to be worrying about William’s daughter, so I put her out of my mind and forgot about her. I thought it likely she was dead.’

  ‘You wanted to believe that,’ said Teddy, smirking.

  Elsie went as red as a beetroot. ‘This is our home! How could I go selling it to hand money over to a stranger?’

  Teddy stared at Elsie for what seemed a long time before saying, ‘I never thought you could be so devious. If I were you, woman, I’d ignore the bloody letter and get on with your life.’

  ‘You mean not even mention it to Betty?’

  ‘Of course bloody not,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘You know that girl is just like Lizzie, and once she gets something fixed in her head she won’t let it go. If she knows that she has a half-sister, she’ll want to meet her.’

  Elsie dug her fingernails into her palm. ‘But it doesn’t seem right.’

  He gave a nasty little laugh. ‘Not right, woman? Your conscience doesn’t seem to have bothered you much so far, if you’ve kept this from Betty all this time. Forget the other girl!’ He tore the letter in half and flung it on the fire.

  Elsie made no effort to prevent the letter from turning into ashes, despite feeling sick with guilt. Knowing that Owen would never have countenanced his brother’s actions and would have been dreadfully disappointed in her, she told herself that she had to put her own family’s needs first.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma shifted the bucket with her foot a couple more inches to the right to catch the water that was leaking through the corner of the ceiling in her bedroom. She felt like screaming and made the decision that she would no longer put up with this inconvenience every time it rained. She would sell the furniture in her grandparents’ former bedroom and move her possessions into there. She didn’t know why she hadn’t done it before. Perhaps it was because it still felt very much their room. She hadn’t even felt up to getting rid of her grandfather’s clothes but decided she would do that tomorrow. Then, sometime during the coming week, she would visit the second-hand shop in Clitheroe. The bedroom furniture was solid oak and well built and ten times better than the new utility stuff that was in the shops these days.

  She went downstairs and switched on the wireless and had just settled in a chair with her knitting when she heard a tapping on the kitchen window.

  ‘Come in,’ she called, guessing it was Lila whom she had not seen for several days.

  The door opened and in came her friend. ‘I had to come,’ said Lila, removing her dripping hat and placing it on the draining board. ‘I hear you had a gentleman caller last weekend.’

  A smile lurked in Emma’s brown eyes. ‘You’ve taken your time coming to find out about him. I thought you’d have been here within hours once the news got round.’

  ‘I haven’t been well,’ said Lila, removing her raincoat and hanging it on one of the hooks on the wall. ‘I’ve had a cold and I didn’t want to give it to you.’ She pulled a chair up to the fire and sat down opposite Emma. ‘Was he your policeman?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Lila linked her hands and placed them between her knees and leant forward with an eager expression on her face. ‘Tell me everything! What did he have to say?’

  Emma told her the bare bones of her conversation with Dougie, and when she had finished, Lila said, ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Emma set aside her knitting and put on the kettle. ‘I took Dougie’s advice and wrote a letter to Betty’s aunt, asking if I can see her.’

  Lila smiled. ‘That makes sense. So this Dougie, will he be visiting you again?’

  Emma’s eyes were dreamy as she murmured, ‘We’re planning to meet up next time I go to Liverpool, so I’m praying that I’ll hear back from Betty’s aunt soon.’

  Lila wriggled her shoulders and said excitedly, ‘I bet you’re chuffed with him coming all this way to see you.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t have to come,’ said Emma.

  ‘No, so he must like you,’ said Lila. ‘So when will you be going to Liverpool?’

  ‘It depends on what the aunt has to say, and money. I’m still waiting for some response from my advertisement in the newspaper. I also need to get rid of Granddad’s clothes and some furniture, so I’ll have to go into Clitheroe and see a second-hand dealer.’

  Lila’s eyes were instantly alert. ‘What furniture?’

  Emma told her and Lila reacted by suggesting that she advertise the furniture for sale in the local newspaper, too.

  ‘But it’ll cost me more money to do that,’ said Emma reasonably.

  ‘But the dealer is bound to try and diddle you because you’re a woman and a young, inexperienced one at that. You could get your money back by cutting out the middle man.’

  Emma hesitated. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘I could ask at work if anyone is after buying some bedroom furniture if you want me to,’ said Lila. ‘There’s not much to be had in the shops, and what there is isn’t quality stuff according to Mam. It seems to me that there’s always someone planning a wedding in our place, so you could be in luck.’

  Emma’s face lit up. ‘Thanks! That sounds really promising. I’d appreciate you doing that, although I wouldn’t know how much to ask.’

  ‘Barter,’ suggested Lila. ‘Start at a price you’d like to get and then be prepared to lower it if they’re not prepared to pay it. It’s what Mam does when she has time off and we go to the market in Clitheroe.’

  ‘I’ll try it,’ said Emma firmly.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Lila, glancing over Emma’s shoulder. ‘The kettle’s boiling, by the way.’

  As Emma made the tea, Lila called over to her, ‘So is there anything else Dougie said that was interesting?’

  ‘He suggested that I open up my house after Easter to provide tea and scones and the like to day trippers,’ said Emma.

  ‘Blinkin’ heck! Your baking must have really impressed him,’ said Lila, grinning. ‘But you’re not taking him seriously, are you?’

  Emma was disappointed by her friend’s reaction, despite her own initial response to Dougie’s suggestion. ‘I’m sure he wasn’t joking, although, just like you, I have my doubts whether I could make it work. Then I remembered that my great-grandmother kept a shop and had a tea room here in this very house.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ exclaimed Lila, glancing about her.

  ‘My guess is that she probably only opened up the place as a tea room in the summer,’ said Emma, handing a cup of tea to her friend. ‘But she must have made some money from it to go to all that effort. If the weather was good, she’d have been able to put chairs and tables in part of the back garden. I’ve space to do that, despite the hens and the vegetable patch.’

  Lila stared at her. ‘You’re beginning to believe that you could do what this Dougie suggested.’

  ‘Why not?’ Emma pursed her lips. ‘If I sell the furniture, there’s nothing stopping me starting off in a small way. I could start by putting out a couple of chairs and one table out front to attract passing trade. If I wer
e able to earn more from my bookkeeping, as well, then maybe I could manage to get some repairs done to this cottage.’

  ‘You mean you’d set out a table on the pavement?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve seen pictures of that done in other places.’

  Lila looked doubtful.

  Emma sighed. ‘Anyway, I won’t be doing anything until Easter.’

  During the next few days Emma made her plans and waited to see if they would come to fruition. She decided to do what Lila had suggested and placed an advertisement for the furniture in the FOR SALE column of the Clitheroe Advertiser and Times.

  Another week trickled slowly by and it felt to Emma as if she was forever waiting for the postman to call. When at last someone came to view the bedroom furniture, she had still not received a reply to her letter from her half-sister’s aunt. She did not have much confidence in her bartering skills but the engaged couple who called at the house appeared just as inept as she was. Even so, a price was reached that satisfied the three of them. The husband-to-be promised to call round in a couple of days’ time with transport and the money.

  He was as good as his word, and soon Emma was gazing about the empty space in the main bedroom and wishing she could afford to repaper the walls. Setting that thought aside, she knew that she was going to need help to move her furniture and bed into here. Perhaps if she dropped a few hints in church on Sunday, the verger might assist her. Until then she would stay put and write another letter to Mrs Gregory. It was just possible that the first one had gone missing in the post.

  The verger and his son were quite willing to shift furniture for Emma, and furthermore, the vicar spoke about arranging for her to visit a farmer out Wiswell way, who needed someone to sort out his paperwork for the taxman. Someone whose fee was not exorbitant. So a day later, Emma accompanied the vicar to the farm and came away with a battered account book and a couple of tins stuffed with invoices and bills of sale. Two days later, she had a response to her advertisement and visited a woman who had recently been widowed and left in sole charge of her husband’s small business. She told Emma that she was hopeless with figures and employed her on the spot.

  As Easter came and went, bringing with it unseasonable weather, Emma filled in columns of figures and added and subtracted, trying to keep her mind on the job and not think too much about her plans for a tea room and the absence of a reply from Mrs Gregory.

  The days passed, the weather improved and soon the hedgerows were fragrant with hawthorn blossom. Emma had still not heard a word from Mrs Gregory, or Dougie for that matter. She felt hurt where Dougie was concerned and annoyed with the woman who didn’t have the good manners to reply to her letter. She did not believe that both her letters could have gone astray and came to a decision. Disguising her handwriting, in case Mrs Gregory should pick up the letter first, she penned another letter to her half-sister. She could only hope that, if the aunt did see the letter, then she would not notice the postmark. It was a chance she would have to take as she had no other option.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Betty Booth was returning from visiting her friend, Irene Miller, when she spotted the postman about to go up the drive to her aunt’s front door.

  ‘I’ll take the post,’ she called, hurrying towards him. ‘It’ll save your legs!’

  He turned and smiled at her. ‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’ he teased, handing over several envelopes.

  ‘No, my birthday was in November,’ she replied, flicking a ginger plait over her shoulder, wondering if there was a letter from her pen pal in Canada. Her former English teacher had come up with the idea of having a pen pal; a sort of hands-across-the-sea-reaching-out-to-the-Empire to get her pupils practising writing about themselves in letter form and learning about other people’s lives.

  There was no blue airmail envelope for her but there was a letter in her cousin Jared’s handwriting addressed to his mother. He was doing his national service with the Liverpool King’s Regiment and had recently been stationed in Berlin. All the females in the household missed him but they all knew that Uncle Teddy was glad to have him out of the way. It would have been odd if the quick-tempered old git hadn’t resented his tall, attractive nephew who had a charm that the older man would never possess. With Jared away, Teddy thought he could lord it over the females in the family and this more than irritated them all. There was something about him that gave Betty the creeps.

  Suddenly she noticed an envelope addressed to herself, and squinting at the postmark she was only able to make out the Lancs part of it. She placed the envelope up the sleeve of her cardigan, thinking to read it once inside the house. Hopefully she would have it to herself for a change. She hurried up the drive, breathing in the fragrance from the wallflowers her aunt had planted last September, on the warm breeze. She stood on the doorstep and reached inside the letter box, found the key on the string and dragged it through and opened the door.

  As she stepped into the lobby, all was quiet, which probably meant that Uncle Teddy was putting in a few hours as a bookie’s runner this Saturday. Her eldest female cousin, Dorothy, was a sewing machinist and worked half-day Saturday. As for Betty’s Aunt Elsie and her younger cousin Maggie, they had gone into Liverpool. They really enjoyed roaming around the shops and Maggie always managed to wheedle something out of her mother.

  Betty placed the rest of the post on the sideboard and then flopped into an armchair. She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her before tearing open the envelope. She took out two sheets of paper and flattened them on her knee, and then looked at the address written at the top right-hand side and saw that it was a place near Clitheroe, in Lancashire. She wondered who could be writing to her from there and began to read.

  My dear sister, Betty,

  This letter will most likely come as a surprise to you. Especially if, like me, the truth was withheld from you. I never knew you existed until a few months ago, after my granddad died, when I found a letter from your mother amongst his belongings. It was one that informed my grandmother of the death of my father and yours, William Booth. If I had known of this letter earlier I would have tried to find you.

  My own mother died of consumption when I was five years old and it was my grandparents who brought me up in this village in the Lancashire countryside. I did visit Liverpool in February shortly after the king died to try and find you, only to discover that the house where you had lived was derelict. Fortunately a policeman did some detecting for me and discovered that you were living with your aunt. I have written to Mrs Gregory twice but she has not answered my letters. I presume this is because she would rather we did not meet. Perhaps she considers it too painful for you to be reminded of your parents in this way. I don’t know. Still, I would like to meet you but will understand if you feel you cannot go against your aunt’s wishes. On the other hand, if you feel, as I do, that your mother and our father wanted us to get to know each other, then please get in touch with me at the above address.

  Warmest wishes,

  Your half-sister

  Emma Booth

  Betty was flabbergasted. She reread the letter and her mouth widened in a smile as she remembered a conversation with her mother years ago. She folded the missive neatly and placed it back in its envelope and thought back to the day when she had started primary school. She had clung to her mother’s hand, begging her not to leave her. Lizzie had hugged and kissed her and told her that she had to be a brave girl. Betty had not wanted to be brave all on her own and had cried to her mother, ‘Why do I have to be an only child? Why did my daddy have to die? Why couldn’t I have had a sister?’

  ‘You have cousins,’ her mother had replied.

  ‘That’s not the same,’ Betty remembered saying.

  After a moment’s hesitation her mother had said, ‘Well, you do have a sort of sister. She was your daddy’s daughter from his first marriage.’

  Betty recalled her astonishment. ‘What kind of sister does that make her?’

&n
bsp; Her mother had hesitated again before saying, ‘You could say that she’s your half-sister.’

  ‘How can I have just half of a sister? Does she have a mummy?’

  ‘Emma’s mother died and so I married her father,’ her mother had answered.

  ‘Does that mean she’s an orphan?’ Betty had asked.

  Her mother had nodded and told her that her sister, Emma, was several years older than her and lived with her grandparents up north and that was why they had never met. It was a long way away, and besides, Emma was all the family her grandparents had.

  Betty felt tears prick the back of her eyes as they often did when she thought of her mother. They had dearly loved each other, and Betty knew she would never forget that terrible day she had come home from school to be told that her mother was dead. Aunt Elsie had done what she could to comfort her but she was grieving herself after the double blow that had struck the family in the years since the end of the war. And then she had shocked them all by inexplicably marrying Betty’s lovely Uncle Owen’s ignorant and rude-mannered younger brother. Betty gnawed on her lip. There were times when he looked at her in a way that made her shudder. If Betty had had her way, she wouldn’t have allowed him in the house. He just wasn’t good enough to fill his brother’s shoes. He didn’t have a proper job and she doubted he gave any money to Aunt Elsie towards the housekeeping. Sometimes she wondered how her aunt managed to provide for the lot of them, although her aunt and Dorothy both had jobs. No doubt Jared still helped out by sending money home to his mother.

  But what was she thinking about allowing her mind to drift like this? Her half-sister wanted to meet her and Betty certainly wanted to meet Emma. But why hadn’t her aunt mentioned the letters and why hadn’t she written back to her? What could be the harm in the pair of them meeting? It was not as if Emma was suggesting that she went and lived with her. Betty rather thought that her aunt might have liked the idea, because she got really vexed when her niece went on about being an artist like her father.