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Authors: Lesley Pearse

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BOOK: Survivor
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22

The following morning, thanks to the ward
sister’s intervention, Mariette had a visit from Miss Coates, the hospital
almoner. She was a briskly efficient woman with a plummy upper-class voice, and her
manner suggested she was more used to dealing with duchesses from Mayfair than
ordinary people.

Mariette was wrong, though. Miss Coates
was not only very used to offering advice to people who had been bombed out but she
was also very sympathetic.

Mariette’s immediate concern was
that Mr and Mrs Harding, who cared for Joan’s children, should be notified of
her death, but she explained to Miss Coates about the message left by Joan that the
children weren’t to be told until Mariette was present.

‘I don’t know their
telephone number or their address,’ Mariette explained. ‘I could, of
course, find the house if I went there. But I can’t go yet, and the Hardings
need to know.’

‘Their address and telephone
number will be on record,’ Miss Coates said. ‘And I am willing to break
the news to the Hardings myself and explain what Joan wanted. I am quite sure they
will want to respect her wishes and wait until you are on your feet again. Now,
would you like to tell me everything else about your circumstances so I can see what
problems I can help you with?’

Miss Coates stayed with Mariette for
about an hour. She offered to telephone Mr Perry and explain where she was,
and gave her advice on getting a new
identity card and ration book. She also told her she was entitled to some money from
an emergency fund to tide her over. She asked about friends who could put her up as
a temporary measure, but the only people Mariette could think of who might be
willing to help were Henry and Doreen Fortesque. Miss Coates said she would find
their telephone number and ask them, and she’d come back later that afternoon
with any news from both the Fortesques and the Hardings.

She was as good as her word, and
returned at four o’clock.

‘First things first. I traced the
Hardings and spoke to Mrs Harding. She was, as you can imagine, terribly upset, but
she agreed readily that she will abide by Joan’s wishes. She said you struck
her as a level-headed and kindly person. She also said that the children liked you
and would feel comforted that you were there with their mother when she died. You
will be very welcome to stay with her and her husband and the children for a few
days. But she hopes this will be very soon as the children are used to getting a
letter each week from their mother, and when one doesn’t come they will start
to worry.’

‘I’ll go as soon as I get
out of here,’ Mariette assured her. ‘But what about their father? Will
he even be able to get home in time for Joan’s funeral? And where will we bury
her?’

Mariette knew that many people who had
lost loved ones in an air raid became very upset about the use of mass graves,
seeing it as a pauper’s funeral. But Joan had always taken the view that
she’d rather be buried with people she knew; she even used to joke about it.
‘Just bung in a few bottles of beer and we’ll have a party,’ she
had said more than once.

Mariette told Miss Coates this, and the
woman smiled. ‘I think a local undertaker would see putting all the victims
from Soame Street in one grave as both
sensible and appropriate,’ she said. ‘They lived side by side, died
together, and it is rather fitting for them to be buried together. But that will be
sorted out by the undertaker, Miss Carrera, you don’t need to worry yourself
about it. Likewise, whether or not Mr Waitly can get home in time isn’t your
worry.’

‘I suppose so,’ Mariette
agreed.

‘Now, let’s get back to what
is yours to worry about. A place to live. I telephoned Mr and Mrs Fortesque, and
they were horrified to hear what had happened. Without my even asking, they
volunteered to put you up. So we are left with your lack of clothes.’

‘I can’t go anywhere in
this.’ Mariette indicated her white cotton hospital nightdress. ‘I
haven’t even got any shoes.’

‘I have a little supply of
clothes,’ Miss Coates said. ‘People often donate things here. I’ll
sort them tonight. What size are you?’

Mariette was fairly certain they were
dead people’s clothes. But, as Mog would have said, ‘Beggars can’t
be choosers.’

‘Thirty-four bust, size four
shoes … and thank you,’ she replied.

‘I’ll try to find something
pretty to go with your hair.’ Miss Coates smiled. ‘How are your injuries
now?’

‘Sore.’ Mariette winced.
‘And I’m going to be left with nasty scars. But I’m lucky to be
alive, aren’t I? Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it.’

Four days after Joan’s death,
Mariette was on the train bound for Lyme Regis. She knew she looked terrible, but
perhaps it was better for Ian and Sandra to see her like this. It might help them
understand that she hadn’t got off scot-free.

The dress Miss Coates had found for her
was hideous, a brown and white spotted dress which looked like a school
uniform. It was too long, but she
hadn’t attempted to shorten it as it did at least partially cover her injured
legs. They looked terrible, black and blue with bruising and criss-crossed cuts and
scratches.

The straw hat with a turned-up brim was
quite nice, and it covered her bald patch; the brown sandals with wedge heels were
passable. A dressing hid the big scar on her forehead, but bruising had come up all
over her since the bombing, and any bits of skin which weren’t cut or
scratched had turned purple.

She had to be back in London on Monday
4th August to have her stitches removed, and it was likely that Joan and the other
people from Soame Street would have their funeral the following day. But that would
all be arranged while she was away.

Henry and Doreen had been very kind.
They’d used some of their precious petrol ration to come and collect her from
hospital, and had made her feel so welcome at their house. She had only spent one
night there so far, but in many ways it was like being back with Noah and Lisette.
There was the same order and cleanliness, with light, bright rooms and a real
bathroom. Not that she could sit in a bath until her stitches came out, but it would
be wonderful when she could.

They insisted that she could stay as
long as she liked, and meant it. But that old feeling she’d had about wanting
to get out of London had come back stronger than before. It wasn’t just the
fear of another air raid, or even running into Johnny, more a feeling that she
needed to try to make a new life for herself.

She felt ashamed she’d told Johnny
the way she had – although, in her own defence, she couldn’t think of a kinder
way to tell him – but if she’d said nothing, she would only have been sucked
in deeper. She had nowhere to stay, and no
money or clothes. Surely it was more honourable to leave
than to hang on to him just so he would take care of her?

Mrs Harding’s lips trembled when
she opened the door to Mariette, and she lunged forward to embrace her, quivering
with emotion. ‘The children are playing in the garden. I’ve felt such a
terrible fraud, knowing and not telling them. Sandra has asked me why I was crying
several times,’ she said, her words falling over themselves.

Mariette hugged her back. ‘I still
can’t quite believe Joan’s gone. We were such good friends, and I
thought we’d stay that way for ever. It must have been so hard for you and
your husband to say nothing, but we had to do what Joan asked, didn’t
we?’

‘Bert thought it was the right
thing to do. So we’ve struggled on, trying to make sure they didn’t
realize something was up.’

‘Have you heard from their father
yet?’

‘We had a call from an officer to
say he was on his way back this weekend in a cargo plane. He’ll go to the
funeral first, before coming here, poor man. They go away thinking it might be them
who die, I doubt they ever think it might be the other way round.’

‘Will Ian and Sandra be able to
stay on with you?’ Mariette asked. ‘I don’t know what happens in
cases like this.’

‘Of course they can stay with us –
for ever, if they want that,’ Mrs Harding said, wiping her eyes on her apron.
‘We’ve loved them right from the start. To tell the truth, we were
always afraid Joan would take them away, she missed them so much –’ She put
her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my days, that sounds terrible.’

‘It didn’t sound terrible at
all,’ Mariette assured her. ‘Joan knew how you felt about them, and it
made her happy. But
let’s get it
over with, shall we? I can’t do chatter and small talk with them not knowing
what I’ve really come for.’

Mariette knew, if she lived to be a
hundred, she’d never forget that moment when she walked through the back door
and saw the two children playing tennis with two old racquets and the washing line
as the net.

It was a hot, still day. Sandra was
dressed in a pink cotton sundress with elastic ruching around the bodice, Ian in
just a pair of shorts. They were both very suntanned, the picture of health and
vitality, so very different to the whey-faced children still living in London.

Sandra saw her first, shrieked with
delight and dropped her racquet to come running over. ‘Where’s
Mummy?’ she shouted.

Ian clearly sensed something. He began
to run over, but stopped halfway, looking at Mariette suspiciously.
‘Hasn’t she come with you? What’s happened to your
legs?’

‘Come here and sit down,’
Mariette said gently. Taking their hands, she led them over to a blanket laid out on
the ground under a tree. Mrs Harding was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding
her knuckles to her mouth.

‘Something bad has happened,
hasn’t it?’ Ian said as they sat down. ‘You wouldn’t come
alone without Mum, unless …’

‘Yes, Ian,’ she said
gravely. ‘I’m afraid the very worst thing had happened. There was an air
raid. Your mummy and I went to the shelter together, but a bomb hit it.’

The children just looked at her, almost
as if they didn’t believe her.

‘Mummy was killed, and lots of
other people,’ Mariette went on, but her voice was wobbling and she knew she
wouldn’t be able to hold back her tears for long. ‘I was sitting right
next to her, but she got the worst of it.’

‘Did the
bomb fall on your legs?’ Sandra asked, looking at the bandages around both her
legs.

‘Not the bomb, a beam in the
shelter ceiling, but it didn’t hit me as hard as it did your mummy. They took
her to hospital, and tried to make her better, but they couldn’t. She asked me
to come and tell you what had happened, and to tell you she loved you.’

‘And she’s not coming to see
us then?’ Sandra asked, her lips quivering.

‘She can’t if she’s
dead, silly,’ Ian said. But then he began to cry.

Sandra had looked bewildered until that
moment, but seeing her elder brother cry must have made it clearer. Mariette put an
arm around each of them, drew them close to her and cried with them.

‘Your daddy is on his way
home,’ she said. ‘I wish I hadn’t had to tell you something so
dreadful, but Mummy wanted me to be the one to explain because we were such good
friends. And because I know how proud she was of you.’

Mrs Harding came over then with glasses
of water for them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the children, her
voice cracking and tears rolling down her face. ‘Your mummy was a lovely, good
woman, and it isn’t fair she should go so young.’

Sandra got up and put her arms around
Mrs Harding’s middle. ‘Can we stay here with you?’ she asked.

‘Or do we have to go back to
London?’ Ian asked, a look of panic in his eyes.

‘No, Ian,’ Mrs Harding said
quickly. ‘You will stay here with us.’

‘For ever?’ Sandra asked,
looking up hopefully.

‘Until the war is over, at
least,’ Mariette said. She knew Joan had been brought up in an orphanage, so
there was no one on her side to come forward to claim the children. As far
as she knew, Rodney had no close
relatives either, and he’d have to go back to the army too.

‘Well, that’s good
then,’ Ian said.

Mariette knew exactly what he meant –
that having to return to London without his mother would be too awful – he just
hadn’t yet learned to be careful how he phrased things.

Mariette remembered her mother saying
that children were very resilient, and she found that to be true of Ian and Sandra
in the three days she spent with them. They cried a great deal at first, then they
asked about the house and the neighbours. But once that was done, it was almost as
if they were closing a door in their minds on their life before coming to Lyme
Regis.

By the second day, they were merely
subdued, occasionally asking Mariette a question about their mother, or how it had
been in the shelter. Ian asked if she had been in pain, and at least she was able to
say no, which seemed to satisfy him. She found Sandra looking at a family photograph
of her parents, Ian and herself. It had been taken in a studio, before Rodney left
for North Africa, because he was in uniform.

‘That dress is too small for me
now,’ Sandra said. ‘Mummy made it, it was pink with smocking.’

‘Have you still got it?’
Mariette asked.

‘Yes, it’s in the drawer
with all the things that are too small now,’ she replied.

‘Well, you must keep it, and that
photo. When you are a big girl, you’ll like to look at it. One day you might
have a little girl of your own, and you can show the dress to her, maybe
she’ll even wear it. You see, things made by someone who loves you are very
special. They make you remember good things, and make you happy.’

‘We
can’t be happy without Mummy, though, can we?’ she asked.

Sandra’s tawny-coloured eyes were
very like Joan’s, bringing Mariette up with a start.

‘Oh yes, you can,’ she said.
‘Your mummy was the happiest person I ever knew. She would hate it if you and
Ian were sad.’

BOOK: Survivor
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