Wartime Family (28 page)

Stanley dropped the chair leg, started to run off, then picked it up again and set it down at Patrick’s side. ‘If he struggles, give it to ’im.’

Patrick couldn’t resist a grin. Wasn’t that a line from the film? He looked up. It was darker now the fire had been put out, but he saw two figures, Lizzie and her mother, standing at the back door.

‘I’ve got him,’ he called out. He saw Lizzie put her arm around her mother. Wanting to reassure them further, he called out again. ‘It’s all over.’ He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to believe he saw Mrs Randall’s shoulders relax. He hoped so. ‘Enough of these shenanigans,’ he said to the man squirming on the ground. ‘The coppers will know how to deal with you.’

Mary Anne finished relating the list of mishaps to the policeman – most of which it seemed could be laid at the door of George Ford.

The policeman – a bluff, no-nonsense sergeant with a veined and bulbous nose rapidly taming to purple – was considerate and patient. Every so often he licked the end of his pencil before scribbling in his notebook.

Mary Anne was pleased to see him take her so seriously. She’d half been expecting him to think her just a hysterical woman, bombed out of her home, with no husband and children all flown the nest except for the youngest. Stanley was proving himself a hindrance to the proceedings. He was still imagining himself as Jimmy Cagney. It didn’t help matters that he kept firing at the sergeant with his pretend machine gun until Lizzie shooed him out.

The sergeant asked if she’d met George Ford before. She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘We’ve taken your husband down to the station and questioned him. He claims that this George Ford was an attorney at law seeking to inform you of an inheritance – from an aunt who doesn’t exist, according to him. Is that right?’

Mary Anne nodded. ‘So my husband told me.’

She was tempted to ask why they’d taken him down to the station but presumed she knew the answer to that already. She too had blamed Henry for the series of mishaps, but who was this George Ford? Had Harry upset one of his shady friends? But why pick on her? Partly to steer any blame away from her son, she mentioned Routledge, but only cautiously. She refrained from mentioning her relationship with Michael except to say that she was looking after the shop in his absence.

‘Mr Maurice upset Routledge. Mr Routledge got very angry and threatened to have his revenge.’

The police sergeant sipped at the cup of tea he’d been given before making a note. He frowned. ‘And you’re certain you don’t know this man?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

Brushing biscuit crumbs from his tunic, he struggled to his feet. ‘Ta very much for the tea, Mrs Randall. Much appreciated.’

‘Think nothing of it, Sergeant. I have to say I’m relieved he’s been caught. I can’t understand why he hated me.’

‘Who knows,’ said the sergeant. ‘But rest assured, we’re asking questions and making enquiries about this George Ford. We’ll let you know if we find anything out.’

Mary Anne thanked him and showed him to the door.

‘I think he was a nutcase,’ Patrick said to Lizzie on his return.

‘No. That doesn’t make sense. Why pick on Mother? No,’ said Lizzie, shaking her head. ‘Dad put him up to it, the vindictive old sod!’

Stanley heard her swear and gasped. ‘Wash your mouth out, Lizzie Randall.’

Lizzie grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Little brothers should be seen and not heard. Besides that, they should be washing their face, brushing their teeth and getting to bed.’ She steered him towards the bathroom as she said it, pushed him inside and shut the door. ‘And don’t come out till you’ve had a good scrub.’

Patrick was sitting on an old chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped before his furrowed brow. He looked up as she came back in. ‘Lizzie. Can we have a talk?’

‘This is hardly the time, Patrick,’ she snapped.

He couldn’t have taken a slap in the face more badly. Despite herself, her heart went out to him. She’d let him down. A dark mood had descended on her. How would her affair with Guy Hunter end? Happy ever after was what she wanted, and even though he’d assured her that they would be together, she remembered Bessie and was frightened.

Mary Anne bounced Mathilda on her lap. Every so often she glanced up at Daw. Should she tell her what had happened? Half of her said yes, the other no. The old-style Mary Anne, the one who lived for her children rather than herself, said yes. After all, Daw was as much her daughter as Lizzie was, and Lizzie already knew everything.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she finally said.

Daw was being her usual reticent self, folding washing and testing the iron she’d placed on the gas ring before slamming it on to a sheet and ironing like mad. She hadn’t been at all happy to hear that her mother had left her father again.

Mary Anne took the plunge and told her about the man at the back of the pawn shop. ‘They took your father in for questioning too, though they let him go,’ she said, still bouncing the baby, and glancing at Daw to see her reaction, but Daw was her characteristic self. She slammed the iron back on to its stand.

‘How ridiculous! Dad wouldn’t do anything like that. He wouldn’t dream of harming any of his family. I’ve told you before, Mother, I refuse to believe it.’

Although Stanley appeared to be totally engrossed in a piece of home-made cake, really he was all ears. ‘He beat me!’

‘Liar!’ Daw shouted, loud enough to make the baby jump and burst into disgruntled yells.

‘No I’m not,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll show you.’ He swiftly tucked up his pullover and tugged his shirt out from his trousers. ‘There,’ he said, turning round and exposing his back.

Both Mary Anne and Daw fell to silence. Fine red wheals covered his back.

Mary Anne fought to find her voice. When she spoke there was a cold righteousness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘When did he do that?’

Stanley turned round, his shirt tail still hanging over his backside. ‘Last week, just before we ran away.’

She handed the baby to Daw, crouched down in front of her son and clasped his shoulders. At the same time she tried hard to stop her hands shaking. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to sound calm. Stanley had been sick in the not-so-distant past. She didn’t want to chance it happening again. He mustn’t be upset.

Stanley’s huge blue eyes looked at her soulfully. ‘I didn’t want to upset you, Mum. You ’ad enough on yer plate.’

Mary Anne was beside herself. ‘Oh, Stanley! And there was me thinking I’d rescued you before anything happened!’

Swiping his nose with the back of his hand, he held his head at a cocky angle. ‘I can protect myself now. I’m a member of the Barton Hill Gang. I’ll shoot anyone who hurts you, Ma.’

Smiling through her tears, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead and sniffed back a tear. ‘My brave little soldier.’

His grin spread from ear to ear. ‘That’s what I am, Ma. A soldier.’

Looking quite put out at the chain of events, Daw tugged Stanley’s arm. ‘So what did you do? Dad wouldn’t have beat you unless you’d done something really wrong.’

Stanley frowned at her. So did Mary Anne. ‘I saw him coming out of the pub with that man, Mr Routledge. They were laughing together. I told him he shouldn’t be drinking ’cos me mum wouldn’t like it. Mr Routledge said I was in need of a good beating. He kept saying it to me dad over and over again. “Don’t take that lip. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Spare the rod and spoil the child” he kept saying, over and over and over again …’

Mary Anne could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘Hardly a reason for beating him like that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Or do you still defend your father?’ she asked Daw. ‘The police think this George Ford character could be a spy or someone who’s escaped from a mental institution. Either way, they think he’s quite dangerous, but clever – very clever. They’re trying to find out the truth.’

She waited for Daw to speak on her father’s behalf as she always did. On hearing no response, she turned to look at her. Although Daw was in the habit of hiding her feelings behind a tightly controlled mask, this time something had slipped. She was hugging Mathilda to her breast. The baby was screaming with dismay, but still Daw stared into the distance, seeming not to hear the child at all.

‘Daw?’ Still with one arm around her son, Mary Anne eyed her daughter quizzically. Daw didn’t seem to be listening.

‘Daw,’ she said again.

Her eldest daughter jerked herself back to the present. Her mouth was open as though she’d been about to speak, and yet she seemed unable to utter a sound.

Mary Anne frowned. ‘What is it? Is Mathilda alright? Is there something you want to tell me?’ She mentally checked off everything that might be wrong.

‘George Ford. He said he was a friend of Dad’s,’ she said quietly. ‘I met him when I was fire watching. He was a fire watcher too. At least, that was what he told me. He was so nice to talk to.’

Mary Anne gaped at her. ‘Was George Ford the friend you mentioned a while back?’

Daw nodded slowly. ‘I thought he was. He seemed so friendly, so caring about my welfare and the sort of person you could unload your troubles on.’

Her mother sank into a chair as the picture became clearer. ‘You mean that, when he asked, you told him everything about your family. Is that right?’

Daw bit her bottom lip and the glitter of self-belief left her dark brown eyes when she nodded.

Mary Anne hid her face in her hands and shook her head. It was tempting not to drop her hands from her face ever again. What was happening to her family? At first she peered out through the gaps in her fingers. Once she’d got her thoughts into some order, she dropped her hands. It occurred to Mary Anne that Daw was now showing more concern for her family than she had for years.

‘Mum, I’m so sorry …’

Mary Anne shook her head. ‘You’re not the only one. This George Ford was determined to destroy my family, it seems. But
why
?’

The question was to stay with her for the next two months. Living in the ruined pawn shop was strangely satisfying, though she missed Michael constantly. She had written to him after leaving Henry for the final time, resolving never to doubt their relationship again. His letters were still sporadic and she devoured them like dairy cream the instant they arrived.

Harry came home on leave and managed to repair a few windows and build new walls. The smell of blackened timbers persisted, but at least the old place would be cosier for the winter. While summer lasted, great swathes of sunlight warmed the rooms by day and turned them red at sunset. Mary Anne sat with her eldest son on the old chaise longue, staring out the window with their arms around each other.

‘We’re like rich people on the
Queen Mary
watching the sun go down as we cross the Atlantic,’ said Mary Anne wistfully.

Harry’s arm tightened around her shoulder and he kissed her hair. ‘There are only troops on the
Queen Mary
these days.’

‘How sad. I’d like to take a trip on her one day.’

‘After the war,’ he said, hugging her close. ‘When the world’s at peace and you’re juggling another grandchild on your knee.’

Mary Anne sighed. ‘I keep asking Lizzie about her beau, but she doesn’t let on. She says she’ll be off abroad before very long, but won’t say where she’s going. I’ll worry about her, of course, but …’

Harry felt her shrug beneath his arm. He wanted to say to her that it wasn’t usual for women drivers to go abroad into a battle zone, but he kept his mouth shut. Lizzie’s letters had been few and far between of late, but now she was saying that her posting was so top-secret that she wouldn’t be able to send any at all. Had his beloved mother noticed that Lizzie was sending conflicting stories? It seemed strange to him, but he wouldn’t tell her that. She had been through enough. All he wanted was for her to be happy.

Lizzie threaded a piece of elastic through her skirt’s buttonhole and around the button. ‘Breathe in,’ she muttered to herself.

The waistband fastened – just. There was no full-length mirror in the room she shared with Margot and Annabelle, a new girl with sleek blonde hair and a confident manner. She and Margot had hit it off right away. Lizzie had felt left out at first, but was now glad of being left alone a bit more. They still spoke but although Margot made comments about her putting on weight, she didn’t dwell on the subject. ‘Stodge and more stodge,’ she had said, referring to their daily diet.

Lizzie had joined in with her own comments about suet pudding and potato pie. Once Annabelle was in the room, her presence seemed to fade into the background.

Margot came into the room just after Lizzie had secured her skirt. She brushed briskly at the front of it as though she were only removing crumbs, not flattening it over her stomach.

‘I’ve got leave. Isn’t that marvellous?’ she said, adopting her happiest voice as she ran a red lipstick around her mouth.

Margot stood wavering by the closed door. ‘I suppose you’re off with Wing Commander Hunter this weekend.’ There was something about her tone of voice that stabbed at Lizzie’s heart. She controlled the sudden shaking in the hand holding the lipstick.

‘That’s right.’

There was a beat or two of silence before Margot said, ‘Have you told him yet?’

Lizzie felt her heart beating harder. ‘Told him what?’

Margot was standing beside her now, her expression serious, her eyes intent. ‘You can’t fool me, Lizzie. That skirt is too tight for you. And don’t tell me it’s purely suet pudding. It’s a pudding alright, but not a suet one.’

Lizzie spun round on her. ‘It’s none of your business. It’s between me and Guy.’

‘Of course it is. So what does he say about it?’

Lizzie reached for her gas mask and her handbag. ‘It’s none of your business,’ she repeated.

Once outside the door, she regretted snapping at Margot. She stalled, her hand remaining on the door handle as she tried to decide whether or not to apologize.
No
, she thought.
I’ll do that I’ll break down and tell her everything, just as Margot told me all about Major Bradley when they split up.