Wartime Family Read online

  Mary Anne picked up her gloves. ‘Yes, I must. Look at the time. I don’t want to miss the bus.’

  ‘Wait for me. I’ll fetch me coat and walk you to the bus stop. Hope they’re still running. Shame old Adolf blew up the tram lines. I liked them better.’

  On their way to the bus stop, Mary Anne made Biddy promise not to tell Henry that she’d called.

  ‘I don’t want him getting the wrong impression. Promise me, Biddy. Promise me as my one true friend.’

  ‘Cross me heart,’ said Biddy, making a vague cross shape across her ample bosom. ‘I’ll always be yer best friend. You know that, surely you do. It was me that sent that solicitor to you, after all.’

  Mary Anne frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean. The solicitor didn’t find me. It was you who told me about the other Mary Anne Randall coming into that money.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you’d think he would have made the effort to find you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you gave him my address.’

  ‘Of course I did. I told you all about it that day in Bedminster, remember? Blimey, Mary Anne, he said your aunt had left you something in her will …’ Biddy clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘You ain’t got an Aunt Maude, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, lordy!’

  ‘Can you remind me of his name again?’

  ‘Dead simple to remember. George Ford. That was it. Do it ring a bell?’

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘No. It doesn’t. He never came to call. I guarantee he didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Not really. I expect he realized he’d made a mistake and found the Mary Anne Randall who did have an Aunt Maude.’

  ‘That would explain it.’

  ‘Yes. Of course it would.’

  Chapter Nine

  Mary Anne accompanied Lizzie to Temple Meads station when her leave was over. Neither of them spoke very much; Mary Anne was still wondering about this George Ford character, and Lizzie was worried about Patrick. The police had arrested him for theft. His commanding officer down south would be informed and he might not get back to the airfield on time – if at all. In fact, he might well end up in Shepton Mallet Prison.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go back,’ Lizzie said, clutching her kitbag before her and gazing to where the railway line glistened with rain.

  Mary Anne tried to think of something positive to say, but it wasn’t easy. ‘It’s a shame your people couldn’t give you a few more days – compassionate leave they call it, don’t they?’

  Lizzie nodded and clenched her jaw. ‘It’s that damned Wing Commander Hunter. He’s got it in for me. There are plenty of other drivers to take him around. He’s just being awkward.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Mary Anne gave her daughter a hug. ‘I’ll pop along to the police station and see what’s happening.’

  ‘You promise?’

  Lizzie’s downcast expression tugged at Mary Anne’s heart strings.

  ‘I promise. And I’ll let you know the moment I hear something.’

  Amidst clouds of steam, Lizzie’s train pulled into the station. Hordes of people in uniforms got off only to be replaced by just as many getting on.

  ‘And write to me,’ said Mary Anne, worried by the anger simmering in her daughter’s eyes. Lizzie wasn’t usually one given to anger or petulance; Daw was certainly better at the latter. Lizzie had a forgiving nature. She’d even visited her father, though in consideration for her mother’s feelings she hadn’t mentioned details.

  Lizzie stepped aboard the train but remained leaning out of the window. Except for the worry in her eyes, she looked like a beautiful picture framed in the open window.

  ‘Phone me. You’ve got the number. The office will come and fetch me,’ she called out.

  ‘I promise. I promise. I promise!’ her mother called back.

  Looking sadder than usual, Lizzie waved her last goodbye. Carriage after carriage slipped by until there was nothing left but clouds of steam and Mary Anne waving at nothing.

  Worries about Patrick stayed with her all the way back to East Street. The night was drawing in. The shops were still open although their windows, usually bright with Christmas lights at this time of year, were blacked out. The streets echoed to footsteps and people chattering, excited despite the deprivations of war.

  Mary Anne’s nerves were on edge. At times she was sure she was being followed, but when she turned round, all she saw were dark figures against the greyness of dusk, hurrying home to escape the cold, just as she was.

  What can I do about Patrick? she thought as she approached the Red Cross shop. So many bad things were happening in her life that she’d broken out in a rash, a redness on the backs of her hands that was slowly spreading up her arms.

  People scurried ahead of her. Her eyes narrowed as she espied the shop doorway. Was someone standing there, watching her? A chill spread throughout her body.

  Her steps slowed. Her heart beat faster.

  She licked her lips and tried to speak. No sound came out. She tried again.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Randall.’

  After a while she recognized a familiar figure. Her steps quickened. ‘Patrick?’

  Despite her high-heeled court shoes, she ran the rest of the way.

  ‘Inside, so we can see what we’ve got here,’ ordered Gertrude Palmer. ‘I’m not explaining things out here on the step.’

  The familiar smell of mothballs and wet wool met them as Gertrude pushed open the shop door. ‘Now, where’s that light switch?’ she muttered.

  The light snapped on.

  Mary Anne found it impossible to return Patrick’s amiable grin. She needed to know that things had been resolved. ‘What happened? Are you free? Has everything been sorted out?’

  His grin widened into a smile. ‘I’m a free man. No case to answer. And I need a cup of tea.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Gertrude interjected. ‘You’ve already had one.’

  ‘Another cup wouldn’t come amiss.’

  The two rooms above the Red Cross shop had lost their air of neglect. Two rugs of Persian origin and ancient years covered the floor of the room Mary Anne had decided she would live in. A third one, just as threadbare as the others, lay at the side of a brass bed.

  A velvet-covered chaise longue – on which Stanley slept – lay in front of the living-room window and two armchairs sat on either side of a gas fire. Stanley hadn’t needed any persuading to move back in with his mother.

  Mary Anne turned on the gas and put a match to it. The pale pink glow slowly turned red.

  Gertrude had followed them up the stairs. ‘In case you’re thinking I’m being nosy, this event involves me too,’ she said.

  Mary Anne wondered in what way she was involved, but held her tongue. Gertrude was the sort who only explained things in her own good time.

  Without asking whether she wanted one or not, Mary Anne made her a cup of tea and listened as Gertrude explained.

  ‘My husband owned the jewellery store across the road, so the police called him in to identify the object found in this young man’s pocket. He called in here first so I took it upon myself to accompany him to the station, fortunately, as it turned out. My husband confirmed that the necklace was of no value; in fact it was merely a paste item he’d made for a lady customer – though “lady” might not be the right word,’ she said with a sniff of her upper-class nose. ‘That was when I was glad I had accompanied him, because I, dear lady, did recognize it as being in the shop only days previously. A onetime actress of dubious reputation had donated it. We won’t go into how and why she has acquired a dubious reputation, only to say that it was good of her to donate. Anyway, Daisy sold that necklace on that very morning when it was found in our young friend’s pocket.’ Gertrude turned to Patrick. ‘You did not pick it up where our purchaser had dropped it?’

  ‘No. I’d never seen it before.’

  Gertrude clapped her hands with
delight. ‘The plot thickens!’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Mary Anne, frowning as she carefully picked over the details. ‘How come the policeman looked in your pocket in the first place?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Patrick, a slow guarded smile spreading across his face. ‘The policeman was told to look in my pocket. He barely noticed the man who suggested it. I think he got a bit overexcited at the prospect of catching someone. All he remembers is that he was of average height, average looks and had no outstanding features whatsoever. Bland, I suppose you could say.’

  Mary Anne shook her head. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  Gertrude set down her cup. ‘A prank?’

  ‘At least I can get back to camp with a clear conscience and a clean copy book,’ said Patrick, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll phone Lizzie from there. She’ll be as relieved as I am.’

  ‘I’m sure of that,’ said Mary Anne.

  He took his leave of them, explaining that he had to collect his kitbag from his digs above the chip shop on the way to the station. ‘And thanks again,’ he said to Gertrude and winked. ‘You’re a right sweetheart.’

  Gertrude blushed like a young girl. ‘Think nothing of it. I approve of honesty and all things traditional. I certainly do not approve of reputations being sullied by thoughtless tomfoolery!’

  Although Gertrude’s spine was made of stern stuff nowadays, and she was hardly the sort to blush easily, Mary Anne couldn’t help but sense that she’d been quite a coquette in her youth.

  The sound of Patrick’s footsteps faded away and were followed by a short silence before footsteps sounded again, ascending this time. There was a short knock at the door before it was opened. The man standing there was dressed in civilian clothes, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes, hiding his face.

  Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head and smiled.

  ‘Marianna! The wanderer returns for Christmas.’

  ‘Michael! Michael!’

  Mary Anne felt the beat of her heart quicken. Such trials and tribulations had come into her life lately, and now, for the first time in months, she’d been called Marianna, the name he always called her.

  Uncaring of Gertrude, she threw herself into his arms. He dropped the case he was carrying and held her tight. She took in the smell of him, the feel of him, the deliciousness of his lips on hers. Gertrude Palmer was almost forgotten, though not quite.

  Mary Ann began to explain. ‘This is …’

  ‘No need for introductions, my dear,’ said Gertrude, sliding past them to the open door. ‘I know a husband when I see one, and a husband and wife need to be alone. I’ll make myself scarce and see you in the morning.’ She smiled. ‘There’s that lovely old curtain material you thought would make a nice skirt and bolero. I’m sure it would be snapped up.’ She nodded to each of them. ‘Goodnight to you both.’

  Happy beyond words, Mary Anne did not attempt to explain the truth of her relationship with Michael. It was only the next day she realized beyond doubt that Gertrude would not approve of the unwedded couple living together. At the expense of losing her new home, the secret must be kept to themselves.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Just because we’re at war, don’t mean to say we can’t trim up for Christmas,’ said Bessie. She was presently arranging some green leaves and berries in a jam jar on the window sill.

  ‘Only in the canteen,’ said Margot, who was sitting on the bed, her head covered in metal curlers. ‘Rules are rules.’

  The three of them were sharing a fruit cake that Lizzie had brought back from Bristol. Margot said something about it reminding her of boarding school.

  ‘You two are breaking rules too. You’re both sitting on your beds,’ Bessie retorted.

  Lizzie was rubbing her aching feet. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary. My God, I thought we’d left all this marching up and down behind.’

  That morning had consisted of square bashing, square bashing and yet more square bashing.

  The mess was being decorated with paper chains and, as if by magic, a Christmas tree had appeared. It was rumoured that it might have walked in from the forest down the road, but it was also accepted that just one wouldn’t be missed.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming to this dance tomorrow,’ said Lizzie. ‘I bet you I’ll draw duty and won’t be able to go. It’s just my luck.’

  Margot smiled secretively and flashed her thick lashes. ‘Well I know for sure that I’m going.’

  ‘Major Bradley!’ Bessie exclaimed, her broad smile dispersing freckles over her face. ‘Personally I don’t know which one to choose. I’ve got a whole troop of men wanting to take me.’ She said it laughingly, but the others knew it was true. Bessie was bright, breezy and popular.

  ‘One day there’ll be a man you can’t resist,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘But not yet. I’ll let you know when I find ’im. Till then I’m out to enjoy meself.’

  Margot raised a mocking eyebrow in Lizzie’s direction. Bessie and her bevy of men continued to surprise her. She didn’t exactly disapprove, but just didn’t see the point of it all.

  She turned her attention to Lizzie. ‘No word from Hunter then, Lizzie darling?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No. It seems he’s fallen off the face of the earth. And it’s all down to bread and cheese and a rumbling stomach.’

  Margot laughed. ‘A gentleman should always pay for the meal.’

  ‘Even when he’s an officer and she’s only his humble driver?’

  ‘There are no excuses,’ Margot stated with an air of finality. ‘And Cinders, you definitely shall go to the ball’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  Perhaps it was the feeling of relief that Patrick had been cleared of looting, but Lizzie yearned to celebrate, to enjoy herself in bright company, at least for an hour or two.

  Later, only an hour before lights out, she was called to the adjutant’s office.

  ‘Orders from Wing Commander Hunter to collect him at seven thirty in the morning.’

  She saluted the adjutant and said, ‘Yes, sir.’ After that she made her way to her bed. Travelling in wartime took far longer than in peacetime. Despite her youth, the journey to Bristol and back had taken its toll. The square bashing and recent training sessions hadn’t helped either. And now the thought of Hunter… She slept well, though she couldn’t help wondering where he’d been and, if he had been in England, why hadn’t he called for her before?

  At breakfast next morning the mess bubbled with expectation. Paper chains strung between hanging lampshades trembled each time the door opened and let in the winter darkness. Girls chattered and discussed who they were going to the dance with that evening. Others, the lucky ones who had Christmas leave, were discussing what they were doing once they got home.

  Lizzie didn’t have time for a decent breakfast. Half a cup of tea, a slice of toast and she was off. After signing for her car, she slid on to the cold leather, started the engine and headed for Ainsley Hall.

  The crenellated towers and stark windows of the Tudor mansion stared blackly into the morning darkness. Dawn was only just beginning to turn the eastern sky from indigo to dark mauve. It promised to be a cold but fine day.

  A flight of steps led up to the hall’s entrance. An arched pediment frowned over a huge door of oak planks studded with iron nails. Usually Lizzie could see Hunter’s impatient figure, blacker than the building he stood against, pacing up and down, his head bowed and a cigarette hanging from his hand. But there was no sign of him today.

  She waited, unsure what to do.

  The sentries posted at either end of the building then passed by. Light shone through ancient windows and fell in diamond shapes on the frosted grass.

  Finally the door opened and a figure emerged. She immediately got out of the car, standing to attention as she opened the rear door. The handle was icy beneath her fingers. It surprised her that the car had started at all.

  ‘At ease,
miss.’

  It was not Hunter.

  ‘The wing commander begs your pardon, miss, but says he is just finishing breakfast and, as the hour is early, would you perhaps care to come inside?’ The man who addressed her so informally wore the insignia of a warrant officer.

  Surprised by the invitation she blinked and slammed the door shut. Her feet crunched on the gravel drive as she followed the man up the steps.

  The interior hall was panelled with oak screens. Lighter patches showed here and there where ancestral portraits might have hung, now stored for the duration of the war.

  ‘You can sit here if you like,’ said the man. ‘I’ll tell Wing Commander Hunter you’re here.’

  The smell of fried bacon and eggs wafted out into the hallway. Her stomach rumbled as she sat down. What was it about food that made her stomach do that? It had never been quite so vocal before the war. The less food there was, the more you craved, she decided.

  ‘The wing commander asks if you’d like to join him.’

  She looked up to see that the warrant officer had returned. She wondered if she’d heard him correctly.

  ‘Would bacon and eggs be alright?’ he continued.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  The warrant officer grinned. ‘Sounds as though it would be very satisfactory indeed. Would you like to follow me?’

  She had heard correctly, there was no doubt about it. The warrant officer led her to a table set close to a huge, lead-paned window. Wing Commander Hunter was tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs. He looked up when he saw her. ‘Take a seat. Venables will get you a cooked breakfast. And toast, please, Venables. And more coffee.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He held the chair out for Lizzie before taking the empty coffee pot and disappearing.

  She rubbed her hands together and couldn’t resist one last shiver. The room had raftered ceilings and was not that well heated, but was still in comfortable contrast to outside. And the smell!

  Although she’d never had much response from him before, she felt obliged to make conversation. ‘That looks good.’