Wartime Family (15 page)

‘So I’m a pig, am I? Then that makes yer mother a sow, does it?’

Harry barely controlled himself. His eyes glittered as he shook his head. ‘My mother’s far from that – but you! Just look at you. Drunk again. So will poor old Biddy here get a beating when she wakes up? Just like the ones you used to give my mother?’

‘Your mother!’ His father spat on the floor. ‘You talk about ’er as though she’s the bloody Virgin Mary. She weren’t no virgin when I married ’er, that’s fer sure. She was soiled goods. Soiled goods that I was paid to marry, though I didn’t know that at the time.’

A cold chill mixed with Harry’s anger. He gripped his father’s shirt collar and hauled him up so that his heels were raised from the ground. He stood only on the soles of his feet and his face was turning swiftly red. But Harry didn’t care. He would defend his mother to his dying day – even against his own father.

‘You vindictive old bugger! Pretending to want her back when all the time you’ve been hounding her. It was you sent that letter, weren’t it? You old sod!’

‘Get off me.’

Harry began to shake him like a terrier with a rat. ‘You did it! You slandered her good name! Go on! Admit it!’

Although his father’s face was red as a beetroot as he tried to catch his breath, defiance burned in his eyes. ‘I didn’t write no letter and I didn’t get nobody else to write it either.’

‘You’re lying!’

Henry Randall’s sneer was so ugly Harry felt a great compulsion to slap it from his face.

Henry carried on. ‘Yer mother’s family didn’t tell me the whole truth; didn’t tell me she’d already been soiled and ’ad a nipper.’

Harry felt the colour draining from his face, felt his arms trembling and his fingers tightening around his father’s throat.

‘You’re lying!’ Even as he said it, he asked himself why his father should lie. So many young men had dashed off to the Great War and died in the mud of Flanders. His mother wouldn’t be the first to have been left in a difficult predicament.

Relishing the uncertainty in his son’s face, his father chuckled. ‘There you are! Didn’t know you ’ad a big brother, did you?’

A brother! The statement seemed almost monstrous, but the effect was instantaneous. The hands gripping his father’s shirt collar loosened. No longer having the benefit of Harry holding him up, Henry Randall crashed into a chair. His head tipped to one side, his mouth gaped and he laughed mockingly before his eyes shut and he began to snore.

Stanley tugged at his sleeve. ‘Can we go now?’

Harry looked down and saw the round blue eyes staring up at him imploringly. He ruffled his little brother’s hair. ‘Of course we can. Well, you can’t stay here. Have you got everything?’

Stanley nodded.

It wasn’t until they were in the car and he’d started the engine that something struck him. Stanley had averted his eyes from his father and Biddy. He wondered how long the drinking had been going on, how long his father had been living a lie. There was nothing to be gained by asking Stanley about it.
Best he should forget
, he thought to himself.
Best to just get on with his life.
But how could you forget your father? His mother was a different matter. He could understand what had happened. That’s how things were back then and they weren’t that different nowadays, though he sensed things were changing fast. But there was one other nagging concern that he couldn’t yet come to terms with. How would he deal with the brother he’d never known he’d had, and where was he? What was he doing now? Would they ever meet?

On Valentine’s Day there was a dance being held at the old guildhall in Lavenham and Lizzie was determined not to miss it.

Work had been pretty routine for the past few weeks since just before Christmas when she’d taken Wing Commander Hunter to Croydon. She’d ferried a few VIPs around and some had been cheeky enough to ask her out. One of them had succeeded. Flight Lieutenant Warren had been acting as escort to a party of visiting dignitaries. The party had consisted of civil servants, all bowler hats and smelling of ink. Their complexions had been pasty white, feeble in comparison to the fresh-faced Warren. Once the dignitaries had been handed over to senior officers, Warren had sought her out.

She was excited about going out, but that excitement was mixed with guilt when she received a letter from Patrick. As befitting Valentine’s Day, the letter contained one of his verses.

If I should die tomorrow, think only this of me,

That even with my dying breath, my words would be for thee.

If I should die tomorrow, shed not too many tears,

But hold the joy of how we lived, and love me through the years.

‘Gosh, that’s sad,’ said Bessie, reading it over Lizzie’s shoulder.

Margot read it too. ‘It’s honest.’ She sighed. ‘Live for today. Tomorrow may never come. That’s what he’s saying. What do you think, Lizzie? He’s your chap.’

A vision of scruffy Patrick, dragged up by a harlot of a mother, was the first thing that came to mind. He’d always followed her around, and she’d liked him. On joining up he’d turned into a very fine young man. She knew how he felt about her, and she’d felt the same about him – at least she thought she had.

‘Things are different in wartime. Where would we be if it had never happened?’

‘I would have been a debutante.’ Margot was holding a pale silk dress against herself and admiring her reflection in a mirror. ‘Uniform or civvies?’

It was obvious from the tone of her voice what she wanted the answer to be. But there was no choice.

‘Uniform!’ shouted the rest of the girls in unison.

The order had been given. Uniforms must be worn to the dance – the top brass insisted. It was all about having pride in what they were doing, and showing the civilian population that they were professional at all times.

Lizzie was touching up her lipstick. It was red and her mother had given it her for Christmas.

They all snapped to attention when the hut officer entered. She looked straight at Lizzie. ‘Randall. I know you’ve got a pass, but I’ve been ordered to tell you anyway. That Canadian chap, Wing Commander Hunter, is flying into Croydon. He’s asked that you be there with a car. If you’re dead set on going to this dance, I can get someone else to fetch him. It’s up to you.’

‘Isn’t it nice to be wanted?’ said Margot – under her breath of course because they were all standing to attention.

Although her heart had been set on going to the dance, Lizzie hesitated before answering. At first she’d considered the wing commander a bit of a cold fish. For a long time all he’d done was stare out of the car window, deal with his paperwork, and respond curtly to any attempt at conversation. Why should she jump at the chance to pick him up from the airfield? And yet, for one fleeting moment she considered exactly that.

‘If there is someone else, Sergeant …’

‘That can be arranged, Randall. At ease.’

A sigh of relief ran through them all. Muscles relaxed and the chatter returned to the usual subjects. Bessie was flashing her engagement ring.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked Lizzie.

Lizzie gave it a cursory glance. ‘I’ve already told you, Bessie. I think it’s smashing.’

‘So do I,’ crooned Bessie, admiring the tiny diamond for the umpteenth time that day. She’d flashed it at least a dozen times to anyone who would stop to look. She sighed. ‘Won’t be long now before I’m married and out of all this. No more uniforms. No more getting up at the crack of dawn.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Lizzie. ‘Though just because you’re engaged doesn’t mean you get to leave here straightaway. I heard there are some married women who’ve opted to stay on, or been ordered to stay on …’

‘Not me! I won’t be staying.’

There was something in Bessie’s tone that made Lizzie look at her. The girl from Tottenham had a complexion that erred towards pink; at present it was red, bright red. Never had her eyes sparkled as they did now, as though she were holding in a secret that was aching to get out.

Just as Lizzie was about to ask why she was so excited, a message came saying that Bessie’s chap, Arthur Frayling, was waiting for her outside.

‘Gotta rush,’ she shouted, flinging her greatcoat around her shoulders.

Thoughtfully, Lizzie watched her go. Bessie was always a ball of energy and full of saucy comments. But this excitement, this aura of expectation, was something new.

‘Rule fifty-seven,’ said Margot.

Although Lizzie had an inkling of what that might mean, she asked Margot to explain.

‘She’s in the pudding club. You heard what she said. She was adamant that she’ll be out of here shortly and that, my dear Lizzie, is the quickest way. The fact that she is only engaged and not married is beside the point. And don’t deny that was the question you were going to ask. I can see it in your eyes.’

It was true. Bessie’s Arthur might be all for getting engaged, but it didn’t mean he would see it through. Margot again voiced her own thoughts.

‘Arthur’s sowing his oats now, but will he stick around when the bun starts to rise?’

Lizzie looked away from Margot and folded her arms. ‘I’m sure he will. He seems a very nice boy.’

Margot made a humphing sound. ‘They’re all very nice boys. But that doesn’t mean they stick around, especially in wartime.’

The sound of a truck driver blowing his horn told them that their transport to Lavenham had arrived. In peacetime their journey would have taken no more than twenty minutes. In wartime, with no headlights, no signposts and a full load of giggling girls on board, it took closer to forty.

Blackout curtains screened the interior of the guildhall from enemy aircraft. The girls picked their way over the slippery cobbles, voicing their approval for heavy shoe leather. High heels would have been suicidal. Despite having to wear uniform, the smell of face powder pervaded the ancient hall.

Flight Lieutenant Warren was already inside, one of many blue uniforms amongst just as many – probably more – khaki ones. She saw him peering through the crowd. He smiled when he saw her.

‘So glad you could come,’ he said and took hold of her hand.

‘There was nowhere else to go tonight.’

‘Super! Care to dance?’

The music was provided by a local quartet who only seemed to know waltzes and foxtrots. They had a few dances and a few drinks, and her escort played the gentleman – until the few drinks became quite a lot.

‘I like dances that bring people closer,’ said Reggie Warren.

‘So I notice,’ said Lizzie as her bosoms brushed against his chest. She readjusted her stance, just enough to leave an inch or two.

‘Shame you couldn’t wear a silky dress,’ said Reggie. ‘Like her over there.’ He pointed to a curvaceous blonde in a slinky satin dress. ‘You can see every curve. Bet her partner can feel them too.’

Despite the thickness of her uniform, she felt a hot hand run down her back and land on her bottom.

‘Can’t feel much through this,’ he said laughingly.

Lizzie bristled as he attempted to raise her skirt, cupping his fingers into her flesh.

‘Don’t do that!’ She pushed herself away from him.

He laughed. ‘Lizzie, sweetheart …’

She pushed her way through the laughing, dancing, happy couples. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know he was following.

Someone grabbed her arm as she bustled through. It was Bessie and Arthur, entwined like bindweed climbing a fence.

‘He’s nice,’ said Bessie, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. ‘If I wasn’t already spoken for, I wouldn’t throw him out with the rubbish.’

Lizzie ducked away, presuming he wasn’t following her.

Someone shouted at her to watch the light as she headed through the door. It slammed behind her. She found herself leaning against the old building, feeling the patterns in the plasterwork beneath her fingers. To one side the old bottle glass of the ancient windows glimmered with frost. The stars were out. It wasn’t completely dark but dark enough.

Her breath was steam. All she could think about were the feelings Reggie had aroused in her. There had been an element of revulsion, but also one of guilt. The guilt was that surely she should be keeping herself for Patrick. Didn’t everyone, especially her family, expect her to marry him?

The revulsion was only with herself. She’d actually
enjoyed
his groping fingers. It had been so long since the days when she’d worked for Mrs Selwyn Kendall and had sneaked off with her son, Peter, on Wednesday afternoons when the shop was closed. They’d made love in the back of his car. She’d felt so swanky to be riding in his car and being seen with the likes of him. Not that they went out much as such, they just met to make love – at his convenience.

You were a willing partner
, she said to herself under her breath.
You liked it.
She watched her breath turn to steam, taking the words away into the blackness.

A couple came out of the main entrance, a splash of momentary brightness falling over the slippery ground. She sidled along a bit further into the darkness so they couldn’t see her. Unaware they were being observed, they kissed and she heard the rustle of disturbed clothing.

‘No,’ she heard the girl say. ‘Don’t do that.’

In the dim light she could see the couple grappling, the girl pushing away the intruding hand beneath her skirt. There was a flash of white thigh as the skirt was pushed higher.

She heard the young man say, ‘Come on. There’s a war on.’

‘Yes, and she’s the one fighting it.’ Lizzie bit her lip. The comment had slipped out before she’d had chance to stop it.

The young man – a soldier judging by as much of his uniform as she could see – turned in her direction. ‘Oi! Who’s there?’

The girl took advantage of the situation and escaped, the door closing noisily behind her.

The soldier’s shadow fell over her only a second before he did. His features were disfigured by what little light there was. He was far from happy.

‘Nosy cow! Like watching, do ya?’

Lizzie took sidesteps, feeling her way along the wall with the flats of her hands. ‘I was out here first. I didn’t know you were going to come out and start that nonsense right next to me, did I?’