Our Lizzie (54 page)

Lizzie looked round the shop. “If it wasn't for my arm, I'd offer to start at once.”

Sally stared at her. “Why not?”

“What?”

“Why not come and work for me?”

“You must be joking.”

“I've got a lass out the back who's willing enough, but she needs someone to keep an eye on her. And you could take money or fetch things off shelves.” She sighed. “I'd welcome the company, actually. When you've been used to a family, being on your own isn't much cop.”

Lizzie beamed at her and joy flooded through her. “All right. I will, then. Where's a pinny?” She had not expected Mrs. D to need any help, not expected anything, just wanted to go inside the shop where she'd been so happy, see her old friend.

Chapter Thirty

1918

Three weeks later, Lizzie woke up one morning and had to rush to the bathroom to be sick. Afterwards, she stared at her pallid face in the mirror in horror. Then she had to face the fact that she was carrying Sam's child. She'd been denying this possibility for days, telling herself her monthlies were bound to be upset after all the trouble she'd been through.

She gazed in the mirror again, wondering if it showed, but she looked just the same now that her colour was coming back. Thin face, wiry body, straight black hair. “I'm having a baby,” she said aloud, then blushed scarlet.

She scrubbed her teeth vigorously, using more tooth powder than usual to get the nasty taste out of her mouth, then got dressed and went slowly downstairs. “Oh, crikey!” she muttered as she put the kettle on. “What am I going to do?”

As she put on her hat to go to work, she took a deep breath and told her reflection, “Well, it takes nine months, so you don't have to do anything yet, do you?”

So she didn't. Even after her arm was better, she carried on working. She didn't think the extra fullness in her breasts would show and the sickness always passed after a few minutes first thing. It helped to have a dry biscuit next to the bed and a drink of water.

After much consideration, she decided not to tell anyone about the baby; not Mrs. D, who was enjoying having her around, nor even Percy and Emma, who was definitely showing her condition now. The two of them seemed like old friends, rather than husband and wife, but Percy looked happier than he had for a long time.

Even Johnny was getting a bit friendlier. Now that he was living a few doors away from his eldest sister, he had started popping in for a cup of tea occasionally, all gruff and off-hand about his visits. But Lizzie made him welcome. She wanted very much to get to know her family again.

Johnny said very little, though he ate all her biscuits. He was growing fast, going to be bigger than Percy, and already had a look of their father which made Lizzie remember how things had been once.

How they had changed! Her mother dead—and Sam—and Jack Dearden. So many people killed in this dreadful war, which seemed as if it would never end.

*   *   *

In March, there were massive German attacks on the Western Front and the enemy overran the Allied trenches. Belgium, Picardy, Aisne—the Germans seemed to be everywhere. Some people were even starting to whisper that defeat lay just round the corner, though not in Mrs. D's hearing.

In May, she took Lizzie aside one evening after the shop closed. “You should have told me sooner,” she said accusingly.

“What?”

Sally made a flapping motion with one hand. “What do you think? About the baby.”

“Oh. That.” Lizzie couldn't think what to say.

“I suppose it's Sam's?”

Lizzie glared at her. “Of course it is.” Then she sighed. “He came and found me in Murforth—it was Mam who told him where I was—and, well, he forced himself on me. So I've just been trying to carry on as usual.”

“It's not the baby's fault that the father was so—you know—rough.”

Lizzie smiled. “I know that.” She patted her stomach. “Actually, I hope it's a boy. Every man wants a son to carry on his name.” The baby had come to seem like a way of saying sorry to Sam for hurting him, for she had hurt him, she realised now—though not nearly as much as he'd hurt her. She had thought and thought about that last evening and knew there had been pain as well as anger in his eyes.

Sally's voice was gentle. “You've forgiven him now, then?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I've forgiven us both for doing something so stupid—marrying one another. We were an ill-assorted pair, weren't we? Me with my head in the clouds, him wanting to own me.”

“Your family were stupid as well, pushing you into it.”

“Well, they thought they were doing their best for me.” Percy had come round one evening to unburden himself of the guilt he felt about his part in her marriage and the two of them had wept together, then become better friends.

“I wrote to tell Peter you were a widow,” Sally said unexpectedly. “Have you heard from him?”

Lizzie shook her head. “No.”

“I haven't had a letter for ages, either. I—I don't think I can bear it if I lose him, too.”

What did you say to a remark like that? Some women had lost several sons. Chance struck out blindly and cruelly. And Lizzie hadn't dared think about Peter. Not in that way. Not when she was carrying her dead husband's child.

Sally heaved herself to her feet. “Well, I must lock up and see about my tea. I'm that hungry! I thought Mrs. Fowler would never leave tonight.”

“She's lonely, too,” Lizzie said softly. “There are a lot of lonely women around.”

*   *   *

In May, Emma had her baby, a little boy who looked remarkably like his real father. She gave birth quite easily in the front bedroom of their house and Percy, brought in by the unsuspecting midwife to see his “son,” was reduced to tears by the miracle of new life.

“You are a lovely man,” Emma said.

“What, me?”

“Yes, you.”

He shrugged. “What do you want to call him?”

“What do
we
want to call him?” she corrected. “If he's to be yours as well as mine, we both need to share the naming.”

He blinked at her in surprise. She had said this before, but he'd decided to wait and see how she felt when the baby was actually born. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. So—what is it to be? Stanley or Harold or John?” These were all family names, as well as names they both liked.

“Stanley, then. John Stanley Kershaw. Only we'll call him Stan, eh?” At the door, the midwife cleared her throat and frowned at him. “And now I think you'd better get some rest, love.”

When he'd gone, Emma couldn't stop the tears from flowing. It should have been James standing there, all proud and fatherly. But James was dead.

“There, there, love,” said the midwife, patting her arm. “Let it all come out. Having a baby takes some of 'em that way.”

So Emma wept for a while, then fell asleep. When she woke, she told herself firmly that she had to get on with living. She was lucky to have Percy, who had been kind to her in a hundred small ways. In return she owed it to him not to dwell on the past. And to her son.

*   *   *

One sunny Sunday in June, Lizzie went over to Outshaw to see Polly. She enjoyed the feeling of happiness in the small house there, and particularly enjoyed cuddling her little nephew. It was like old times to be together, just her and her sister, and she really enjoyed her day out.

Polly had come over to see her soon after Sam's death, but what with Percy being there and Polly's husband Eddie as well—which was the first time Lizzie had ever met him—well, they couldn't really talk.

This time, Polly sent Eddie off to church and the two sisters sat and talked for ages.

“I'm having a baby,” Lizzie said abruptly when there was a pause in the conversation.

“You didn't say! And here was I, thinking you'd plumped up a bit at last.”

“I don't think I'll ever plump up. I'm too much like Mam.”

After a moment's hesitation, Polly asked, “Are you glad about the baby?”

“Very. And Sam left me some money, as well as the house, so I shan't be short.” He hadn't altered the will he'd made when they married, leaving her everything, though he'd not told her about it. Mr. Finch had had to explain things. Lizzie realised Polly was beaming at her and beamed back, feeling very light-hearted today for some reason.

“That's all right, then. When is it due?”

“In October, Dr. Marriott says.”

“Plenty of time for us to make plans, then. Of course, I'm coming over to look after you when you've had it.”

“Come before then and give me a few lessons in looking after babies.”

Polly beamed again. “There's nothing to it. They're lovely, babies are. I wish I could fall for another.”

*   *   *

Another Sunday Lizzie went over to see Eva. That visit was very pleasant, with a generous country tea provided in spite of the food shortages, but there was not the same warmth as there had been with Polly. Alice tactfully left them alone for a while but they weren't really close. In fact, Eva didn't feel much like family now. She spoke so poshly and seemed totally engrossed in her work as a teacher.

Emma Harper felt like family, though, and as for her tiny nephew, Stan, well, he was a “little smasher.” Percy loved to cuddle him and coo at him and was always bringing him round to see his auntie.

So all in all, things were going well. And why Lizzie should feel so dissatisfied, she couldn't think. She had her freedom and a baby to think of and a job she liked and plenty of money. But—an image of Peter Dearden rose before her. He hadn't written since Sam brought her back to Overdale. He'd written to his mother, who gave Lizzie news of him from time to time, but he hadn't written to her.

You'd think he'd have written.

Lizzie could only assume that he was upset about the baby. That he didn't want to see her again when he got back. Well, she wasn't going to make a fool of herself over him, definitely not. She was managing perfectly all right on her own and would continue to do so.

*   *   *

Then, in July, a counter-offensive on the Marne showed that the Allies were not yet defeated and the newspapers began to sound a bit more optimistic.

“It makes a difference, having those Yanks fighting with us,” people said. “We've turned the tables on the Hun now.”

And they had. Suddenly the Germans were retreating, giving way, surrendering. As if they'd run out of steam all of a sudden. It all happened so quickly, people couldn't quite believe it was true.

In late July they heard that Peter had been wounded and was being sent home to recuperate. Mrs. D went round beaming at everyone. “It'll all be over by the time he's better,” she kept saying. “He's got through. I've still got one son left.” Once or twice she added, when only Lizzie could hear her, “And maybe he'll find himself a nice lass and have some children. I'd like to be a grandma, I would that.”

Lizzie, who hadn't told her about the days she'd spent with Peter in Manchester, or the letters they'd exchanged, bit her tongue. Why raise old ghosts? She knew she wouldn't be able to help seeing him from time to time, but she would manage—somehow—to stay calm, or so she told herself. She'd treat him as a friend—which was all he'd been really—and just be thankful for what she'd got. Peace of mind, a house of her own, money in the bank and a baby on the way.

*   *   *

It was August before Peter arrived in England, by which time Lizzie felt as big as a house, though Mrs. D laughed at her for saying that. “You've not put on any weight, except for your belly, and you'll be as slim as ever once you've had it—unlike me.” She patted her own generous curves and smiled reminiscently. “I never did get thin again after our Peter, though I was quite slender when I was a lass.”

A group of volunteers brought Peter home from Manchester one hot day in August in a motor omnibus full of convalescent men. Lizzie was shocked when she saw him. He looked gaunt and ill, and very severe, not at all like the kindly man she remembered.

He limped into the shop on crutches and stood for a moment in the doorway, sniffing. “It still smells of coffee and spices,” he said in a hushed voice, as if he couldn't quite believe it was all real. “I dreamed of it so many times.”

Sally came across to hug him to her ample bosom and urge him to come upstairs and sit down. “I've baked your favourite cake and…” Her voice trailed away, for he was staring across the room at Lizzie, his eyes on her swollen belly as if he'd never seen a pregnant woman before, as if her condition were somehow shameful.

Lizzie waited for him to say something, but he just gave her a quick nod and walked on past.

She watched him go into the back, her hand to her mouth, and if it hadn't been for a customer demanding to be served, she'd have burst into tears because that had been revulsion on his face, definitely revulsion. By the time she'd served the old lady, however, she had herself in hand. It was her baby, and there was nothing shameful in having it. Definitely not.

So when Sally came downstairs, full of how tired her Peter had looked, how he'd eaten a piece of cake and fallen straight asleep, Lizzie was able to listen and nod and murmur appropriate responses.

It wasn't until she was alone at home that night that she could stop pretending and let a few tears fall. “What's the use?” she told the clock as she wound it up. “It's no good wishing for the moon.”

As she snuggled under the bedclothes, she said firmly, “I've just got to be sensible about this.”

But she didn't want to be sensible. She wanted to talk to him, see that fond, amused expression on his face as he teased her—and ask why he had changed? Had he met someone over in France? Or on leave in London?