Orphans of the Storm (19 page)
So Uncle Max he remained, though this did not make him one whit more acceptable to Debbie. She was furious when she had heard him telling Jess that invasion was now a certainty and advising her mother to start storing supplies bought on the black market, since when the Germans landed, as he believed they would, everything, even ration food, would be fought over in the streets.
‘That’s defeatist talk, Uncle Max; you sound like Lord Haw-Haw,’ Debbie had said coldly. ‘Didn’t you listen to Mr Churchill the other night?’ She had lowered her voice to a growly imitation of the Prime Minister’s: ‘. . .
we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender
. . . Oh, I know he was talking about the possibility of invasion, but he made it pretty clear that if such a thing happened it would fail, because we would resist.’
we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender
. . . Oh, I know he was talking about the possibility of invasion, but he made it pretty clear that if such a thing happened it would fail, because we would resist.’
For once, Uncle Max had looked taken aback, even a trifle ashamed. The three of them had been sitting in the kitchen at the time, having just finished a meal, waiting for the kettle to boil. Uncle Max had shifted uneasily in his chair and stared, rather fixedly, down at his feet. ‘Out o’ the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ he had quoted, almost quietly. ‘You’re right, queen, mebbe I shouldn’t have said it. But you know, I’m worried for your mam . . . concerned for her, that is to say. I can’t bear to think of her – and yourself of course – going hungry when a little forethought could prevent it.’
Receiving a glare from her mother, Debbie had not pointed out that, since Uncle Max devoured three times the amount she and her mother ate between them, it must be fear of going short himself which had led him to advise black market purchasing. Instead, she had said: ‘Sorry, Uncle Max. Ah, the kettle’s boiling. I’ll make the tea.’
When August arrived and they were told in every wireless bulletin and all the headlines that the Battle of Britain was being fought daily in the skies across southern England, invasion still had not happened, and far from worrying over the possibility that the man queueing for the telephone box behind you might be a Nazi spy, folk began to relax.
One Friday evening Gwen and Debbie were strolling along in the hot sunshine, planning a trip into the country the following day. ‘There are plums for sale in the markets, so I bet, if we catch the ferry, and then get a bus into the real country, the farmers might let us pick some for a few pence,’ Gwen said enthusiastically. ‘We could take a picnic; and what do you say if I bring the kids along? It ’ud be a real treat for them and they’s good at fruit picking; remember all them strawberries we picked up just after Dunkirk? Me mam bought sugar from everyone who was prepared to sell and made jars and jars of strawberry jam. She had to beg the jars from everyone, mind, but she sold the jam at a real good profit.’
‘I’d love a day in the country, if the weather holds. In the old days, Mam would have come along with us – she’s the quickest fruit picker I ever saw – but now I doubt she’d leave Uncle Max on a Sat’day, when he’s home. Still, it ’ud get me out of their way, which will probably please them as much as it will please me,’ Debbie said.
‘Your Uncle Max might come along as well,’ Gwen said brightly. ‘Last time he saw us playing with the kids in the Kirkdale rec, he gave us a bag of bulls-eyes – remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Debbie said wearily. She could not deny that Uncle Max flashed his money around and was generous with such things as sweets and cakes. But she did not intend to say so to Gwen. ‘Did you ever wonder where he got them bulls-eyes from?’ she asked truculently. ‘I bet he bought them on the black market.’
‘Who cares?’ Gwen said airily. ‘Besides, if he’s got the money why shouldn’t he spend it on bulls-eyes for kids? It’s all very well for you, Debbie Ryan, but you’re an only child. Why, your mam bought three jars of my mam’s strawberry jam – three whole jars! Us Soameses only had one jar between the lot of us.’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Debbie said repentantly. She flipped open the lid of her gas mask case, rooted around for a moment, and then produced two boiled sweets and a small lipstick. She handed one of the sweets and the lipstick to her friend.’Here, you poor, hard-done-by creature, have a lipstick. I went into Woolies yesterday and Patty Ross – remember her, she were in our class at school – slipped me this when no one were looking. She said it were the last one so I took it for you ’cos I’ve still got a good half of mine left.’
Gwen had been looking rather cross but as she took the lipstick her face lit up, for make-up was almost impossible to obtain. ‘Oh, Debbie, are you sure?’ she breathed. ‘I do love a bit of make-up, particularly lipstick. Mam rubs geranium petals on her cheeks instead of rouge and I know she uses lamp-black on her eyelashes when she goes to a dance, but all you can do for lipstick is to keep biting your lips to make them red, and that’s painful work.’
‘Lamp-black? But don’t it come off all over her face if she rubs her eyes?’ Debbie asked curiously. Her own mother occasionally powdered her nose but seemed to manage very well without other aids to beauty. ‘And suppose her eyes water, or she cries? And if she got some in her eye, the pain must be awful.’
Gwen giggled. ‘That’s probably why she don’t go out very often,’ she said wisely. ‘In fact, she only goes when her sister – that’s me Aunt Minnie – asks her along. Minnie isn’t married but she don’t like going to dances by herself so she gets Mam to go with her for company, like.’
‘Oh, right,’ Debbie said, rather awkwardly. Uncle Max sometimes took her mother dancing at the Rialto or the Daulby Hall and Jess had made biting comments about middle-aged women who went to dances to try to meet men. Debbie had looked at her with astonishment; did her mother not realise that she herself was a middle-aged woman? The fact that she was with Uncle Max would not be common knowledge to others at the dance who might well think that Jess, too, was hunting for a man. After all, no one would think a woman would voluntarily take up with hulking Max Williams if they could meet anyone else.
‘If the weather does change and we have rain, what say we take the kids to the Saturday Rush at the Broadway?’ Gwen suggested. ‘They’re showing a Tarzan film with Johnny Weissmuller, I think. I know we’d have to do the messages in the afternoon but at least it ’ud keep the kids from under my mam’s feet for an hour or two.’
Debbie thought this a good idea, though looking up at the brilliant blue of the sky she found it difficult to even imagine a rainy day. At this point, the two girls said their goodbyes and Gwen turned down Daisy Street whilst Debbie continued on her way. When she reached her back yard, she walked over to the hen run. The scrawny pullets of almost a year before were now fat hens and highly regarded by Debbie and Jess since they provided eggs regularly, and always rushed to the wire making hopeful clucking sounds whenever a human being approached. Now, Debbie ferreted in her coat pocket and produced a handful of crusts from the sandwiches her mother had made for her carry-out. She did not just throw them into the run but fed them to each hen separately, poking the pieces of crust through the wire and talking to the hens as though they understood every word. ‘A piece for you, Blackie, now a piece for you, Goldie, now one for you, Speckles, another for Henny Penny, and one for Snowy . . . it’s all right, Fluff, I’ve not forgotten you, and kindly don’t take my fingers off in your eagerness.’ The hens continued to look hopefully at Debbie as she stood up and turned towards the house. Her mother had warned against making pets of the birds, saying that when they ceased to lay they would have to be somebody’s Sunday dinner, but Debbie had been unable to resist naming them. Once they were named, though, she realised it would be difficult, if not impossible, to even consider making a meal of them.
‘Debbie!’ Debbie turned her head and saw Jess framed in the kitchen doorway. ‘Why are you always late on a Friday? Or perhaps you aren’t, and it’s just that Friday is my night out so I try to get back that bit earlier. Stop spoiling the hens and come along in, do. Uncle Max means to take both of us out tonight. There’s a concert in the park, so hurry.’
Debbie entered the kitchen, shrugging off her jacket. ‘But Friday isn’t
my
night out,’ she reminded her mother, ‘and I don’t want to go to a concert; not if Uncle Max is going, at any rate.’
my
night out,’ she reminded her mother, ‘and I don’t want to go to a concert; not if Uncle Max is going, at any rate.’
‘Hush,’ Jess said nervously, glancing round as though she suspected that her cousin was hiding beneath the kitchen table or behind the pantry door. ‘You really are rude, queen, and I simply can’t understand it. Why do you dislike Uncle Max so much? He’s awful kind to both of us, but probably to you more than me. He’s always slipping you the odd bob so you can go to the cinema or have a ride on the overhead railway. He brings you back little treats and if there’s anything amusing going on he makes sure you’re not left out.’
Debbie sniffed. ‘He’s mortal fond of sweets himself,’ she pointed out. ‘He buys on the black market, so when he give me two ounces of aniseed balls or a stick of nougat he’s not going short himself.’
‘Debbie! That was a really nasty, spiteful remark,’ Jess said reproachfully. ‘Whatever
is
the matter with you? Don’t say you’re jealous of Uncle Max because you’ve no cause to be. I’m very, very fond of him but if you think it’s anything but sisterly affection, you’re wrong. I know folk gossip; that nasty old Mrs Shipham from down the road actually had the cheek to ask me when I were going to change my name back to Williams. Horrid old cat. I couldn’t think what she meant at first, and when I realised she was hinting that I was going to marry Max, I was absolutely livid. I wiped the floor with her, I’m telling you. Why, I’ve known Max since I were two or three years old; he was always like a brother to me, which means that no matter how fond I am of him neither of us would dream of marrying the other.’ She looked earnestly at her daughter, then took Debbie’s hands in her own, shaking them slightly. ‘Have you been listening to gossip, queen? Is that why you’re so against poor Max? If so, I’m prepared to swear on the Bible that I don’t mean to marry again, not anyone, least of all my cousin.’
is
the matter with you? Don’t say you’re jealous of Uncle Max because you’ve no cause to be. I’m very, very fond of him but if you think it’s anything but sisterly affection, you’re wrong. I know folk gossip; that nasty old Mrs Shipham from down the road actually had the cheek to ask me when I were going to change my name back to Williams. Horrid old cat. I couldn’t think what she meant at first, and when I realised she was hinting that I was going to marry Max, I was absolutely livid. I wiped the floor with her, I’m telling you. Why, I’ve known Max since I were two or three years old; he was always like a brother to me, which means that no matter how fond I am of him neither of us would dream of marrying the other.’ She looked earnestly at her daughter, then took Debbie’s hands in her own, shaking them slightly. ‘Have you been listening to gossip, queen? Is that why you’re so against poor Max? If so, I’m prepared to swear on the Bible that I don’t mean to marry again, not anyone, least of all my cousin.’
‘Well, I never thought you would,’ Debbie said untruthfully. ‘The trouble is that Uncle Max and me are totally different. We don’t like each other . . .’
Jess broke in. ‘That’s not true, darling. Uncle Max loves you dearly; he’d do anything for you. I’m afraid all the dislike is on your side.’
Debbie stared desperately at her mother. Should she tell her the truth? But if she did, it might make life impossible for all of them. She took a deep, steadying breath and said quietly: ‘He – he crowds me, Mam. Maybe it’s because he senses that I don’t like him so he tries too hard. Couldn’t you . . . well, couldn’t you ask him to back off a little?’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Jess said helplessly. ‘You hardly ever come out with the two of us and you certainly don’t go out with him by yourself. You’re away from the house most weekends, and if you aren’t, Max and I are. You usually manage to leave the table before your uncle has finished his pudding . . . I don’t see what you mean.’
Debbie sighed. For some weeks, Uncle Max had been positively pursuing her. Oh, never in a manner so obvious that her mother would notice, but she felt he was pursuing her nevertheless. He lurked outside her bedroom door in the mornings in order to grab her and give her a quick cuddle, and lately he had taken to popping, unasked and unexpected, into her bedroom, crossing to the bedside and giving her a kiss on the forehead, or the cheek. This was always accompanied by his saying in a bluff voice: ‘Night, night, sleep tight, let’s hope the bugs don’t bite,’ as he let himself out of the room. ‘See you at breakfast, queen.’
Once, he had caught her in the back yard when she had been shutting up the hens. He had come out ostensibly to visit the privy, but had seized the opportunity of putting a heavy arm about her waist and giving her a wet and slobbery kiss. If it had not been for her quick reaction in jerking away from him, Debbie thought that the kiss would have landed on her mouth, and the mere suggestion of such a horrible fate sent cold shivers down her spine. Yet if she told her mother how her beloved cousin behaved, would she be believed? Everyone who knew Max seemed to like him, with the exception of herself; even Gwen liked him, but then Gwen wasn’t being constantly ambushed since they did not live under the same roof. Oh, Gwen came in for the odd cuddle, the rough and tumble when he insisted upon playing relievio or blind man’s buff with the youngsters, but Gwen took it in her stride. She thought Debbie was being over-sensitive, said that Uncle Max was an affectionate man who wanted children of his own, which was why he was so fond of the Soames kids. ‘I suppose he thinks of you and me as children, even though we aren’t, and that’s why he likes to hug us and give us sweets and biscuits,’ she had said wisely, when Debbie had complained about Uncle Max’s habits of squeezing and cuddling. ‘He don’t mean no harm; I expect he thinks you like it.’
Debbie had opened her mouth to say scornfully: ‘Like it? When he comes into my bedroom without so much as a knock, hoping to catch me in me knickers?’ But somehow she could not bear to reveal, even to Gwen, the lengths to which Uncle Max had already gone in their relationship. She told herself she was not afraid of the dirty old man, would give him a good kick in the bread basket if he persisted in annoying her, but she was realising more and more that the situation was fraught with danger and was beginning to fear that, if she spoke out, she would not be believed. Jess really adored Uncle Max and would hesitate to believe any ill of him. What was more, she was pretty certain Max would totally deny everything, say she was trying to make trouble, insinuate she was jealous of his warm friendship with Jess herself. And if she told Gwen, she was afraid her friend might either make light of it or insist that she tell Jess.
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