Wartime Family (20 page)

Losing track of the road, one wheel bounced on to the grass verge and just as quickly bounced back off again.

‘For God’s sake, woman! Watch where you’re going!’

It was all too much. She jammed her foot to the floor. The car stalled.

‘Don’t yell at me!’

Falling forward on to the wheel, she burst into tears, her shoulders shaking in the aftermath of all that had happened.

She didn’t see his reaction, the concern in his eyes and the guilty expression. She knew nothing until he had opened the car door and dragged her out into his arms.

He caressed the nape of her neck as she cried against his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. Now go on, cry. Let it all out.’

The tears were bad enough, but the trembling was worse, as though she’d been dipped in ice and only just pulled out.

‘I’m due for some leave this weekend,’ he said gently, kissing her ear. ‘I think you are too.’

She was in no fit state to refuse his offer; her emotional state had become far weaker than her body. That night she lay in bed thinking about it. All the old conventions seemed to be breaking down. People were not daring to look beyond the here and now simply because tomorrow might never come.
So grab your happiness while you can –
was it Bessie that had said that? She didn’t remember, and anyway, it didn’t matter. Whatever she decided to do was up to her, but in the meantime she must find time to write, though carefully. Before putting pen to paper she would lock her feelings deep inside. Nothing about her relationship with Guy Hunter must show, as only time would tell where their relationship would lead.

The following day she got a letter from Margot saying that Bessie had now gone home.

Whether she’ll keep her little bundle or not, I don’t know. She did talk about having her adopted, but was undecided. She asked me to forward you her address and that of the nursing home she’s booked for the big event …

Tottenham. Bessie had gone home to Tottenham. Lizzie added the address to the back of her diary. When she got time, she’d write. Funnily enough it was going to be easier to write to her than to her own mother – and as for Patrick …

Stanley had only just left to cycle over to his father’s when the brick arrived.

Edgar was working late at the flower shop; business had been slow due to the weather.

Mary Anne considered drawing the blackout curtains but decided to wait until dusk had melted into night. Although the lights of the city were long extinguished in order to hide its existence from the German air force, Mary Anne liked looking out. Before the war, lights from streetlamps, houses and advertisements had made the city glow. Now everything was grey. At twilight the sky too was grey, though a lighter shade than the chimney stacks sticking up into it. At ground level the streets heaved with bombed shops and offices, which were all that remained of Castle Street, Wine Street and the other old streets at the heart of the city.

The bombing of November 24th had been swift, heavy and frightening. The one thing in its favour had been the day of the week: Sunday. The shops had been closed. Only those unfortunate enough to live above them had been injured or killed. Hundreds would have been killed if the raid had come on a Saturday night when the shops were open till ten and people promenaded up and down the street.

A slight movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye. Someone had ducked into the bombed remains of the insurance offices at the end of the street. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the front door being opened, then returned her attention to the street. She looked to where she’d thought someone had been standing. There was nothing there now; just weeds and rubble.

She turned away, a ready smile on her face for when Edgar stuck his head around the door.

‘Good evening,’ he said, impeccable as always in a dark suit and tie.

Before she had a chance to answer, a brick came flying through the window.

‘God, aren’t the bombings enough?’ she shouted.

She fell on to her knees, her hands clasped as though in prayer on the sofa in front of her.

Edgar crouched near the door through which he’d just entered, staring at the window. ‘The bastards!’

He said it low and with feeling, his eyes glaring with hatred, or was it sheer anger?

Mary Anne stared at him open-mouthed. He saw the silent questioning in her eyes.

‘They know Harry,’ he said, as though that answered everything. Then with surprising swiftness he got to his feet. ‘I have to go out.’

Mary Anne stared at the brick and the broken glass, too shocked to move.

He paused before leaving. ‘Will you be alright?’

Her neck seemed stiff, too stiff to nod, and her chin trembled when she finally managed it.

‘I won’t be long. I’ll get this sorted,’ he said. ‘Lock the door behind me.’

She didn’t know how long she stayed staring at the brick, her knees aching on the hardness of the floor. Like notes made on a calendar, a diary of events was scrawled across her mind. The man who’d hit Edgar over the head, the feeling of being followed, and now this.

A nerve ticked beneath her right eye. Her shoulders began to tremble. She wanted to shout for Michael, but Michael was too far away. And where was Stanley?

Gone to his father’s. Of course he was.

Her eyes went to the clock on the mantelpiece. How long since he’d been gone? How long till he got back?
Tomorrow
, she thought.
Stanley will be back tomorrow.

But at least he wasn’t here when the brick came through the window. Be thankful for that
, she told herself. He was with his father enjoying himself. Everything would be alright.

Stanley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Hmm!’ he murmured. His stomach rumbled in response. One sniff of the fish and chip shop at the bottom of Avonvale Road and he’d come to an immediate stop. Besotted with the delicious aroma, he was unaware at first of the three boys leaning against a wall.

‘Are you gettin’ some?’ one of them asked, his fingers travelling along the handlebars to the bicycle’s battered bell.

‘Nah,’ said Stanley making ready to push off. ‘Me dad’s already got some warming in the oven. Hmm,’ he murmured again, enjoying the envious looks on the three boys’ faces. ‘Can’t wait to sprinkle on the salt and vinegar. Lovely!’

A gangly boy with holes in his pullover leapt towards him, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘Yah! Yah! Yah!’

‘Get ’im! ’E’s ridin’ a girl’s bike!’

Stanley knew the rules. He was trespassing on foreign territory, but was too fast for the likes of them. Pushing off swiftly, he was soon pedalling hell for leather down Marsh Lane, laughing all the way.
He
was the one going off to eat fish and chips at his dad’s, not them, and he’d enjoyed making them jealous. Not many got a treat like that nowadays.

The door to number seventeen was open when he got there.

‘Dad!’ he shouted as he wheeled Lizzie’s bicycle into the narrow passageway. He sniffed the air, expecting the unmistakable aroma of his supper to be drifting along from the kitchen. But there was nothing; just the dank smell of mouldy wallpaper and mouse droppings. He frowned. Perhaps his dad had forgotten to put the gas on.

His stomach gurgled with a mix of worry and hunger as he headed to the end of the passageway. The kitchen was at the back of the house, an added-on protrusion just like the rest of the terrace. Even in broad daylight the kitchen was gloomy. One window and a door opened on to the back yard. There was a deep sink and a wooden draining board in front of the window, a wooden cupboard next to that, some shelves above it and a gas stove sitting on thin enamel legs.

He sniffed again. Still nothing.

There was a bit of bread and a tiny piece of cheese on the side. The cheese rind was a mottled shade of green. The bread had a greyish tinge. He broke off a piece, fingered it, but threw it back down. This wasn’t what he’d come here for and he was angry. Not for the first time in his life, his dad had disappointed him.

Overcome with anger, he strode back along the passageway. The stairs were to his left. The door to Biddy’s front room was to his right. He paused, listening to the muffled snatches of conversation and laughter. Probably entertaining one of her fancy men – or perhaps her husband was home. Then he remembered her husband had been killed at the docks a while back, though not from the bombing. Apparently he’d been drunk and fallen into the water ten minutes after the pubs had closed and just before an air raid. Nobody had had the time or the inclination to pull him out.

Stanley pressed on, clumping his way up the stairs so his dad would hear him coming and know he wasn’t well pleased.

He thought he heard the rattle of a doorknob from downstairs and someone say his name, then a man’s muffled voice.

He knew it wasn’t his father; the loud snores coming from behind the bedroom door led him to Henry Randall. The old familiar smell of stale beer accompanied the sight of his father lying prone on the bed, his bottom lip quivering with each noisy breath.

Stanley shook his father’s shoulder. ‘Dad! Where’s me supper?’

His father grunted – like a pig, thought Stanley, clenching his jaw as well as his fist. If only he was older …

‘Dad!’ He dared to shake him again, even though he knew – he’d seen – what he was capable of when he was drunk.

‘Dad!’

Again nothing.

‘Right. I’ll give you a Joe Louis,’ he muttered. Harry had told him all about Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber. He’d shown him pictures from a boxing magazine. Stanley clenched his hand into a tight fist, drew his arm back like a spring and punched him hard. A calloused hand shot out and grabbed his throat. Bleary eyes flashed open.

Stanley gasped for air, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish.

His father blinked. The bleariness in his eyes was replaced by recognition, then outright alarm.

‘Stanley!’ The hand fell away.

‘Stanley,’ he said again, struggling from the bed. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I was dreamin’. I didn’t know it was you. Come here, lad,’ he said, reaching out. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

Stanley began backing towards the door, his eyes fixed on his father’s bloated features. Seeing his fear, his father smiled and modified his voice. ‘Now come on, lad. I woke up with a start. Never fear.’

The soft voice did nothing to stop Stanley walking backwards.

Henry tried again. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I wasn’t expecting you. Did you want something in particular?’

‘Yes,’ said Stanley, backing towards the door. ‘Me fish and chip supper! It’s Friday.’

Henry slammed the palm of his hand against his forehead and groaned. ‘I knew there was something.’

He made as if to rise, but swayed a bit and then fell back on the bed, hitting his head on the wall as he did so. Yet again he was out cold, mouth open, legs at a twisted angle.

Stanley eyed him warily. Was he going to get up? He didn’t move. Padding over to the bed on tiptoe, he looked down at him, his heart racing. Was he dead? How did you tell if a person was dead?
Perhaps if I stuck a pin in him
, he thought, and looked around him.

Although the furniture was sparse and second-hand, the room was neat. He went into the front room. A huge old sideboard complete with a back mirror stood against one wall. He opened the drawer, searching for a pin. Needlework boxes contain pins, he reasoned. But men didn’t do sewing and mending, he decided after a fruitless rummage. He slammed the drawer shut.

There was nothing else for it. Biddy would have a needle. It would probably be rusty and used to pick her teeth or darn her stockings, but it would have to do.

Just as he was about to go downstairs and interrupt Biddy and her man friend, the sound of snoring resumed from the bedroom. Disappointed about the fish and chips but glad he wasn’t going to get blamed for killing his father, he closed the door and set off back down the stairs. He did it quietly, unwilling to explain anything to Biddy.

A man was standing outside Biddy’s parlour door. The man was wearing a khaki trench coat fastened with a belt and buckle. The brim of his brown trilby was tilted slightly forward, casting a shadow over his eyes.

The man smiled. ‘You’re Stanley Randall, aren’t you?’

There was something about the man’s smile, the shape of his chin and the sound of his voice that put Stanley at ease. His features glum with disappointment, he nodded vigorously.

‘You don’t look too happy, old chap. Has someone done something to upset you?’

Stanley nodded again. He’d had it in mind to be miserable all the way home to his mother, and not to speak to anyone until he’d told her all about it. She’d be sympathetic and find him something to eat, but it wouldn’t be fish and chips. Those fish and chips meant such a lot to him, the big treat of the week, and his father had let him down. But now here was this man, taking an interest in his misery.

‘My dad forgot to get me fish and chip supper.’ He didn’t add that he’d probably spent his supper money in the pub. He was too ashamed.

‘Oh, that’s a great pity,’ said the man. ‘You must be absolutely starving!’

Stanley’s belly chose that moment to make its emptiness known.

‘Ah!’ said the man, a wider smile revealing his shiny white teeth. ‘It seems that you are.’

To Stanley’s great surprise, he brought a ten-shilling note out of his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Get yourself some supper.’

Stanley’s eyes were as round as soup spoons. Ten shillings was far too much for fish and chips. Half a crown would have been more than enough.

‘You don’t have to spend it all at once,’ he said, as if reading Stanley’s mind. ‘Keep some for emergencies or to treat your friends.’

Stanley licked his lips as he slowly reached for the money.

‘Just one thing,’ said the man, his fingers tightening on his half of the note. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone I gave you this. You know what grown-ups are like; they’ll start asking awkward questions when there’s no need to. Do you promise?’

Stanley nodded. ‘Yes.’