Wartime Family (19 page)

‘Were you having a nightmare?’ Edgar asked at breakfast as he ladled porridge into three dishes. He’d given up the big bed to her and Stanley and had moved into the smaller box room. Edgar was kindness itself.

‘Did I shout out?’

‘Yes!’ said Stanley.

Mary Anne frowned at him. ‘So where were you?’

‘I slept on the settee out here. Don’t you remember?’

His mother rubbed at her eyes. She was so tired of lying awake, worrying about everything and anything. Her immediate concern was still about living somewhere safe. She’d thought that here in her son’s flat would have been safe enough. Now, since Edgar had been attacked, she wasn’t so sure.

She took a spoonful of porridge and sipped at the tea Edgar had poured out for her. ‘This is very good of you,’ she said. ‘But I still feel I’m an inconvenience.’

He looked quite shocked. ‘Of course you’re not! You’re Harry’s mother!’

It amused her to hear him say it in that way, as a daughter-in-law might say it to her husband’s mother. She wondered if the similarities were more obvious when the two of them were alone. She wouldn’t ask. The social taboos were still in place. What they did together physically was still a crime. Overall she would prefer not to know.

She took another spoonful of the porridge, wondering at how he managed to make it taste so sweet with sugar being so scarce.

‘That was lovely,’ said Stanley, his spoon clattering in his dish. He glanced at his mother and Edgar, and then swiftly, before anyone had time to object, he gripped the dish with both hands and licked it clean.

His mother swiped the pristine dish from his hands. ‘Now off to school. I’ll see you in the morning.’

It was Friday and he would be staying with his father tonight. At first he’d protested that he wouldn’t stay there any more – some childhood memories were too difficult to overcome – but the promise of a regular fish and chip supper had swayed his loyalty. To his credit, Henry resisted the drink on a Friday night. Mary Anne had instilled in Stanley that should his father succumb to the beer, he was to come home straight away or knock at Biddy’s door. Not that Biddy was much better than Henry nowadays. From what Harry had told her, she was enjoying herself, having a stout or two of an evening and entertaining gentlemen callers. But she wouldn’t see Stanley mistreated, in that at least Biddy was above board.

Mary Anne straightened Stanley’s tie, patted his collar flat and smoothed his jacket. He was using Lizzie’s old bicycle to get to school. It was a fair distance, but everyone was putting themselves out at the moment, even the children.

‘Another cup of tea?’ asked Edgar.

She nodded, wrapping both hands around the warm china. She found herself wishing for time to fly by, for this war to be over, for things to be calmer. Most of all she wanted Michael home again.

‘Why do you think that man was here the other night?’ she asked Edgar.

‘I told you why.’

‘Will he come back?’

‘Possibly. Harry says I’m to get in touch with some friends of his if he does. They’ll sort it out.’ He raised his eyebrows.

Mary Anne didn’t need him to explain what he meant.

Edgar caught her frowning. ‘Anything wrong, Mrs Randall?’

Her hand trembled as she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m not sure that it was you he was after.’

He waited for her to continue.

She gulped down her fear and listed all the things that had happened. ‘First there was the pawn shop burning down, then there was Mathilda going missing, then Patrick being framed for looting, then a letter being sent to the Red Cross shop. After we came here, Stanley’s skates went missing and you got attacked. And all in a period of a few months. Is that enough?’

Edgar frowned. ‘If they’re not coincidence, then who’s responsible?’

Mary Anne shook her head. ‘I don’t know. All I worry about is that if I’m right, what might this person do next? Murder us in our beds?’

‘So that was the reason for the nightmare?’

She nodded.

The sound of the post falling through the letterbox made her start. Edgar fetched it.

‘Two for you,’ he said, his face beaming. She thanked him and mused that he got almost as excited as she did when her children or Michael wrote.

The first was from Michael. An increased workload and sickness amongst staff meant he wouldn’t get leave for a while.

Perhaps not until May …

May! Another month. She sighed, her heart momentarily lifted by the words he wrote. The fact that he’d held this same piece of paper she was reading was strangely comforting, but nothing could compensate for his physical presence. She looked up, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging above the sideboard.

‘You look gorgeous. Not a day over twenty-one,’ said Edgar as if reading her thoughts.

She laughed. ‘Go on with you.’

The second letter was from Patrick. She smiled as she began to read, anticipating that he’d included one of his poems. Patrick was one of those people greatly moved by their positive emotions such as love and happiness. He never wrote about sad things. But there were no poems and as she read on she began to understand why. He said he’d written to Lizzie telling her he was being posted abroad, but had received no reply. He asked Mary Anne whether she had heard, if everything was alright, if Lizzie was well. He also stated that he hoped to have leave in late summer.

It wasn’t difficult to read into what he was really saying.
She hasn’t written. Is there anyone else?

Mary Anne frowned and stroked her cheek thoughtfully. She too had wondered why she’d received no letter from Lizzie. Deep down she knew that Patrick was right to be concerned. Lizzie was sometimes drawn to the wrong kind of man.

Edgar interrupted her thoughts. ‘We’ve got kippers for tea tonight.’

‘That’s nice.’

She didn’t ask him where they’d come from. Like Harry, he had a black market line to those in the know. Not all the supplies coming into Bristol Docks went to legitimate suppliers. That was how Harry could afford this place.

‘I’ll be off now,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m late already.’

Edgar was lucky enough to have an assistant to open and run his shop for him so could afford not to get in until ten if he liked.

‘Got your day all planned?’ he asked her.

She fingered the letter from Michael, feeling the crispness of the thin paper and finding that today it just wasn’t enough to raise her spirits. A greater closeness was needed. She wanted him home before May.

‘I’m going out shopping. I’ll pick up some greens if I can. This afternoon I’ll write some letters.’

After he’d gone, she washed the dishes, washed herself then put on her hat and coat. The weather was warmer, but she still had to make do with the brown tweed and black hat she’d worn all winter. Most of her clothes had been destroyed in the fire, but today she would go to the burned-out ruins one last time.

The black buttons on her coat were big, square and reflected the spring sunshine. She took a tram to Redcliffe Hill and walked from there, carefully averting her eyes as she passed the Red Cross shop. The women helping out there were a good sort and were doing a good job, but Gertrude was overbearing at times. She could make them very miserable indeed if she had half a mind to.

The front of the pawn shop had been boarded up so she went through the alley and around the back. The damage wasn’t so bad at the back. The single tree in the centre of the yard was bright with buds. Its branches waved in the breeze. She fancied it was waving at her and smiling, welcoming her back.

Silly
, she thought and turned her attention to the back of the building. The windows had also been boarded over, but the back door was still in situ and locked. She took the key out of her handbag.

The scullery was dark and smelled of blackened wood and plaster. The linoleum floor she’d once swept and polished was covered with dirt. She felt her way to the front of the living room and the corner cupboard. The smell was worse here, but the corner cupboard was still there, though its surface crumbled beneath her fingers.

Kneeling down, she ran her hands over the lower door until she found the smooth roundness of its china knob; gave it a tug and yanked the door open.

Something scuttled past her foot. She gasped. A mouse? Never mind. Mice couldn’t harm you. Leave that to humans!

Amazingly, the interior of the cupboard was undamaged. Her fingertips ran over the top shelf and touched Michael’s precious record collection. Her heart leapt with joy for his sake. Something of his uncle’s
had
survived. She dropped her hand to the floor of the cupboard. As with the top shelf, nothing was missing. She found the box she was looking for, opened it and got out a candle and matches.

Her hand trembled as she lit it. Holding it aloft, the meagre flame flickered in a draught. A lump came to her throat as she beheld the blackened walls. In the corner the metal springs of the chaise longue hung on to what remained of its frame. Her gaze lingered. She remembered recuperating there after Michael had found her collapsed on his doorstep.

Scuffling and the sound of something tumbling down attracted her attention. A cat ran out from beneath the stairs. It disappeared through a gap in the floorboards, probably down into the cellar and out through the broken coal hatch.

The ground floor of the shop was open all the way to the rafters. The door to the front bedroom was still shut, just as she’d left it. Anyone stepping out would fall and break their neck.

Glass crunched underfoot as she made her way into the shop. The counter was still intact, though its mahogany top was a little scarred by the heat. The rest of the shop was totally devastated. The wire cages protecting the most valuable items were twisted and bent. Charcoaled frames were all that remained of the glass-fronted cupboards. Smashed china and glass covered the floor. The strange thing was that the remains of watches and bits of silverware poked blackly through the debris. Why?

The answer was not long in coming; Michael was right. Whoever had started the fire wasn’t interested in the goods stored here. It couldn’t have been looters – and if it wasn’t looters, who was it?

Guy Hunter’s life was a round of War Ministry meetings and airfield inspections. ‘Call me a liaison officer,’ he said when Lizzie asked him what he actually did.

She gained a little insight one day on a visit to an aerodrome. They’d driven straight into an enemy attack, and the sky above them was black with enemy bombers. They’d been caught in the melee and had been forced to take shelter in a deep trench protected by sandbag walls.

Running on her way to the trench, someone had shouted out that WAAFs and other women should go to their own shelter.

Guy had pushed her onwards. ‘There’s no bloody time for social niceties!’

The noise was ear-splitting. Lizzie cowered low, her tin hat fallen over one eye, her fingers in her ears. Guy’s thigh brushed against hers and his hand was pressing on her back, pushing her downwards.

Murmurs of fear and anger eddied around her. Someone prayed. Someone sang in a very shaky voice.

The sound of fire bells succeeded that of the ‘all clear’. Those who had survived crept from hiding and into a fiery hell.

Great plumes of black smoke billowed up into the sky from damaged hangars and buildings. Plumes of lesser density – but far more worrying given the scarcity of airworthy planes – rose from the few fighters left on the ground.

‘As if the lack of pilots wasn’t bad enough,’ muttered Guy.

Narrowing his eyes brought them into sharper contrast with his outdoor complexion. Someone could feel fear when he looked like that, Lizzie thought.

No one was given time to feel sorry for themselves. A staff sergeant bent over close by, spewing up whatever he’d had for breakfast that morning. A colleague asked him if he was alright.

Guy barked out an order. ‘Of course he’s OK. Now come on. Put these bloody fires out.’

The staff sergeant’s reaction was instant and unexpected. His eyes glared with a mix of fear and anger. ‘OK?
OK?
Don’t you use no American terms here. The Yanks ain’t in this war, late again like they were for the last lot.’

The wing commander’s reaction was just as instant and just as unexpected. He grabbed the man by his jacket collar and dragged him to where the propeller of a burning Spitfire had been blown off to within feet of their shelter.

‘Do you see that?’ Still hanging on to the man with one hand, a very angry Guy pointed at the twisted piece of metal. ‘That propeller’s travelled a long way. Do you know that? It states its place of manufacture. Detroit, USA. So don’t be so quick to condemn, Sergeant. Open your eyes and you might learn something!’

‘Can you help here?’ someone called out.

Lizzie turned to see a line of stockinged legs sticking out from beneath a tarpaulin. She ran over to where WAAFs were dealing with their dead, her thoughts in turmoil and her nerves taut.

‘One of the women’s shelters scored a bad one,’ said a corporal with smudged cheeks and a ripped skirt.

Sometimes when she’d been asked to help out with things, Guy had intervened. Today he’d come into his own. He was now directing operations, asking questions about how many planes they had, how many pilots were still up, how much fuel there was, how many were dead … Too many.

The only damage to the car was a smashed headlight.

‘Well that’s something we don’t use much anyway,’ she said, sounding much more confident than she actually felt.

Guy was subdued. His jaw was set in a grim line. He was forthright, businesslike and obviously considering the day’s events. Well, she decided, if he was being strong, then she must be likewise.

Dirty, tired and feeling as though she were made of brittle glass and would easily shatter, Lizzie got behind the wheel of the car. As darkness fell they began the drive back to Ainsley Hall.

The night was moonless and her head began to ache with the effort of driving through such absolute darkness. The one headlight they had left, muted as it was with black paint, made a poor show. Coming on top of such a frightening day, it wasn’t long before the cracks began to show.