Her Father's Daughter

by Beezy Marsh

  He went on: ‘There are so many men out of work now, pet, I don’t know how long my job at the cardboard-box factory would have lasted in any case. With a job offer like I’ve got back in Newcastle, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not these days.’

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ she said, gazing up at him. She was secretly delighted that she wouldn’t have to leave London and her tone softened. ‘I wasn’t trying to be difficult. It’s just with losing Mam, we’ve been through so much upheaval. You’ll only be away a little while, won’t you?’

  He kissed her, and she felt herself responding to his embrace, but when they made love, she closed her eyes and it was Len’s face she saw, not Harry’s.

  As January gave way to a freezing cold February, Harry moved back up North to start his new job.

  He wrote to her often, sending her most of his wages just as he had promised. She did her best to write back, with snippets of news of what William had been up to as he had not long since started school, but she wasn’t much of a letter writer and, in any case, she had other things to think about.

  Ethel had started to feel rather queasy. It was a familiar feeling, a sickness and a hunger all at the same time, and it was at its worst first thing in the morning. She’d taken to putting a biscuit on her bedside table at night to try to stave off the urge to retch when she woke up by nibbling it.

  When the waistband of her skirt began to get tight a month later, she went to see Dr Perkins and sat in his damp, crowded waiting room, fidgeting with her fingers, avoiding catching anyone’s eye in case someone asked why she was there.

  Once she was in his consulting room, she lay on the examination table, staring at the ceiling as the doctor prodded and poked around in places she didn’t want to think about.

  Then he glanced up, took off his glasses, and said, ‘Congratulations! It looks like you’re going to be hearing the patter of tiny feet soon.’

  ‘How far gone am I?’ she said, her throat parched.

  ‘Well, from what you’ve told me about your last monthly bleed being early in December, I would say about twelve weeks or so. You’re the third I’ve seen in here this morning. It must have been all that fine food at Christmas dinner. There’ll be quite a baby boom in Clapham come September!’

  He laughed at his own joke as she got down from the table and dressed herself behind the screen. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to grow louder and the world appeared to be spinning. She had to steady herself for a moment. ‘I think I might need a glass of water.’

  After a quiet sit-down with one of his nurses, she hurried home but there was only one person she wanted to share this news with.

  And that was Len.

  Ethel waited until William was asleep in bed and Da had gone out to his church meeting before pulling on her coat and sneaking out of the house.

  She hadn’t seen Len since that fateful evening, although she’d spent ages peering out of the front window in the hope of spotting him walking up the street. He seemed to have changed his route, perhaps to avoid any awkwardness between them or, more likely, any gossip from the neighbours.

  The cold air nipped at her as she hurried up the road and around the corner, her footsteps echoing as she went. It was gone eight o’clock and dim gaslight glowed through curtains all along the street as families gathered together to keep out the winter chill.

  In her dreams, she’d imagined herself back at Len’s house on Christmas Eve so many times. Everything that had happened just seemed so right; how he’d taken her in his arms and how natural it had felt when they were in bed together. Afterwards, he’d held her for ages and told her tenderly, ‘You are such a beautiful woman, Ethel.’

  Now her heart was in her mouth as she rapped on Len’s blue front door.

  He answered with a look of surprise, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘Ethel! What are you doing here?’

  She glanced down at her stomach and back up at him.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

  She followed him through to the scullery, where his shoes were sitting, neatly polished, on some newspaper on the kitchen table. A pan of potatoes was boiling on the stove and the smell of cooking meat made her stomach rumble; she’d been too nervous and sick to eat anything for her tea earlier.

  He moved the shoes off the table and pulled out a chair for her to sit on.

  She glanced around the room, taking in the traces of the life he’d led before he was widowed. There were some ornaments on the mantelpiece – a flowered jug and a china dancing girl – and an apron hung from a peg by the back door. A crocheted mat had pride of place over the radiogram on the sideboard. Everything was spick and span.

  ‘Len, there’s no easy way to say this,’ she began. ‘I’m expecting. And I think it’s yours.’

  He sat down opposite her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Oh, Ethel, I shouldn’t have gone as far as I did on Christmas Eve, forgive me. It’s just you’re such a treasure, I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t trying to break up a happy home.’

  Before she knew what was happening, all the longing of the last two months without seeing him spilled out.

  ‘I’m not happy, Len,’ she said. ‘I’m not happy at all. Harry’s not the man I thought he was when I married him. He’s away working up North now and the worst thing is, I don’t miss him; I miss you. I know that sounds silly because we barely know each other, but he doesn’t talk to me like you did that night. Sometimes I think he can’t stand the sight of me. And he’s got troubles of his own that, well, they get in the way of us being together.’

  Len’s face lit up. ‘I only stayed out of your way because I didn’t want to cause trouble, but I can’t stop thinking about you, Ethel. I would give you all the tea in China if I had it. If you ever need a listening ear, I’m here. What do you want to do about us?’

  The way he said ‘us’ made her stomach flip. He really did see them being together; it wasn’t just a drunken fling.

  ‘We can’t be seen to be having an affair,’ she said. ‘Not round here. And we can’t tell anyone about the baby.’

  The woman in the next street over had just about been tarred and feathered for cheating with the tallyman.

  ‘Are you certain it’s mine?’ said Len. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘From what the doctor said about the dates, yes, it’s yours, Len.’

  ‘But what about your husband?’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?’ she said conspiratorially. There was a little well of excitement building inside her at the thought of this shared secret with Len. Only they would know the truth. This baby would bind them forever, no matter what. It wasn’t a betrayal of Harry, no. He had betrayed her by not being the person she thought he was, with all his selfishness and strange ways. He’d let her down and she’d ended up in Len’s arms. That was the truth of the matter.

  ‘It wouldn’t be too hard to make him think it was his, but it would just be a case of convincing him that the baby had come a bit early, that’s all,’ she said, staring at the floor. For some reason she felt guilty admitting to Len that she’d been with Harry, as his wife; it was as if the betrayal was the other way around.

  ‘Ethel, please don’t misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I know I have no rights over you and if you were mine, I wouldn’t expect a thing anyway. I’d just be glad you were in my life. A man can’t own a woman or expect things of her. That’s not what marriage is about, is it?’

  Ethel looked at him. He was older than Harry, maybe five years or so, greying, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled, but she thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. For the first time in her life, a man was treating her with respect. Da had controlled her, Harry had neglected her, and now Len wanted to care for her, to treat her as his equal. She felt almost giddy with desire.

  She leaned in closer. ‘We can get through this, can’t we, Len?’

  He gazed at her adoringly. ‘Yes, together we can face anything, Ethel. If you’
ll let me, I’ll be here for you, as much as I can. It’s nobody’s business but ours, that’s the way I see it; it’s our secret.’

  Ethel stood up and walked over to the back door. She slipped the apron on. It fitted her perfectly, even with her growing bump.

  ‘Yes, it’s our secret. We’ll find a way, won’t we?’ she said, beaming at him. ‘But first, I’d better get your dinner out of the oven before it burns to a cinder.’

  Harry was over the moon to find out that Ethel was expecting but when the baby came a full three weeks early at the end of September, instead of mid-October, he was so worried, he jumped on the first train down from Newcastle.

  Ethel lay in bed glowing with happiness, with the baby nestled in her arms, wrapped in a beautiful shawl knitted by her friend Doreen. William was so curious about the new arrival, he kept poking his fingers through the bars of the cot when the baby was sleeping and Ethel had to tell him to keep off. He had a mind of his own, just like his father, and that drove Ethel up the wall. There were questions from him morning, noon and night about how things worked and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was exhausting having to deal with that on top of the baby. Da was good with him, he kept him busy, tinkering about in the back yard. In fact, they were managing so well without Harry, she barely noticed he was gone these days.

  She tensed as she heard the front door slam followed by his footfall on the staircase and as he came into the bedroom, she gave him a tight little smile.

  Harry rushed to her side and gazed down at the bundle in her arms. He leaned in and kissed Ethel. She tried not to tense at his touch. She felt nothing for him now.

  ‘My daughter,’ he said, stroking the baby’s cheek. ‘My little girl. Daddy’s here.’

  20

  Ethel

  Clapham, August 1932

  It was one of those long, hot London summers, when the tarmac on the roads melted and the stifling heat made sleep impossible.

  By the middle of the month, half the families in Edgeley Road had taken advantage of factory holidays to get out of town altogether and go hop picking in Kent to earn a few shillings more, where the air was fresh, and the grass was still green.

  Ethel stayed put. She had no intention of picking hops until her fingers bled or living in a ramshackle wooden hut while William picked up bad habits – and nits – from the local urchins who would run wild while their parents worked in the fields. He was the image of his father, with his grey eyes, and Ethel knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help being hard on him because of it.

  He was always pawing at his baby sister too, asking to hold her. Ethel wanted to keep the baby’s clothes looking beautiful, just as Mam had done for her when she was a little girl living in Benwell. Da had saved up and bought the baby a pretty dress, in crisp white cotton, with smocking on the front in pink thread. She looked like a little angel in it.

  She’d gone along with Harry’s idea to call her Zena, after his French grandmother, Zelina. It was a beautiful name – glamorous and a bit exotic. It certainly set her apart from all the other girls in the street – the Maggies, Beryls and Adas. Ethel loved that; her baby was her little jewel.

  Zena was crawling now and getting into everything. Ethel couldn’t help being anxious about her; she was so precious, with her sweet little face and mop of black hair. She was forever telling William off for playing too roughly. It wasn’t that he was a bad lad, he was just a bit clumsy and Zena was so dainty; she reminded Ethel of the little china dancing girl on the mantelpiece round at Len’s house.

  Len was as pleased as Punch with his daughter and they’d worked out a plan for him to spend time with Ethel and Zena, away from the prying eyes of the Clapham folk. Once a fortnight, she’d get Da to take William to Battersea Park for the day, and she’d wheel Zena out in her pram and walk for miles, across the river, where she’d meet Len on the Embankment, and they’d stroll along, arm in arm, just like any other couple.

  Twice a week she’d sneak off to his house in the evenings, usually with a pie she’d made, telling Da she was visiting one of the old dears who lived in Clapham Manor Street. No one suspected a thing. Harry wrote to her still and sometimes she’d reply but more often than not she’d forget because she was just too busy these days. He had suggested she should come and spend the summer up there, but she made an excuse that she was so worn out with running around after Zena and William, she couldn’t possibly face the journey. She dreaded his visits because they disrupted her carefully planned routine that gave her time to be with Len. Thankfully, Harry only managed to get down to see them twice a year because of the cost and he just couldn’t get time off work that easily.

  Ethel ruled the roost and that was the way she liked it. Da treated her with more respect now than when Mam was alive. He was much gentler these days, making sure to thank her for all the work she did around the house. The grandchildren were the apple of his eye and he’d tell William, ‘Listen to your mam, she knows best and don’t grumble, that is the way things are,’ while giving Ethel a little wink. It was unspoken between them, but Ethel knew that having Harry out of the picture made Da feel a lot happier. He was the man of the house but there was no need for him to be bullish about it.

  With so many houses in Edgeley Road deserted over the summer, it was as if she was the queen of the whole street. And the best thing was, with no one around to gossip, Len had taken to popping in some afternoons when Da was out at work. He’d get off his shift early at the Pall Mall East Furniture Company, where he worked as a cabinet maker, and come in for a cup of tea, if no neighbours were loitering.

  And today was one such afternoon, when the coast was clear and they were free to be together. William was away playing down at the common with some of the other boys on the street, so they took the chance to snatch a moment upstairs while Zena was sleeping soundly in her cot. Ethel put on the peach satin chemise Len had bought her as a gift; he was so thoughtful, and he spared no expense where she was concerned. She liked that.

  Afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, Len told her some big news. ‘I’m thinking of setting up a business with my brother, Fred. I’ve always wanted to be my own boss and there’s a dairy on the corner of Clapham Manor Street that’s coming up for sale. The couple running it are just getting too old to manage now.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful, Len,’ she said. ‘If anyone can make it work, you can.’

  ‘I’d love to make a go of it, Ethel,’ he replied, hugging her. ‘It would be hard work, but I want to be able to provide for you and the baby. I know it’s difficult for you, but we should be thinking about the future, our future.’

  She was turning to kiss him again when she suddenly heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She sat bolt upright, pulling the bedclothes up to cover herself, and shouted, ‘Not now, William, I’m having a lie-down. Just leave me in peace for a while and play in the yard like a good boy.’

  Len jumped out of bed and was just pulling his trousers on when the bedroom door swung open. It wasn’t William standing there, but Harry. Time stood still for a moment and a look of utter shock crossed his face.

  ‘What in the name of God is going on?’ shouted Harry, running at Len with his fists raised.

  Ethel screamed and lunged forward to stop him. ‘Harry! No! Let me explain . . .’

  He slapped her, hard, across the face and she fell backwards onto the bed with a scream. Before she knew what was happening, his hands were around her throat and she was gasping for air.

  ‘Leave her be!’ shouted Len, trying to push Harry away from her. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll kill her!’ But Harry seemed to have the strength of ten men and he swatted Len away like a fly and continued to throttle Ethel, his eyes bulging with rage.

  The sound of Zena crying carried through the bedroom wall, just as the room around her was turning black and her lungs felt as if they were about to explode.

  Suddenly, Harry relaxed his grip and staggered backwards, wild-eyed, with tears spilling down his
face. ‘Oh my God, Ethel. What have I done?’

  She sat up, gasping for air. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Leave us be. You tried to murder me!’

  He sank to his knees. ‘I’d never do that. I love you, Ethel, please, don’t say that. Think of our children.’

  All the years of being bossed around by men, of being such a good girl and a dutiful wife, seemed to swell inside her like a giant wave.

  ‘Zena isn’t yours! She’s Len’s,’ she spat. ‘I love him, not you. I’ve never loved you. You don’t understand what I need, Harry, and what’s more, I think you’ve got a screw loose.’ She tapped the side of her head.

  Each word seemed to strike him, and he looked up at her with hurt and confusion, just as William did when she walloped him for breaking Zena’s toys or hurting his baby sister with his rough games.

  ‘Get out! I don’t want you near me or the children ever again,’ she said, putting her hands to her throat, which was horribly red and blotchy from his vice-like grip.

  Len picked himself off the floor and put himself between the two of them. ‘I think you should leave now, Harry,’ he said. ‘Ethel’s telling you the truth. The baby is mine.’

  The two men glared at each other for an instant.

  Then Harry stood up and turned to go, his hands hanging limply by his side. Ethel stared at his departing back, shaking with shock.

  As the front door banged shut, she heard William, outside in the street, shouting, ‘Dad! Dad! Where are you going? Dad, come back!’

  But Harry never did.

  21

  Harry

  King’s Cross, February 1933

  The bitter cold cut through the newspaper he’d stuffed inside his jacket, chilling Harry to the bone as he walked the streets of London.

  Travellers bustling in and out of the station gave him a wide berth. Glancing at his reflection in the window, he realized why; to them, he was just another tramp. He couldn’t blame them. His collar was frayed, his trousers and jacket were filthy and after spending yet another night in a dosshouse near King’s Cross station where the beds were ninepence and the fleas came free, he stank to high heaven.