Darkest Before Dawn (39 page)

‘You're right there,' Seraphina agreed. ‘My mother's a marvellous person but you know my father was a lay preacher, and my mother runs her life on what you might call Christian principles. I think she'd be quite shocked to know that – that ours isn't a real marriage; that it isn't just children he doesn't want, it's – it's me.'

Betty slipped her hand into the crook of Seraphina's arm. ‘Of course he wants you,' she said, in a scolding voice. ‘He's probably terrified of doing it wrong and making a fool of himself. A man doesn't marry a woman he doesn't want. It's – it's just that some men find the sex business embarrassing, difficult to cope with. I bet your Roger thinks he'll make a mess of it so he keeps hanging back.'

Seraphina sighed. ‘He said, during our honeymoon, that he was afraid of hurting me and even more afraid that I might get pregnant. I understood, or thought I did, and apart from not . . . well, you know . . . he was very sweet to me. But when we had that weekend in Norwich, and I plucked up my courage and said I'd been to the MO and got some . . .
things
for him to use, he seemed to take offence.' She sighed. ‘I expect I handled it all wrong. I called him into the bathroom when I was in the tub and tried to persuade him to come into the water with me. He went bright red in the face and did a sort of flounce, and when I climbed out of the water and went towards him, he said “
Keep off
”, in a really cross, hissing whisper, and slammed out of the room. It – it was really humiliating, Bett; I felt how a tart must feel when a feller rejects her advances. That night I slept by myself in that big, comfortable double bed and I don't think Roger went to bed at all. We met at breakfast – it was jolly awkward, I can tell you – but afterwards he tried to pretend there was nothing wrong and I got angry and said if he was going to walk out on me again, I'd go back to my airfield. He begged me not to, begged me not to ruin his leave, agreed that we should talk about it and not pretend nothing had happened. The odd thing is, we had a grand day together, and when we got back to the room he made a long speech about the wickedness of bringing children into a world at war. He – he said the things the MO gave me were seldom completely reliable which was why he hadn't . . . oh, damn it, Bett, nothing had changed. I went to bed – we both did – but it was after two o'clock before I fell asleep. I got up at six, went down and had an early breakfast all by myself and left without saying goodbye.'

‘Very understandable,' her friend said. ‘I'd have done the same. To tell you the truth, Fee, I don't think I can advise you except to say keep seeing him whenever you get the chance. And if you decide it's never going to be any different, then remember, this is the 1940s; divorce is perfectly possible, though they don't make it easy for you.'

‘Divorce! I'm very sure no one in our family has ever been involved in a divorce, and I bet the Trueloves are just the same,' Seraphina said. ‘But I will try to make a go of it; last time we spoke on the phone, he suggested he might come to Norfolk again the next time he has a few days free. The trouble is, Bett, that every time we meet and . . . and nothing happens, the rift widens, if you see what I mean.'

Betty nodded. ‘And now let's change the subject,' she said. ‘I wonder how your mum and your little sister are getting on? I expect you'll get a phone call later this evening to let you know they're okay.'

Scotland Road, when Martha and Evie reached it on the Saturday evening, was almost unrecognisable. Although they knew, from listening to the wireless, that the last raid had been a couple of days before, devastation was everywhere. Masonry from bombed houses had fallen across the roads, which were pocked with craters, and a thick pall of dust hung over the stricken city. The smell of burning hung horribly in the air and it was hard to recognise where they were as they made their way towards the flat.

When they reached it, a worse shock was in store. The shop front was there, but it looked as though it might fall down at any moment and there was no glass in either of the large windows; of the flat above it, there was no sign. Martha and Evie stood in the road, clutching each other's hands and gazing at the destruction of everything they had possessed. After a few moments, however, Martha pulled herself together and went towards the shop. She peered through the window frame and saw a movement inside. It was Mr Wilmslow. ‘Don't try and come in through the door. Come round the back,' he said. ‘This lot happened a couple of days ago. God knows where I'll put the stuff I'm salvaging, but it can't stay here. There's been looting already, and you can't blame folk. When you've lost everything . . .'

Martha interrupted. ‘Mr Wilmslow, you should know better than to be doing that,' she said, glancing nervously at the precarious state of the walls and ceiling. ‘And you a warden as well. What's the point of picking up what are probably damaged goods anyway, when it's not safe to be in there at all? Why, you've spent the last couple of years telling folk to keep clear of bomb damage, yet here you are, risking your life for a few tins of sardines! Come out of there at once or I'll report you to the authorities.'

‘What authorities?' he asked derisively. ‘They're run off their feet right now 'cos the telephone exchange was hit so no one can't ring relatives. The Bryant and May factory has gone, with a loss of God knows how many jobs. Lewis's is gutted, the water mains is ruptured; the tram lines are twisted and useless . . .' He chuckled grimly. ‘The authorities have got their hands full without poking their noses into my affairs. Why, almost every shop in the city is like this one and I reckon it's my duty to save any food I can because all that stuff they stashed away in the warehouses along the docks has gone up in flames, and I heared on the wireless that London's the same. Besides, the rooms at the back of the shop are not too bad. Come and give a hand, Mrs Todd, 'cos the quicker we move the stuff the better.'

Martha sighed, then glanced at Evie. ‘I dare not let you come inside, love, in case the whole place falls on us,' she said gently. ‘Will you stay out here while I help Mr Wilmslow to salvage what we can?'

She said it hopefully but was not at all surprised when Evie shook her head. ‘No I won't,' her daughter said baldly. ‘Old Wilmslow's no fool; if it's safe enough for him – and you – then I reckon I'll be okay. And he's quite right, you know; the stuff which is usable ought to be got out just in case the place does cave in.'

Martha nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose you're right. Come along, then. But God knows where we'll lay our heads tonight.'

‘There's always the shelter – if it hasn't been bombed, that is,' Evie said. ‘C'mon, Mam, the sooner we can get the shop cleared, the better.'

Incredible though it seemed, by the following Monday Mr Wilmslow was in business once more and the Todds had found somewhere to lay their heads. Just down the road was a small tobacconist's shop with a flat above it. By some miracle, both shop and flat were intact, but the old man who owned and ran it had had enough. He and his wife were both over seventy and had decided to go and stay with their daughter, who lived in the small village of Higher Kinnerton in Cheshire. When Mr Wilmslow approached him he was very willing to rent both shop and flat to the younger man, since the money would come in useful. His stock, depleted anyway by the war, would be sold gradually by Mr Wilmslow and the money the latter received would be sent to old Mr Butler in instalments.

Martha, taken to view the flat by her employer, agreed that she would be happy to take it, especially since the rent was no higher than that charged by Mr Wilmslow for her previous home. The flat was smaller – it only had one bedroom and no bathroom – but there was a reasonable living room, where the older girls could sleep when they came home on leave, and she and Evie would share the double bed in the small bedroom. Martha would inherit all the Butlers' furniture and linen, as well as their crockery and cutlery, since their daughter's small cottage was fully furnished, so the flat had been rented as it stood. ‘Warts and all,' Mr Butler had said genially, when the arrangement had been made. ‘And if the place is still intact when peace comes, I reckon Mr Wilmslow will buy it off of me instead of renting it, so that's all right.'

Mr Wilmslow himself would have to sleep in the stockroom, on a makeshift bed of some sort, but Martha would continue to provide his meals, since the stockroom was just that, and had no facilities for cooking, though there was a sink with a cold water tap in one corner.

On her first evening in the new flat, sitting at the Butlers' kitchen table, trying to sort out the paperwork so that they could claim for either lost or irretrievably damaged goods, Martha was not surprised when the kitchen door opened and Mr Wilmslow came in. What did surprise her was the fact that he was carrying a bunch of flowers: purple and white lilac, and a couple of scarlet peonies. However, she smiled at him as he laid the flowers down upon the table.

‘What's all this then? My, doesn't that lilac smell wonderful? It reminds me of the
Mary Jane
– many a cottage garden has a lilac tree on the back fence and the scent from them wafts across the canal . . . lovely. Where did you get them, Mr Wilmslow?'

‘Oh . . . here and there,' Mr Wilmslow said airily. ‘Mrs Todd, I want to – to regularise this here situation. I know it ain't long since my wife died, but I guess you've realised I couldn't go on wi'out you. You're a grand worker, a grand cook and a grand mother to them kids of yours.' He chuckled. ‘That young Evie's a real caution but she's more help than many a lass twice her age.'

He stopped speaking and looked expectantly at Martha, who looked back with an uncertain smile. What on earth was he getting at? ‘I'm not sure quite what you mean, Mr Wilmslow,' she said slowly. ‘I'm not thinking of leaving your employ, you know. Oh, I wanted Evie to go into the country but she won't do it and I'm the same; I'm here for the duration.'

‘Aye, I know that,' Mr Wilmslow said. He sounded cross, Martha thought. ‘You must know what I mean, Mrs Todd. Why d'you think I waited until young Evie was in bed before I come up this evening? Dammit, why d'you think I brung you flowers?'

Martha was beginning to have an inkling of what was to come. She said hastily: ‘It – it doesn't matter, Mr Wilmslow, I'm sure everything is as regular as regular, if you see what I mean. You don't have to – to say any more. I can only assure you that I don't mean to leave you in the lurch, and . . .'

‘That ain't the point, Mrs Todd – Martha, I mean,' Mr Wilmslow said. His voice had risen and so had his colour, Martha noted with trepidation. ‘I'm – I'm rare fond o' you, Martha. I've been screwing up me courage to pop the question for a couple of months now. I know there's only one bedroom in the flat but I could box off a bit of a room down here so's Evie had somewhere to sleep . . . and . . .'

‘You could box off a bit of the room so that
you
had somewhere to sleep,' Martha said, rather crossly. ‘Whatever would people think, Mr Wilmslow, with your wife so recently passed on?'

‘They'd think I were doin' the right thing by you, makin' an honest woman of you . . .' The look on Martha's face must have warned him that this was the wrong approach for he said hastily: ‘What does it matter what people think? Circumstances alter cases, they say, and our circumstances are bleedin' difficult, what with the shop and the flat being destroyed, and more'n half the stock gone with 'em. Besides, that makeshift bed is perishin' uncomfortable . . . for a full-grown man, I mean. It 'ud suit a young slip of a thing like Evie down to the ground.'

‘I dare say, but I'm not hanging out for a husband,' Martha said firmly. ‘Why, Mr Wilmslow, I don't even know your first name and you've never called me by mine until this moment. We rub along very well as employer and employee, but marriage . . . well, that's a different kettle of fish.'

Mr Wilmslow snatched up the bouquet and for an awful moment Martha thought he was going to throw it on the fire or chuck it through the window, but instead he carried it through to the sink, filled a jug with water, and jammed the flowers untidily into it. He stood the jug on the sideboard and then sat down opposite Martha. ‘I reckon I said it all wrong and I'm real sorry if I offended you,' he said, and there was a humble note in his voice which Martha had never heard before. ‘To tell you the truth, Mrs T—I mean Martha, I've always had a fondness for you. I knew it even when me wife was alive, but I knew it were wrong, too, so I told meself over and over that you were just a nice woman, a friend. But now it's different; you're a widow and I'm a widower, and we're working cheek by jowl and living cheek by jowl an' all. Can't you, won't you, think again? I'm not good wi' words but if you'd agree to be my wife, I'd – I'd do right by you; can't you see I mean it?'

‘I'm sure you do,' Martha said, though in fact she thought Mr Wilmslow's main concern was for his comfort, which gave her an idea. She did not want her employer pestering her with suggestions that they should marry whenever they were alone together; best stamp on it here and now, she decided. ‘Look, Mr Wilmslow . . .'

‘Arthur; call me Arthur,' Mr Wilmslow said eagerly. ‘I reckon Arthur and Martha sound well together, don't you?'

Martha, who thought they sounded like a not very good nursery rhyme, merely smiled. ‘That's as maybe, but names aren't really important,' she observed. ‘What is important is that I loved Harry with all my heart and couldn't possibly consider marrying again. What's more, my daughters would be very upset. So if you mention the matter again, deeply though it would distress me, I shall have to start looking round for a new job and somewhere else to live. It might be best, in fact, if Evie and I left the area altogether . . .'