Home Sweet Home (23 page)

The skin of his right hand had been taut since the accident. His fingers stiff – more like claws than fingers.

This was not the first time they'd let him down. Sometimes they seized into a tight clench without him being able to do a thing about it. So far his problem had not been noticed, and in time it might improve. The doctors had said so. It was just a case of hiding it until it did improve. But Rod Hadfield had seen. Rod Hadfield would tell.

The bombers set off around sunset, the drone of their engines shaking the house as they flew directly overhead.

Mary lay with her arms folded behind her head, staring up at the ceiling, almost willing the plasterwork to part so she could see the aircraft slicing through the sky like huge birds of prey. She could hear them, though, as one by one they flew over the roof of the cottage, a deep belly of a roar with lesser sound in between each one.

She glanced over at her baby daughter. Beatrice did not stir. It was hardly the first time the fleet of Lancaster bombers had flown over. Was it possible, she wondered, that a child could become used to the sounds of war so quickly?

But to Mary the deafening roar of the Merlin engines was becoming unbearable, not just because of the noise but because of their significance. Their crews were flying off to bomb the enemy. Not all of them would come back. She prayed Michael would be among those that did.

Rolling on to her side, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and shoved her fingers into her ears. She told herself to count to ten, better yet one hundred. Once she'd reached her target, the last plane would surely have flown over. She hadn't counted how many had flown over but her greatest wish was that the same number would also fly back. It wasn't likely. There were always losses, always enemy fighters keen to shoot them down. All she hoped was that it wouldn't be Michael's plane. That he'd come home safe and sound.

For some time after the last Lancaster had flown over, she lay there staring at the ceiling, not daring to look at the window where a host of black shapes was diminishing into the eastern sky.

A shrill cry sounded from the cot. Mary sighed. The message was clear. Beatrice had woken for her supper.

Although she loved her to bits, Mary had learned quickly that dealing with a baby was hard work. At present she was still breastfeeding her small but demanding daughter and would be for a little longer. However, there was a brightly shining light at the end of the tunnel. The Ministry of Food had made National Dried Milk available to nursing mothers and those with toddlers. The attraction was obvious, but she'd vowed she would go on breastfeeding Beatrice until the baby demanded more than she could give. Once that happened, she'd resort to the tall white tins with the navy blue instructions printed on the sides. She'd also promised herself that once she stopped, she would take a leaf out of Barbara's book and find a nanny. Unlike Barbara, she would not resort to swanning around on the social circuit. She missed her job and had every intention of resuming her kitchen front duties as soon as possible.

‘My darling daughter,' she said, leaning over the cot and gently stroking Beatrice's cheek. ‘I wonder if you'd be so demanding if you had to go out shopping for your food.'

Hugging Beatrice close and trying not to show any sign of worry for her pilot father, Mary carried her downstairs.

She would have gone straight into the living room and unbuttoned her blouse, but the ringing of the telephone stopped her in her tracks. She went quickly instead to a long side table set against bumpy walls, its legs wobbling on the flagstone floor. A draught blew beneath the ill-fitting front door. She cuddled Beatrice closer.

The telephone had been silent all day, in fact for most of the week. It was par for the course, telephone lines being cut locally when a mass attack was about to take place. Surely it couldn't be Michael? Not yet. It was no time at all since she'd heard the planes go over.

Pushing her fear for her husband out of her mind, she answered the telephone.

‘Mary! I've been trying to get hold of you all day. Is everything all right?'

A great tide of relief washed over her at her father's voice. ‘I think the telephones have been down. I did try to ring a friend earlier but couldn't get through. The telephones seem to get cut off when there is – oh, and I shouldn't be talking about it. Careless talk and all that …'

She was about to laugh then thought better of it. It wasn't that funny. Careless talk could cost her husband his life. Besides, there had to be a very good reason why her father had telephoned. Like her sister, Ruby, and Frances, he preferred to write. There was an unspoken rule in their family that the telephone was only for emergencies.

‘What is it? What's happened?'

There was a short silence. Mary feared the line might have gone dead again.

‘Dad?'

‘It's not good news, Mary.'

It was as though she was lying down in snow – her back was so terribly cold.

‘It's Charlie. He's been rushed to hospital. We had to call the doctor out. If only I'd …'

Mary did not question what else he'd meant to say. It was enough to be told that her darling nephew was ill and in hospital.

‘Diphtheria. We think we got it in time.'

‘Diphtheria!' Mary echoed. ‘That's terrible.' She cuddled her daughter closer. ‘I suppose I'm not allowed to come down.'

‘No. You're not. Not with little Beatrice to look out for. I'll keep you informed.'

‘Of course. How awful. I hope he's all right.'

Beatrice protested with a fresh bout of crying when she suddenly held her closer.

Mary laid her head against that of her daughter. Was it selfish to be thankful it wasn't Beatrice? It probably was. But it wasn't Beatrice, thank God. Not that she didn't love her nephew, but she didn't know what she would do if it were her daughter who had been struck down. ‘Poor Charlie. Let me know how he gets on.'

‘I will, as soon as I know more. And how's my favourite granddaughter?'

‘Hungry. She's just woken up and expected supper on demand.'

‘That's good. Good,' he said again.

There was a silence. She sensed he wanted to ask her about Michael but was afraid to. He must have guessed from the pause in their conversation that she was troubled.

‘Let me know as soon as you hear more,' she said to him.

‘I will.'

Again the awkward silence. ‘I won't ask where Michael is, but I hope he returns safely.'

‘So do I,' said Mary, her mouth uncommonly dry. ‘So do I.'

Frances shut the bedroom door quietly behind her. Ruby was downstairs in the shop, her uncle Stan was at the hospital. She'd asked if she could visit Charlie, but had been told she wasn't allowed.

‘Close relatives only and no children,' Uncle Stan had said.

He failed to notice the dismay in her eyes. She couldn't decide if it was worse if he thought her a child or not even a close relative. ‘I am not a child,' she'd muttered. Her uncle hadn't heard her. When she was younger, she'd sometimes felt invisible but had expected things to be different now she was a teenager. But nothing had changed; in fact, she sometimes felt that she was less important to the family now.

She'd tried explaining to Ed how she felt the night before, but he'd been drinking heavily and just laughed and told her she was great and that she was just imaging things.

‘Live for today, honey. Tomorrow might never come.'

They left the pub where they'd been drinking at around ten o'clock, and once they were outside he kissed her.

‘You do still love me, honey, don't you?'

She'd had too much to drink and although she'd resolved never to give in to him again, his remark about living today hit home. And anyway, she hadn't got pregnant the first time, and for some reason she chose to believe that she wouldn't get pregnant the second time.

The lane was dark. Nobody saw them and for one glorious moment it was as if there were only the two of them in the world. It was a snatched moment, intense and bittersweet. What did she care about the likes of Declan O'Malley? It was Ed who wanted her, Ed who was closer to her age.

‘We'll get married when this war is over,' he whispered into her ear as he urinated in the bushes before doing up his trousers. ‘We'll be together for the rest of our lives. How'd you like that?'

He'd followed his sweet words by regurgitating all the beer and food he'd eaten.

‘Guess I had a drop too much to drink,' he said before being sick again.

Suddenly it hit Frances that there was no way she wanted to spend her life with a man who drank too much. How long before drunkenness became more prevalent than sweet words?

She'd stood there silently, discerning Ed's presence in the darkness and no longer wishing to be with him.

His beery breath fell over her. ‘You okay?'

‘I'm going home.'

‘Fine. I'll drive you there.'

‘No. I want to walk.'

She turned her back on him, stumbling over the uneven ground as she made her way up the lane. Home wasn't that far.

He followed her.

‘Is something wrong?'

Hugging her coat around her, head bent, she let the words flow out. ‘I can't go with you when the war's over, Ed. I belong here, with my family.'

‘Are you giving me the brush off?'

He sounded surprised rather than hurt, after all Ed was a good looking boy who'd always done well with the girls.

‘We're too young, Ed. And we're in the middle of a war. You'll go home and I'll stay here. The world will go back to the way it was.'

The Jeep he drove was there in front of them.

‘Are you sure you want to walk?'

Frances kept walking. ‘I'm sure,' she called over her shoulder. ‘Goodnight, Ed.'

‘You can't get pregnant the first time.'
Pearl's voice was in her head, reassuring her. If only she'd stuck to that one time. She'd been lucky. What if she wasn't so lucky the second time?

She pushed the worrying thought from her mind. No matter what happened, she had no intention of marrying Ed Bergman. Tonight had been a big mistake. She realised now she'd been foolish to let him take advantage of her dejected mood. He hadn't really listened. She'd only thought he had. Only Declan O'Malley listened to her, and although their meetings only appeared to happen by chance, it was possible that Declan planned them. He'd never said so, but on reflection, why would he have been there at the bus stop on the day he knew she went into Kingswood? Even if it did strike her as odd that he always seemed to appear on the same day at the same time and in the same place, she didn't worry about it; in fact, she had thrilled at the sight of him.

‘Come on, honey,' he said once she was comfortably seated beside him. ‘Tell me the reason for the sour puss expression.'

She liked the way he spoke, though she knew he wasn't there to be serious, just to indulge her and try to cheer her up.

She had told him how she felt. ‘I'm sixteen. I'm not a child any more. I wish people wouldn't treat me as though I was.'

‘I hope you don't lodge me alongside them that do,' he'd said to her.

‘No,' she'd said, after giving it some thought. ‘I don't think you do.'

‘Is Ruby acting like one of Cinderella's stepsisters? If she is, just tell her you've given up dressing in rags and sitting among the cinders.'

Being in Declan's company for just a few minutes was enough to make her feel happy again. She couldn't help laughing.

‘You're a great girl,' he'd said to her. ‘Anyway, won't be long now and you can make your own choices. Hey, there's nothing to stop you doing that right now, is there?'

She'd told him that she supposed there wasn't.

He'd stopped the car in the High Street. A few people looked their way, taking in the ruggedly handsome American military policeman and the beautiful young girl he was with. There was obviously years between their ages, but somehow they still looked as though they belonged to each other.

‘So has young Ed asked to marry you yet?'

She had laughed at the sheer outrageousness of him asking. It wasn't the first time he'd asked and he already knew what her answer would be. Still he'd persisted.

‘I've already told you. I can't marry yet. Not without my guardian's permission. Another thing I'm considered too young for!'

Her laughter had been as brittle as candy coating.

The day after seeing Ed for the last time, she was yet again standing at the bus queue when Declan came along in his Jeep.

‘Jump in.'

She didn't wait to be asked twice. She needed his companionship, some reassurance that there was somebody there besides Ed Bergman.

‘You look tired.'

‘Thank you,' she said a little acidly.

‘Too much work and too much having fun can catch up on you. How's the kid?'

‘Charlie's still in hospital, but no worse.'

‘How's your uncle? I understand he took it very badly.'

‘He did. Charlie's the apple of his eye.'

Declan nodded sagely. ‘I hope all goes well. I need to see the roses in your cheeks again, and if the family's well then I've no reason to worry about you.'

‘You worry about me?' She couldn't help the surprise in her voice.

‘Indeed I do. You're a kind of project of mine, a wild weed that will one day grow into a rose.'

Frances laughed.

‘Seen our friend Ed of late?'

His question brought her up short. ‘Yes. For the last time.'

‘Any particular reason for that?'

His question unnerved her. ‘We're finished.'

‘I thought you two were madly in love.'

She felt her face warming. ‘I don't think I told you that. We've grown apart. He's a sweet boy but not for me. Best to end it now before he goes away.'