Wartime Family (37 page)

‘Edward was my sweetheart. We were engaged to be married …’ She went on to tell her about Edward being killed in the trenches, about discovering that she was expecting his child, about giving that child away, and about her parents paying Henry to marry her.

‘We were happy at first, so happy that I thought I could trust him with the truth. I was wrong.’ Hurt by the memory, she hung her head. ‘I was terribly wrong. From that dreadful moment, everything changed. The man I thought I could trust turned to drink. I didn’t know he’d made an effort not to drink when he married me. I didn’t know then that he worshipped me. I was like a goddess to him, and then he found out that I was as human as he was.’ She sighed, spreading her palms helplessly. ‘My attempt to be honest didn’t work because I’d been dishonest in the first place.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘At night I sometimes dream of Edward coming home and how different life would be if he hadn’t been killed and we’d got married.’ Her eyes drifted to Elizabeth. ‘Different for all of us.’

Daw was like a broken doll, her features shattered and pale. She strained to keep her gaze fixed on her mother. She was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a motor vehicle, afraid to turn away in case it was all an illusion.

Fixing her gaze on Mary Anne, Elizabeth leaned forward, her smooth fingers interlocked over her knees. ‘I’m going back home tomorrow. George is in a hospital near Norwich. He needs me. I hope you’ll understand. He’s been so damaged by this war.’

Mary Anne’s smile was wistful. ‘I’m so sorry for you. Poor George.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. Don’t be sorry for me. A lot of husbands won’t be coming back to their wives. I have to content myself with that fact. I’ve still got George, and in time he may well recover. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive what he did. He wasn’t himself.’

Mary Anne felt her heart would break when she saw the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes. She leaned across and covered her daughter’s hands with her own. ‘I understand, Elizabeth. I know what you must be going through.’

Elizabeth smiled through her tears, retrieved one of her hands and placed it on Daw’s. ‘I’m thrilled to have a family. I hope no one is offended by my intrusion into your lives. I only hope you can grow to love me as I already love all of you.’

Hot tears rolled down Mary Anne’s cheeks. ‘My dear girl. I’m so glad you came back. I’ve loved you all my life. I loved you before you were born and now I will never cease to love you.’

The two women embraced.

Gertrude, who had got the gist of what was going on during Elizabeth’s first visit, now dabbed at the corners of her eyes, just as Edith had once done. ‘Life is never what you think it’s going to be,’ she murmured as she blew into a mansize handkerchief.

Mary Anne filled up with emotion, her chest tightening with excitement, relief and happiness. She’d regained Elizabeth, but had she lost Daw? She looked at her daughter, sitting next to the pushchair, a blank expression on her face.

‘Daw?’

Daw blinked and looked at her.

‘Daw. There was a war on when all this happened, just as there is now. We seized the opportunity for happiness. Unfortunately, my sweetheart was killed. It happened so quickly. I’m sorry about not telling you …’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see John before he goes back. I’ve got to …’

Make amends.
Her mother sensed Daw’s unspoken meaning.

Daw was suddenly all action, buttoning up her coat, adjusting her hat, fastening the apron on the pushchair so that Mathilda was protected against the chill December day.

‘I’m going home,’ she stated, firmly gripping the handle of the pushchair and aiming it at the door. ‘There’s things I’ve got to sort out.’

‘Of course you do. John’s going back tomorrow, isn’t he?’

Daw paused. Mary Anne saw the mix of regret and panic in her daughter’s eyes. She guessed John would be sleeping in his own bed tonight. After what she’d learned today, Daw would never take John for granted again – at least, not while this war lasted.

‘Will she accept me?’ Elizabeth asked once the door had closed.

Mary Anne didn’t take long to give her an answer. ‘I think so.’

‘I’m so glad,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I can’t quite believe I’ve got a sister who looks so like me. I’d like to visit Lizzie and Harry too. Will you give me their addresses?’

‘Yes, but let me write to them first,’ Mary Anne cautioned.

Elizabeth gripped her hand. They hugged spontaneously; one moment they were looking at each other, the next they were hugging as though they’d never let go. Both knew that there would be many more such moments in the future.

Sally was polishing her nails and Lizzie was flicking through a woman’s magazine that Sally had loaned her. Women in the most wonderful fashions imaginable looked out at her, their lips smiling broadly over perfect teeth.

Overawed by her roommate, she tried hard not to gush questions or comments about where the magazine had come from, how she managed to style her hair so professionally and whether they really made such wonderful underwear in Paris.

‘Where else? You certainly wouldn’t buy it in British Home Stores,’ Sally said without pausing in the painting of her fingernails.

‘And these models, they’re so beautiful. I wish I could look like them.’

‘You will, once you get rid of your little load.’

The words were harsh and brought the bile to Lizzie’s mouth. Sally talked about parting with one’s own child as though the living creature were a special offer bought in a sale and discarded because it didn’t fit.

She took out the letter she’d received from her mother only days before arriving at the house. Again she read the news. Getting used to having a new sister wouldn’t be easy, especially seeing as they’d never met.

First things first
, she thought as she closed the magazine, placed it to one side and got herself ready for an examination by the doctor.

‘I’ll see you when I get back,’ she said to Sally.

‘I’ll be here,’ said Sally, still concentrating on her fingernails. ‘Tell them to hurry things along if they can. I’m certainly going to tell them. I need to get on with my life.’

Lizzie thought about what Sally had said as she went downstairs. The heavy oak staircase led down to the brown pool of lino that was the reception hall. An arrow on a black and white sign pointed to the surgery, matron’s office and doctor’s office. To the right, fixed to a double doorway beside an oil painting of a woman wearing an old fashioned riding habit, was another sign saying Delivery Rooms.

Not yet!

The sign chilled her, but the letter from her mother chilled her more. Giving the baby away was no longer the easy option. Facing up to one’s responsibilities was difficult and she was still young. There were fun times ahead despite the war. On the other hand, Patrick had made her a very good offer.

Suddenly the reality of her situation was right before her eyes. Needing to regain her self-control, she swept off to the left, found the appropriate door and entered.

The surgery’s walls were painted in the most putrid shade of eau-de-nil; enamel-framed screens were folded loosely in one corner and a metal-framed trolley squeaked when a nurse wheeled it close to the examination couch.

A prune-faced nurse told her to take off her clothes behind a screen and to put on her dressing gown.

‘Lie down, please.’

Lizzie heaved herself on to the examination couch.

The doctor had a baby face and pale hair. The merest hint of a moustache shadowed his top lip and she fancied he’d purposely deepened his voice in a bid to be taken more seriously. He was one of the few people here not dressed in a Salvation Army uniform. His hands trembled slightly as he approached her. Eyeing him sidelong, she tried to deduce what his problem was.
Drink! Stress!

She couldn’t believe that examining the bellies of young girls could lead to the latter, though there might be a case to answer for the former.

Her dressing gown was rolled up and a sheet placed across her stomach.

‘Has she given Nurse a water sample?’ He looked at the nurse as he said it and they continued to talk over her –
as though I’m not here
, she thought.

The nurse, her headgear as stiff and broad as a starched tablecloth, answered that she had and that the sugar test was negative.

The doctor made a humphing sound – something halfway between approval and curiosity.

The hands that pressed around the perimeter of the lump she carried were as cold as ice. She grimaced. He hadn’t attempted to warm them beforehand, and neither had he apologized. His voice slid an octave higher as he looked into her face. ‘A few days and it will all be over. A fortnight after that you can leave here and forget it ever happened.’

Forget it? How can I forget it?

But you will
, she told herself.
You’ll have to.

Turning her face to the wall she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed it was all a dream. When she opened them again, nothing had changed. What had she expected? She forced herself once again to don the mask of indifference she’d worn for so many months. In a little while she could jettison the beach ball for ever – but would it be for ever? Her namesake, the first Elizabeth, had turned up. What about her child? Would it track her down too?

‘You’re very large,’ said the doctor, and frowned thoughtfully. He straightened, sighed and made some notes. ‘Be sure to see the receptionist on the way out,’ he added, his pink cheeks glowing in his round, chubby face. ‘I believe she has rules and information that may be of use to you.’

It was the first time a smile had lifted his baby-boy features but soon he resumed scribbling copious notes. The smile was tight and not really for her, merely the satisfaction of a man with too many patients and not enough time to deal with them all properly.

Sally and another girl named Hilary were sitting on metal-legged chairs outside the door. They both looked up as she came out.

‘So what is it? A baby or just fresh baked bread making you a bit bloated?’ said Sally.

‘The proverbial bun in the oven,’ said Lizzie.

‘Hope he’s warmed his hands up a bit. I can’t stand cold hands.’ She added a wink.

All that was happening made Lizzie more sensitive than usual. She couldn’t help the sharp retort. ‘All doctors have cold hands if they’ve washed properly. I suppose it depends what you’re used to.’

The barb hit home, wiping Sally’s smile from her face. Before she had a chance to react, her name was called.

Lizzie found her way to the reception desk. ‘Sit here,’ said the receptionist. She wore spectacles with round lenses and continually tugged at her tight collar. She was shuffling papers with the easy dexterity of someone used to collating information in strict alphabetical order. She drew a single sheet from of the bundle of manila folders and crisp paper. ‘This is the Pilemarsh regime. Study it, memorize it if possible, and ask questions now if you wish. No one here has time for questions unless they’re asked at the right time.’ She passed the paper across the busy desk.

‘And now is the right time?’ Lizzie asked, her steady gaze resulting in the furtive haste of a woman who wishes to appear more efficient and important than she really is.

The woman’s purple-thin lips tightened into grim accusation. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. It’s your fault you are here, not ours. Rules are rules.’

The sheet of rules and a timetable were later discussed among the three girls.

Sally gripped the sheet as though wishing her hands would turn into claws so she could more easily tear it apart. ‘Looks as though everyone here is a chief. There’s no Indians!’ she said.

Lizzie got up and looked out of the window. She’d read the rules and regulations, but still her mother’s letter was uppermost in her mind.
History repeats itself, so they say, and here I am doing the same thing she did back in the Great War.

Sally was still going on about the rules and regulations. ‘We’ve got to do all the cleaning, washing and ironing! I can’t believe it.’

Hilary was strangely silent, a deep frown denting her dark brows. ‘I’ve never done housework. We have servants back home.’

Sally stared at her.

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘They obviously like to keep costs down here.’

Sally stared at her newly painted fingernails and sighed. ‘And they were just getting nice as well.’

‘I’ve got some cream,’ said Hilary, reaching into a crocodile skin vanity case and passing Sally a pink jar with a gold-coloured top.

‘Thanks all the same,’ she said suddenly and handed it back. ‘I think I’ve got something better than that. Vaseline,’ she added. ‘It cost only pennies and is just as good as anything.’

The morning bell summoned the girls to lay the table for breakfast at six thirty. Those who had managed to doze off lurched into instant wakefulness. Few lingered too long in their beds. If they didn’t report to the dining room on time, most of the porridge and butter would be long gone and breakfast diminished to tea and dry toast.

Lizzie groaned and buried her head under her bedclothes. ‘I feel as though I’ve been sold into slavery. Is it too much to ask them to take on staff?’ She raised herself up and pushed back the covers. She winced as she dragged her legs over the side of the bed, tucking her nightdress below her belly so she could more easily inspect her ankles. She sighed at the sight of them. ‘Looking over my belly is like trying to peer over the top of a mountain. I vow that I will never allow myself to get fat again – certainly not on a permanent basis.’

‘Are you alright?’ asked Sally.

Lizzie nodded. The sight of the hem of her nightdress skimming her slim ankles was incredibly reassuring. ‘Just a twinge – and look, my ankles are still slim.’

‘Is that good?’

‘I think so.’

‘Your belly’s pretty big.’

‘That’s what the doctor said too.’

‘Oh dear. You don’t think it’s twins?’

Lizzie adopted a look of sheer horror. ‘I hope not!’

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Captain Gregory, a middle-aged woman with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion, poked her head around the door.