A Ruthless Need, page 7
‘I’m glad of that, because my wife here,’ he inclined his head towards Bertha, ‘says that she’d like you to stay for a while, if that would suit you.’
He watched the lined mouth open to disclose a gap in the upper set of teeth and two gaps in the lower; then the lips closed again. He watched her turn her astonished gaze on Bertha, to whom she now said quietly, ‘Is he right?’
‘Yes. Yes, he’s right.’ There was a chuckle in Bertha’s voice.
Now Meg cast her glance on Miss Taggart and what she said was, ‘How d’you see that?’
‘I…I think you’re very fortunate to be offered a home here.’
It wasn’t the right thing to say, and certainly not to this perky old girl, and at least two other people in the room realised this and expected a lively retort. But what Meg said was, and quietly, ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right for once.’ Then looking again from John to Bertha, she said, ‘I promise you I’ll be no trouble to you, an’ there’s a lot of work left in me yet. I’ll do all I can, an’ more. You’ll see. Aye, you’ll see.’
Now John spoke, saying, ‘Have you any things with you?’
‘Aye, a bit of baggage. It’s in the schoolroom, back in Durham.’
‘Well, we’ll have to pick it up, won’t we? I’ve still enough petrol left to take you there and back. And you, Miss Taggart, will get back quicker than waiting for the bus. How about it?’
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you, Mr Fulton.’
Whatever she was going to say next she shortened to, ‘And grateful.’ It wasn’t until she was saying goodbye to Bertha, that she finished the sentence, adding now, ‘I hope everything turns out all right. You must let me know if you are worried or anything.’
‘I will. I will,’ said Bertha. ‘But I’m sure everything will be fine. There’s another thing, too: I don’t think we’ll be lost for a laugh.’
Miss Taggart would have liked to answer, ‘You’re easily pleased then,’ but she refrained. She had got the person off her hands, and at the moment, that was all that mattered.
Bertha knew to some extent what Miss Taggart was thinking, and she could have explained her actions to her, by saying, ‘You see, Lizzie’s out all day at the school, and John is out at work, and then there’s the LDV, and so, because of my handicap, I’m mostly tied to the house, which leaves me too much time to think, for nearly every waking minute is taken up with thoughts of my son: I haven’t heard from him for nearly five weeks now. So you see, someone like Mrs Price would take my mind off things; and she can always help with the housework because, as she said, she’s handy, and that will save Lizzie having to bustle about at night doing all the things I’m unable to do. And it makes a long day for her.’
And if she had said this to Miss Taggart, she also felt her reply would have been in the nature of, ‘Well, Mrs Fulton, I know how you are feeling, but you must remember that you’re not the only mother that’s worrying at the present moment.’
And she was well aware of that, too, but it didn’t lessen the anxiety. She had always thought that was a silly thing for people to say: they knew just how you were feeling. Nobody really knew how the other person was feeling because some folk had a deep resistance to pain and were silent about it, while others cried out if their little finger ached, and thereby gained sympathy: there was no measurement to pain and no detector to determine the depth of it, be it mental or physical.
Two
Dusk was falling as Lizzie bicycled home from Durham. She always dismounted halfway up Brook Hill. She could have made it to the top but she didn’t consider it worth the push. Reaching the summit, she was about to mount again and freewheel down between the two stretches of woodland that separated the Bradford-Brown estate from that of Nine Stint Farm, when she stopped, one foot on the pedal, for a few yards in front of her, just visible in the dimness of the overhanging trees, she saw a figure emerging from the right-hand side wood. For a moment her heart gave a little leap and her mind said ‘Andrew’. Then when the figure jumped a ditch and stopped in the middle of the road, she let out a short breath, and her heart was still affected, but in a different way.
She recognised Captain Boneford even from this distance, and in the dimness his scarred face seemed to make him stand out.
She pushed the bike quickly forward, saying, ‘Hello Captain. You’re back again, then?’
‘Oh, hello. Hello, Lizzie. Yes, yes, I’m back in the old corral.’ The voice sounded high and cheerful. It always did. It was all part of the brave show.
‘How long are you home for now?’
‘Oh, three weeks, this time. Ticket-of-leave, you know. Good conduct and all that. How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine, except, if I see another ration card before Monday morning I’ll scream.’
‘Boring, eh?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘Pity you couldn’t have joined up. But then, you’ve got to ask yourself, who needs you most? The WAAFS, the ATS, the Wrens, or Mrs Fulton?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded at him, smiling, as she forced herself to look straight into his face.
That was another part of the game he played: he looked straight at you; and he didn’t reveal the side where his eye was round and brown and quite long-lashed, and his skin, although pale, was smooth—at least his cheek was—down to the left corner of his mouth. From there, across his chin and up to his right hairline, was a contortion of sickly-pink patches of skin, pulling down the corner of his right eye and leaving the mouth a mere shapeless slit, above which both nostrils looked pinched.
Lizzie was quick to notice that the mouth no longer dropped at the corner, and that the thin lines, although still not shaped, appeared a little fuller. But he still wore the glove on his left hand. Three months ago, he had indicated in his assumed casual manner that they were giving him a new paw, but apparently nothing had happened yet. Anyway, his face, she considered, was much more important. Poor, poor, fellow.
She had first encountered him early in 1941. It was late in the evening, as now, and he had tried to turn away as she had come on him unexpectedly. She too had wanted to turn away; in fact, to run, but she had made herself stand and force a smile to her face, while saying, ‘I’m trespassing, as usual. I’m…I’m Lizzie Gillespie, you know, at Mrs Fulton’s.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’m…I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he had said; and straightaway she had thought, what a pleasing voice.
‘No, no.’ She had answered, shaking her head. Then they had stood peering at each other for a moment before she forced herself to say, ‘I’m…I’m glad to see you back home, sir.’
And to this he had answered, briefly, ‘Yes. Yes, glad to be back. Just taking a stroll.’
When she reached home that night she had sat down at the kitchen table and cried. And Bertha had put her arms about her and comforted her, saying, ‘You shouldn’t let it affect you like that. He’s lucky to be alive,’ to which she replied, ‘Oh, Mam, he’d rather be dead. I’m sure he’d rather be dead.’
Here, a full year later, she held much the same opinion.
Richard Boneford said to her now, ‘May I walk with you?’ and she answered, ‘Of course. I’ll be glad of the company. I don’t usually like this stretch, not between the woods.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘No, strangely enough’—she laughed—‘civilians. The older they get the worse they are.’
‘Have…have you a boyfriend?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, I would say somebody’s missing out on something.’
She laughed now and turned her face towards him as she said, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Her voice had a serious note to it.
‘How old are you now, Lizzie?’
‘Almost nineteen.’
‘Wonderful age. Oh, by the way, I met up with Andrew. I say I met up with him. He came to the hospital and met up with me, and he spoke of you.’
‘Yes?’ Her tone was non-committal.
‘It was only last week I saw him: he’s hoping for some leave.’
‘That’ll be nice for him.’
He put his hand on the handlebar and pulled the machine and her to a stop. They were out in the clearing now, and he stared across at her, his good eye in evidence as he asked quietly, ‘And don’t you think it’ll be nice for you, too, Lizzie?’
‘Aw, Captain.’ She moved her head impatiently. ‘What could come of it?’
‘Anything you wish, Lizzie, I’d say. If the war’s done nothing else, it’s brought down a lot of barriers, and will likely bring down more before it ends.’
‘Not where Mr Bradford-Brown’s concerned, Captain.’
‘Mr Bradford-Brown’s power is declining, Lizzie. It’s a pity it didn’t before and then things might have been different all round.’ His voice had lost its high jocular air, and it remained so when next he said, ‘How is the sergeant major?’
She gulped slightly before answering: ‘Very well, judging by his last letter. But he’s no longer a sergeant major, Captain; he’s been given his commission. He’s now a second lieutenant.’
‘Second lieutenant? My! My! We do go up, don’t we? Well, well! That’s war for you…His leave is well overdue, I should say.’
‘Yes. Yes it is; and…and his mother worries. Of course, that’s natural. She won’t know any peace until she sees him back home.’ Her voice had trailed away. She felt that had been a silly thing to say because, if this man knew of his wife’s association with Geoff, and from the way he had spoken of him, she imagined he did, then his peace of mind would be further shattered were Geoff to return now.
From what she had heard from Meg, who got it from Florrie Rice, Mrs Boneford had thoroughly enjoyed herself with Geoff before her marriage, and with others too during the long periods her husband was in hospital; even when he was first home, she hadn’t been backward in making a name for herself.
As Meg, in her forthright way, had remarked only last night, ‘She wants her lugs scudded, that one; a bit of a madam, I’d say, and in more ways than one. Good job I didn’t park meself on them, else I’d have let me tongue loose.’
As if he had picked up her thoughts, he said, ‘Have you still got your evacuee?’
‘Meg? Oh yes.’ She laughed. ‘She’s a marler.’
‘A marler?’
‘Haven’t you heard that before? Apparently it’s something to do with glass-making, and means an experienced hand. So anyone who is exceptional in some way we call a marler. Meg applies it to good or bad, especially to jokers.’
‘She’s a character…but kindly, I’d say.’
‘Yes, she’s very kind and thoughtful, much more than a casual observer would give her credit for. Mrs Fulton’s been very glad of her company, because, as you know, I’m out all day.’
‘Well’—he paused—‘you’re nearly home, which you could have reached ten minutes ago if I hadn’t chattered.’
‘Oh,’ she turned fully towards him, saying quietly, ‘it was nice seeing you. And you may waylay me any time you like.’
He did not come back with any facetious quip, but the lid of his good eye blinked rapidly, and he said softly, ‘Thank you, Lizzie. I’ll remember that. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Captain.’
On reaching the house, she put her bike in the shed, then hurried towards the kitchen door, and when she opened it, there, as nearly always, were Bertha and Meg waiting to greet her. The tea was set on the long kitchen table; the fire was burning brightly; the kettle was hissing on the hob. It was all so homely. She loved this kitchen. She loved the atmosphere that always met her. It was her habit to take off her outdoor things and lay them on the wooden settle that fitted into the alcove to the side of the fireplace; and then while listening to their chatting and answering both Bertha’s and Meg’s questions concerning the happenings of the day, she would wash her hands at the sink before sitting down to the table. But tonight, on entering the room, she immediately looked from one to the other and muttered, ‘I…I won’t be long. I’m just going upstairs.’
Bertha and Meg exchanged glances; then Bertha hobbled to the far door of the kitchen and looked across the hall to where Lizzie was running up the stairs; then turning, she said to Meg, ‘Go up and see what’s wrong with her. It takes me all my time to make those damn stairs last thing.’
When Meg tapped on Lizzie’s door she received no answer. Nevertheless, she pushed it open to see, across the darkened room, Lizzie drawing the blackout curtains. And she said to her, ‘Anythin’ wrong, lass?’
‘No; no, Meg…Switch on the light, will you?’
Meg switched on the light; then, crossing the room to where Lizzie was now opening the wardrobe door,’ she said, ‘Somethin’s upset you, lass.’
Lizzie bowed her head; then drooped it forward and pressed it against the edge of the wardrobe door before she said, ‘’Tis nothing,’ only as quickly to contradict herself by adding, ‘Yes, it is something. I’ve just been talking to the captain. I’m so heart-sorry for him. He seems lost. He had been walking in the wood again by himself. When he’s at home he seems to spend most of his time walking in the grounds.’
‘Lass! Lass!’ Meg put her arms around her. ‘We’re all sorry for him; but it’s no good takin’ on like that. There’re thousands like him, so I understand. The hospitals are full of them, poor beggars, some of them not fit to be seen. At least, it’s only part of his face that’s gone, and they’re patchin’ him up real fine, I think.’
‘They can’t patch up everything, Meg; and what’s more, I’ve an idea he’s got things on his mind.’
‘What things?’
‘Oh, I just don’t know.’ She thought it best not to confide her thoughts in Meg with regard to Geoff and Mrs Boneford, because, although quite unintentionally, the old woman might let something slip one day, forgetting that Mam was Geoff’s mother.
Her hesitation caused Meg to say, ‘Well, you know more than you’re goin’ to say. But I’ll say this, lass, there’s no good gettin’ too het up about the captain. He could go up to his own folks and spend time there. But naturally, I suppose he wants to be near his wife. His wife, huh! Anyway, lass, come on downstairs, ’cos Bertha’s worried about you. And then the mister will be in in a minute, and if he sees you upset he’ll have the doctor to you afore you can say Jack Robinson.’
Lizzie smiled, saying, ‘All right, Meg. I’ll be down in a minute.’ And impulsively now she leaned forward and kissed the old woman on the cheek; and just as impulsively, Meg put her plump arms about her and hugged her, muttering, ‘I’ll bless Miss Taggart till the day I die for bringin’ me here, lass; I’ve never been so happy or so comfortable in me life. You don’t know. You don’t know.’ She pulled herself away and went hastily from the room, leaving Lizzie, standing thinking, Yes, I do, Meg, I do know how some of the other half lives. I was brought up among some, and was only enlightened when I came here. Just as you have been. Not a mile and a half along the road is the cottage in which I was brought up and in which my stepmother still lives with three of her children, and another man.
During the first year she was at this house her stepmother persisted in sending the eldest boy here. His message was always the same: his mother wanted some of her pay. Her demands had stopped only when Dad, as she called John, had forced himself to go to the cottage and quietly threaten her with the police by stating why he had taken her stepdaughter under his care.
Since that time, she had come face to face with her stepmother only half a dozen times and they had not exchanged a word. But as Lizzie had grown older and her prettiness had turned to beauty, the woman’s venomous glances had spoken volumes to her.
Over the years too she had seen little of her sister Midge, who had married shortly after she had left home; but like her father, the man had walked out on her after the birth of her first child. She was now living with a man who had given her two more children, but was kind to them all. She had visited them a few times and had been made very welcome, yet it had been embarrassing for both Midge and herself, for they had nothing in common. Midge had remained stationary: her old, bold effort in leaving home had apparently sapped her initiative. She was quite content with her life as a none-too-spruce housewife with a man who turned over his pay to her every Friday night.
She now stared at her reflection in the mirror as she combed her hair. The captain had asked her if she had a boyfriend. And she had answered ‘no’. Well, she hadn’t, had she? Well, not one that anyone knew about…
When she entered the room John was in the kitchen, and Bertha cast a quick glance towards her, then turned her attention to her husband, saying, ‘Well, he can’t hold you responsible for that.’
‘But he does. That’s what I’m paid for. He says we’ve lost a hundred birds since the grouse season started in August, but that’s pure exaggeration. Thirty would be more like it. But then, thirty is thirty. And pheasants are going too, and that’s before the season starts.’
‘Did you tell him you can’t be in two places or three places at once? You’ve got Home Guard duty two nights a week. Why doesn’t he engage somebody to prowl on those nights?’
With a sigh John sat down at the table, saying, ‘You can’t keep watch from twilight to dawn; it’s impossible. I used to look upon it as a bit of a game when I had just old Ted Honeysett to watch and an occasional pirate now and then. Eeh my!’ He shook his head as he turned to Meg. ‘Life was simple in those days, Meg. We didn’t know we were born.’
‘Well, we do now.’ Bertha put in. ‘And come on, let’s get the tea over because you, me girl’—she turned and looked at Lizzie—‘have a night’s practice before you. You’re not going on that stage tomorrow night and not know your five-finger exercises.’
‘That reminds me,’ put in John. ‘I’ll have to try and scrounge some petrol. I have enough to get us there, but as things are we’ll have to walk back.’
