Polly's War Page 4

  She was fond enough of her brother, but he didn’t seem to appreciate how hard it had been for them during the long war, what sacrifices they’d had to make. Money had been so tight at one time, she remembered scrabbling in the muck and wet of the gutter when she’d dropped a precious loaf of bread, washing it under the tap and baking it crisp again in the oven. And Lucy had no recollection of the last time she’d tasted a fried egg, since she gave her meagre ration to her children, which brought her troubled thoughts right back to where they’d started. Sean was already through the soles of that pair of shoes she’d got from Lily Gantry’s rag shop less than two month back, and Sarah Jane showed an indecent amount of knickers in all her little frocks. Oh yes, for all she’d a bit put by and, for now at least, she’d continue to get something from the army. But she badly needed to keep this job.

  She smiled steadfastly at her hated employer. ‘I could make your dinners as well, if you like,’ she recklessly offered. ‘Michael’s always asking me.’

  Minnie Hopkins popped a pear drop into her mouth and sucked on it while she thought about this proposition. ‘For t’same rate? We can’t afford to pay any more.’ The beady jet eyes seemed to pierce right into Lucy’s soul and she could do nothing but comply.

  ‘Yes, all right, for the same rate.’

  ‘Right. You can get back to work this minute. I’m not feeling too champion this mornin’. Get me a cuppa, good and strong, then you can start scrubbing down the back yard.’

  ‘My favourite job,’ said Lucy drily, reaching for her sacking apron.

  ‘What did thee say?’

  ‘I said, just the job.’

  ‘A thank you would be more appropriate.’

  The old woman’s hearing was too sharp for her own good at times, Lucy thought, offering her thanks as humbly as she was able. She brewed Minnie Hopkins a strong pot of tea, even offered a slice of the ‘fruit’ cake left over from the street party as a peace offering. As she headed for the backyard, bucket in hand, Minnie called after her.

  ‘Only cook for two mind. You can make your own dinner when thee gets home.’

  Lucy gritted her teeth. She’d be half starved by then after all this extra work, by which time Benny would no doubt have eaten them out of house and home.

  Lucy baked a pie, consisting chiefly of vegetables but with a bit of pork added to make it tasty. The new regime meant she had to work harder and faster than ever in order to be home in time to pick up her children at the end of the morning, but Michael was delighted. He had long since grown tired of his aunt’s paltry attempts at cooking. He made no mention of the fact that Lucy had only recently being sacked. Nor did he ask why she’d suddenly agreed to do the very thing she’d always resisted.

  Once she’d served up, Lucy quickly untied her apron and, reaching for her coat and basket, headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll be in tomorrow then, as usual.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Michael said, pushing back his chair and insisting on showing her out, despite some caustic comment from his aunt about the girl being able to find her own way. ‘I didn’t like to say anything in front of Aunt Minnie, not after all that kerfuffle the other day, but I’m sorry about Tom.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t know what else to say, and kept her face turned away as she fussed with coat buttons, bag and scarf, not wanting him to see the quick rush of tears.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do...’

  ‘What can anyone do? He’s dead, for God’s sake.’ Lucy realised she’d spoken more sharply than she intended, and instantly apologised. ‘Sorry. I’m fine, really I am.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I will be. I have to be. Anyroad, how can you grieve for somebody you haven’t seen in three years, hardly even heard from?’

  ‘You can if you still love them.’

  She’d been all right until he said that, and until he gently touched her arm. Then before she could stop herself, Lucy turned her face into his broad shoulder and began to weep, overwhelmed by emotion and his ready sympathy.

  Michael’s arms slid quietly about her, strong and firm, holding her tight as he murmured soothing words of comfort against her hair, his mouth so close to her ear she could sense the soft vibration of him whispering her name into it. It made her shiver with a new, strange emotion. The clean, soapy scent of him, and the hardness of a strong male body pressed so hard against her own created a tension between them, one that even Lucy, despite her distress, recognised as dangerous.

  They broke apart, the storm of sobbing over almost as quickly as it had begun and Lucy dabbed at her eyes with the flat of her hand, flushed with embarrassment.

  Michael felt hot with shame at the fierceness of his need, his arms still seeming to be imprinted with the feel of her as he stood awkwardly on the mat, intent upon the downcast tilt of her head. The roughness of his jacket had rubbed a red patch on her cheek and he watched, dry-mouthed, as a tear trailed over it, managing by a superhuman effort not to put out a finger to catch it. He did offer her a handkerchief, one of his old airforce blue ones but spanking clean. ‘It does you good to open the floodgates once in a while, for all you’ve soaked me through.’

  Managing to smile through her tears, Lucy took the handkerchief from him and blew her nose then shyly met his gentle gaze. ‘I’m all right now, thanks.’

  ‘Well, you know where I am if you’re not.’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated another fraction of a second, then turned on her heel and fled, her heart pounding in time with her feet on the stone paving slabs as she ran home. What in heaven’s name had she done now?

  Chapter Three

  Belinda Clarke had been pleased and excited to get her call-up papers back in 1940. She’d volunteered for the ATS, for special radio training, and later for service overseas, anything that sounded remotely exciting to bring some colour into her plain, drab life.

  She’d certainly succeeded. She’d enjoyed her time in London, but best of all the years in Malta and Cairo where, in spite of the war, there’d at least been sun and a social life, if warding off the good-time johnnies was a bit of a trial at times.

  It hadn’t all been fun, of course. There were times when she’d been thoroughly browned off, and at others scared witless. But she’d survived, which was more than could be said for many so, by rights, she should be grateful to be coming home. She’d spent the last eighteen months of the war in South Wales of all places, and had left the demobilisation centre at Aldershot in the second week of September with perilously little cash, thanks to the prevailing live-for-today attitude, plus a few clothing coupons and a travel warrant. What she lacked in material possessions, she more than made up for with optimism and energy at the prospect of a new beginning.

  But then she’d forgotten how plain and drab life in Cherry Crescent could be.

  She dropped her bag and pressed the polished brass bell. Somewhere from the depths of the house came the familiar jangling sound. Belinda smoothed a hand over the grain of the polished wood. Blistered and cracked, it looked in dire need of a fresh coat of varnish, if such a luxury could be found. Someone had tried to clean off the strips of protective brown sticky paper from the red and green panes of glass in the leaded bay windows, and not made a very good job of it. If this were the depot, she’d have the perpetrator brought back and made to finish the job properly. Belinda smiled and again rang the bell. Where was everyone? Finally she tried the door, found it unlocked, and walked into the cool hall.

  A solid, semi-detached house, sufficiently unlike its neighbours to lend it some class, it looked smaller than she remembered. Shabbier. But then she hadn’t been home for - how long? Oh goodness, she couldn’t remember. Too long, perhaps.

  There was the old grandfather clock that seemed to fill the narrow hall, ticking dully, and still ten minutes slow. The same dull brown panelling and green paint, her father’s ancient barometer which he tapped every day on his way to the office, and the cumbersome Victorian hatstand with the wonky hooks.
She’d forgotten how very ugly that was. She flung her hat neatly on to it, watching it spin and settle on a hook, and grinned.

  ‘Is that you, darling?’

  Belinda went to the foot of the stairs to smile up at her mother. The sight of her, looking as serene and beautiful as ever in a lavender cotton housecoat that flowed over the curves of her girlishly slender figure, made Belinda feel instantly jaded and unwashed.

  Her own demob suit was a dull brown, creased and dusty after hours spent squashed on an overcrowded train. Her tie-up brogues were more sensible than fashionable, for all they were highly polished. In her bag, apart from one decent silk dress from her days out east, there were a couple of outdated summer frocks among the serviceable underwear, two tin plates and an old army blanket she’d felt duty-bound to bring home as a memento.

  Belinda Clarke herself, however, was very far from being either dull or plain. At twenty-six, she was fit and slender, athletic and yet feminine. The cheek bones high, the mouth wide and prone to easy laughter, and if the hair was cut mercilessly short yet it glowed honey gold, and the blue eyes sparkled with a ready mischief. Her whole bearing exuded confidence, as befitted someone who had attained the rank of corporal.

  Her mother was scolding her for not having rung from the station.

  ‘I took a bus.’

  ‘Darling, with that bag? You surely haven’t carried it yourself?’

  Belinda let out a peal of laughter. ‘Mother, I’ve been carrying my own bags for five years. Are we to continue this staircase conversation indefinitely, or will you come down and give your only daughter a hug?’

  ‘Darling, of course.’ Joanna Clarke half glanced back over her shoulder, as if reluctant to leave whatever she’d been doing, then floated down the stairs on light slippered feet, offering a scented cheek to be kissed. ‘We’ll have a glass of sherry in the conservatory. Just you and me.’

  ‘I’d rather have a bath. I’m filthy.’

  ‘No no, not now. In any case, you look marvellous, and you’ve hours and hours to make yourself beautiful before this evening. I want to have you all to myself for a while.’

  Belinda was instantly on the alert. ‘This evening. Why, what’s happening this evening?’

  Joanna giggled, the girlish tones sounding oddly false. ‘Everything’s going to be splendid now you’re home again. We’ve invited the Fenton’s round for a little welcome-home party. You remember Frank Fenton. You and he had quite a ‘thing’ going once.’

  Belinda groaned.

  ‘No pouting, darling. Your father is quite set on it. You must at least make the effort to be nice to dear Frank, even if you have no wish to pick up where you left off.’

  ‘Which I certainly haven’t.’

  ‘You know that Ron has gone into the business, don’t you?’ Joanna said, filling the sherry glasses to the brim as she very sweetly changed the subject.

  Belinda laughed. ‘Little brother working? Whatever next.’

  ‘Oh, he’s grown quite ambitious. It will be just like old times, all together again. Exactly the way it used to be.’

  Heart sinking, Belinda followed her mother into the overheated conservatory, lush with vegetation and sickly sweet flowers, wondering how she was going to get it across to her overprotective parents that it could never be as it used to be. The naive, obedient daughter who had fled their fireside seeking adventure five years ago had not returned, and never would.

  The dinner party was not a success. They all sat stiffly around the oversized mahogany table in the gloomy dining-room. Hubert drank too much wine and dominated the conversation with talk of Council matters and his hopes of being elevated to a position of even higher office next year, laying one finger against his broad nose as if to indicate it was all rather hush-hush. Brother Ron, seated opposite, wore his usual sour expression and seemed intent on not speaking to anyone while he devoured everything in sight.

  Belinda upset her mother by refusing to wear the frothy pink number bought specially for the purpose, choosing instead a sensible green suit that had seen better days. The skirt draped softly over her slender figure but nobody could call it elegant. She brushed her hair until it shone, added the faintest touch of lipstick, but could see that neither of her parents were impressed with the result. She was soon to learn the reason.

  The Fenton’s were well known to Belinda, owning a large chemical dye works on Liverpool Road. They were quiet, unprepossessing people, despite an air of self-satisfaction which seemed to proclaim they need make no further effort since they had already made their place in the world. Their greatest asset was their son Frank. He had followed them into the business, working hard to do his bit despite being excused military service, as they were at constant pains to point out.

  Belinda had dreaded seeing Frank again, remembering too well his spotty face and eager bonhomie, so was greatly relieved when he didn’t put in an appearance, hoping she could now relax and enjoy the meal. Her mother was evidently deeply offended, clearly believing that an invitation to her table far outweighed any other possible emergency which might have claimed his attention.

  ‘He mustn’t feel shy with us,’ she said, and suggested Ron go round and persuade him to change his mind.

  ‘He isn’t in,’ George Fenton insisted, as irritated as the Clarkes by his son’s defection. ‘Haven’t the foggiest where he is.’

  ‘Trying to avoid us, eh?’ joked Hubert, though with little sign of good humour.

  Always apt to talk too much when she was nervous or distressed, Joanna launched into a length discourse on how pleased she was that hostilities had ended, whether the authorities would be able to rebuild the terrible destruction in the city, and how dreary it had been for her to be evacuated out for the duration with Aunt Cora in Scotland. ‘But Hubert was most insistent that I be safe.’

  The very idea of anyone, even a German, daring to bomb Cherry Crescent, seemed a sacrilege beyond belief. Belinda managed, against all odds, not to say so, deciding that at least the enforced evacuation would have given her father some respite. Perhaps that was his reasoning behind the idea. The thought brought a smile, and very nearly a fresh spurt of laughter, so that she had to dash off into the kitchen on the pretext of checking on the apricot pudding, to get herself back under control. She stood at the back door, sneaking a quick drag of a cigarette. This proved to be a mistake for when she returned, still coughing slightly, it brought attention firmly back to herself.

  ‘Don’t you agree Scotland was a good idea, darling?’

  Belinda resolved to hold her ground. ‘If it suited you Mother. Unfortunately we couldn’t all escape to Aunt Cora’s. Some of us had to fight the war.’ She regretted the remark instantly as being unnecessarily unkind for Joanna looked wounded and batted her long eyelashes in obvious distress.

  ‘I did my bit darling. I spent a great deal of time knitting dull scarves and countless balaclavas. For the poor sailors, don’t you know.’

  ‘I’m sure the poor sailors were most grateful,’ Belinda said, sucking in her cheeks and wondering if she dare dash out again.

  The soft mouth trembled. ‘Cora got involved with the VAD but I truly couldn’t. The sights she saw … Quite dreadful. I would have been ill, I swear I would.’ Joanna pressed a lace handkerchief to her pretty nose, which had never smelled anything more unpleasant than cheap cologne, when she couldn’t find any of her favourite Evening in Paris perfume. She looked about the table with brimming eyes, seeking understanding and ready sympathy, which she instantly received.

  ‘Don’t upset your mother,’ came her father’s voice from the head of the table.

  ‘I didn’t. I never meant ...’ Belinda bit her lip, hating to find herself in the wrong, on her very first night home.

  Then George Fenton, obviously wishing to assist by changing the subject, enquired as to her future plans, now that the war was well and truly over. Before Belinda could think of a suitable reply, her father’s voice boomed out yet again.

  ‘There
’s no need for any daughter of mine to work,’ pronounced Hubert Clarke, as if he were at a council meeting. ‘Ron works with me in the business, of course. Belinda will help her mother at home and get involved in some appropriate charity, to give her an interest.’ There were blotches of red on his plump face, the implications of his words plain to everyone. She would stay at home until the right young man came along. Hubert drank the last of his soup with a loud slurping noise, then smiled beneficially upon Belinda. ‘You won’t find me niggardly when it comes to giving you a good send-off.’

  ‘Sent off where?’ Belinda asked, in her coolest tones. ‘Haven’t I only this very day arrived back? Besides, perhaps I won’t want to stay at home. I haven’t yet decided what I might wish to do.’

  ‘What is there to do but find yourself a good husband, and a bit smartish like. You aren’t getting any younger.’ Hubert, as he proudly and constantly reminded his family and friends, came from Bolton so prided himself on never mincing his words. ‘Father knows best, eh?’

  Belinda, used to holding her own against whole squadrons of joking men, had been responsible for the welfare of girls in her care and was no longer the shy, convent-educated girl who had gone away to war, merely smiled.

  ‘Really father. That all sounds rather Victorian. I’m not a child any longer, you know, and I do think I’m capable of choosing my own job. I doubt radio operators are much in demand in Manchester these days, but I hope to find something a bit more interesting than helping Mummy at dinner parties or serving at charity coffee mornings.’

  Councillor Hubert Clarke turned a dull shade of purple. He was not accustomed to having his word flouted by anyone, least of all a daughter at his own dining table. He would have said as much there and then, had it not been for the Fenton woman taking an obvious satisfaction in his discomfort. Even so, he wouldn’t have his guests think him weak, or be bested in his own house. Hubert considered himself a man of some importance in his credit trading business, ably assisted by his son who ensured that customers kept up their regular weekly payments of a shilling in the pound for goods purchased. He’d never stood any nonsense in that department, war or no war. If they didn’t pay, he sued, or pursued them until they regretted their lack of thrift. He hadn’t become a self-made man of means without learning a trick or two. He was a man to be reckoned with in the city, with many useful contacts which served him well. He reminded himself of this fact now.