Call Nurse Jenny (29 page)

‘Get y’r
Standard
! Fifty farsand at Second Front demonstrashern.’

Of course, buy a paper, look in the rooms-to-let columns, the logical thing to do. Feeling uplifted, Susan bought a paper. She wasn’t going back to Mrs Ward, she would stand on her own two feet. At least for a while.

Half an hour later found her on the doorstep of one of the somewhat shabby-looking houses off Mile End Road whose address was the one she’d selected from the to-let column: ‘Two furnished rooms, large family home, shared bath/wc, seven and six pw.’ She had to knock twice before anyone answered.

She felt and looked sick, and the woman who finally came to the door took one look at her condition, her suitcase, and said: ‘Gawd ’elp us – you orlright, dear?’ the Cockney accent closing around Susan like a warm blanket.

‘I … I saw your ad,’ she began, unable to say any more for the sick giddiness that was overwhelming her.

‘Better come inside, dear,’ the woman was saying. ‘You don’t look too good, and that’s a fact. I’ll take yer case for yer. Come on in.’

Taken into a cavern of a room, Susan gratefully allowed herself to be eased down on to a sagging brown leatherette sofa that puffed explosively under her small weight. The suitcase was plonked at her feet. ‘You stay there, dear. I’m gonna make yer a cuppa tea. Look as if yer could do wiv one. I won’t be a tick.’

Left alone to recover, Susan stared about her. The room had a high ceiling and a huge, stained marble Victorian fireplace but was bare of all ornaments and embellishments, almost as though the family were on the point of moving out and had packed away everything easily movable. All it held was two large armchairs that matched the sofa, half a dozen straight-backed chairs and a scratched oak sideboard with a radio on it. There was only lino on the floor and set in the centre was a circle of linked-up toy railway lines with a couple of Hornby trains, their carriages lying on their sides, and nearby some very battered toy cars.

As she sat looking at it, a boy of about thirteen came in. Staring at her from under a thatch of unkempt tawny hair, he said, ‘’Ello.’ Susan smiled through her tiredness.

‘Mum’s gorn ter make yer some tea,’ he announced gravely. When Susan nodded, he went on, ‘I’m Malcolm. I’ve got two bruvvers. They’re Percy an’ ’Enry. They’re younger’n me.’

Again she nodded, too weary to make conversation with small boys. A silence fell and finally Malcolm wandered off leaving her to continue gazing at the square-patterned lino and the indifferent beige wallpaper. The once-heavy green brocade curtains at the long Victorian bay window were faded at the edges by sunlight. Against the wall were propped makeshift blackout shutters of thick black paper in flimsy wood batten frames. The woman returned with a steaming basin-like cup on a wide saucer which she put into Susan’s hands.

‘Yer’ll feel a lot better after this,’ she said and sat on one of the chairs while Susan sipped what was the best cup of tea she’d had in what seemed like ages.

‘About the advert,’ she said at last.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the woman as though only just recalling that was why Susan was here. Now Susan felt better enough to take note of her, she saw a smallish woman of about thirty-five with uncurling fair hair roughly cut straight about her ears and forehead. Her hands were rough and she wore a washed-out flowered wrapover pinafore over a green dress.

‘Well,’ she said now. ‘I’m Emma Crawley. Me ’usband’s often away fer days on end – works fer the Gas Board, reserved occupation, but ’is job takes ’im all over the place and I get a bit lonely. I need a bit of company. That’s why I’m lettin’ out the rooms.’ She eyed Susan. ‘An’ your ’usband?’

‘In the Army,’ Susan obliged quickly. ‘Abroad. At least he …’ She faltered to a stop, then added hastily, ‘I’ve got my marriage certificate.’

Mrs Crawley burst out laughing. ‘Lord luv us, I don’t disberlieve yer, dear. Where is ’e, or is that ’ush-’ush?’

‘He’s … he’s been posted missing.’

‘Oh, yer poor duck!’ Her earlier hilarity swept away, the woman’s face creased with pity. ‘An’ you wiv a baby on the way. But ain’t you got no ’ome or anythink? ’Ave yer bin bombed out, then? Not in London though, dear?’ She had taken note of Susan’s accent. ‘D’yer come from Manchester way?’

‘No, Birmingham.’ Susan was surprised that tears hadn’t flooded her eyes at the mention of Matthew, but guessed she was too tired for that.

‘Birmingham. They’ve ’ad it nasty up there too. ’Ad some of them daylight raids. They’ve left London alone this time, thank Gawd. We ’ad enough of our share in the Blitz. Shockin’ it was rarnd ’ere, flames …’

She pulled herself up sharply. ‘Look, come upstairs and take a look at the rooms, see if yer like ’em. Yer can cook up there. I’ve put in a gas ring but there ain’t no place fer an oven. But yer can eat wiv us if yer like. Might save yer a few bob in the meter. Don’t s’pose yer get much allowance from the Army. Come on, dear, I’ll show yer. Leave yer suitcase there fer the time bein’. What’s yer name?’

‘Susan. Susan Ward.’ She got up, put the cup and saucer on the floor because there was nowhere else to put it and followed Mrs Crawley out and back along the passage, its thin runner rucking up under her tired feet, and up the narrow lino’d stairs.

Opening the door to the large bedroom which had been divided into two at some time to form a sitting room as well, Mrs Crawley stood back for Susan to enter.

‘Everythink’s nice an’ clean,’ she said. To someone who had been travelling for much of the day, it looked like heaven, despite the well-worn furnishings and, if one had been finicky, really only being one divided room. ‘I ’ope it’s suitable for yer.’

Suitable! Susan could have cried at the sight of the large brass bed on which she could have flopped this very second, it looked so inviting and comfortable. She turned to the woman. ‘I’d like to take it. But do you mind me being … like this?’ She nodded towards her midriff.

‘Bless yer, no. I like kids. Got free of me own – all boys. Wot I’d like is a gel. Well, yer never know. Ain’t too old yet. An’ Geoff, that’s me ’usband, it’s Geoffrey really, but ’e’s called Geoff by everyone – when ’e comes ’ome, yer never know, it could ’appen and I could spark again. But it’d be nice ’aving a bit of female comp’ny in this family of boys. Me ’usband too – as much boy as any of the kids, I can tell yer.’

‘Well, if it suits you to have me here, Mrs Crawley …’

‘Call me Emma. An’ I’ll call yer Sue.’

Susan smiled. The woman was motherly, and she needed someone motherly right now, someone like her own mother. Her mother spoke real Brummy, Emma Crawley spoke Cockney; it was all the same when someone saw no point to putting on airs and graces.

‘Emma,’ she repeated, already feeling at home.

The first thing she intended to do once she was settled in was to write to her mother telling her of her good luck. As to writing to Mr and Mrs Ward, she would think about that one, but she supposed, as their son’s wife, she really should let them know where she was. This she did and bravely prepared herself for their onslaught. It wasn’t long in coming.

‘What did you think you were doing, Susan? You had us worried out of our wits. You seem to have no conception of what you have put us through. No consideration. Didn’t you ever stop to think how worried we’d be?’

In her room, which she had already made even more cosy, Susan withstood the tirade by keeping her head bowed and saying nothing.

‘After all we tried to do for you. I don’t think we’ve been unkind or made you do anything you didn’t want to do. We’ve treated you as though you were our own daughter and done all we can to make you feel at home. Not only for Matthew’s sake but your own, a girl away from her parents, her husband …’ Mrs Ward gulped back a wave of emotion, thankful the landlady Mrs Crawley wasn’t present to see it, having decently left this family to its argument. ‘Her husband, our son, not with her,’ she finished.

Collecting herself, she paused again, this time for some sort of reply. When none came, she pushed on. ‘How could you have been so thankless, so unkind, so thoughtless as to cause us all this worry?’

‘Don’t you think you were being just a bit unfair?’ Mr Ward added with a little more calm, saving Susan the awkwardness of answering his wife’s angry question. ‘God knows, we’ve done you no harm to have been treated in such a way. What
have
we done to you, Susan, to deserve it?’

This was said in such a heartfelt manner, tears began to surge up in Susan’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to cry, had even steeled herself against crying. So finding herself on the verge of doing so made anger rise up instead.

‘You’ve never let me lead my own life,’ she blurted. ‘Watching every move I made, you made me feel like I was a prisoner. I want to lead my own life. I’m not a kid. I can look after myself.’

‘It looks like it,’ Mrs Ward remarked, gazing about her, exactly as she had done on entering the house. ‘This place is disgusting.’

‘But it feels more like home to me than your fine house ever did.’ It didn’t matter that she sounded rude. She felt angry. ‘Mrs Crawley’s like a mother to me, which you never was.’

‘Well, that is the absolute limit …’

‘Now look here, Susan,’ Leonard Ward cut in again. ‘There’s no call to talk to us like that. We have, truly, tried to do our best for you. If the way we did it wasn’t what suited you, I’m sorry, it’s the only way we know. You must admit, you wanted for nothing. Did you?’ he ended firmly.

‘No,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Then where have we failed?’

She was crying now. ‘You haven’t failed. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I suppose I should have told you how I felt. But it’s done now.’

‘It isn’t. You can come back with us.’

‘It is. I want to live on my own. I’m sorry, but I feel smothered. I just want to live on my own.’

There was a long silence, both of them looking at her, she not daring to look at them.

‘But the baby …’

‘I’m all right,’ Susan cut across her mother-in-law’s lame words. ‘Mrs Crawley’s got children. She’s made me feel wanted and comfortable here.’

‘Meaning we haven’t?’

‘It’s like I said. I don’t feel comfortable in your home. I want to be on my own. I need to be on my own. I don’t want to be smothered.’

‘Well, all credit to you, Susan,’ Leonard Ward muttered then turned to his wife. ‘I can’t see anything we can say altering her mind. I think we’d best go, Lilian.’

‘I’m not …’ she began, but again he interrupted her, firmly raising his hand towards her.

‘There’s no point us trying to argue any more. I give you credit for wanting to stand on your own two feet, Susan. I didn’t think you had it in you, but obviously you have. Well, we’re not far away if you need us. If we hear anything from Matthew, we’ll let you know immediately. Obviously we have no way of writing to him except through the Red Cross, which we will do, and I expect you will too. You’re as anxious as us to hear something, no matter what. I expect it’s the strain of all this that’s made you do what you did. We’re going now. But, Susan, keep in touch. Don’t alienate yourself against us, whatever it was we did to displease you. Of course, we want to know when the baby is born and if you’re all right. You will do that, won’t you?’

Dismally she nodded. He came forward, laid a kiss on her downcast cheek and took hold of her shoulders to give them a small encouraging shake. It was like having Matthew touch her and it was all she could do not to fall into his father’s arms to receive his hug. Instead, she stepped back, lifting her tear-streaked face, shaking her dark hair from her eyes, a small defiant gesture, and he too stepped away, defeated. It showed in his eyes, again so like Matthew’s though a few shades lighter.

Mrs Ward just stood there, not quite looking at her, her face set like granite.

‘Take care, child,’ Leonard Ward said and his wife, still without looking at her, gave a stiff nod of concurrence and turned, leading the way out of the room.

Susan stood listening to their footsteps echoing down the uncarpeted stairs. She heard Mrs Crawley saying to them before they left, ‘I’ll see she keeps in touch. She’s in good ’ands ’ere.’ Then the door closed and Emma Crawley’s footsteps came quickly back up the stairs.

‘I’m gonna do yer a nice cup of tea, Sue. Make yer feel better.’ It was Emma’s way of solving all crises. More often than not it worked a treat, just as it did now as Susan smiled at her through her tears.

A fierce stab somewhere in her stomach awoke Susan with a start and for a moment she lay rigid, frightened by a pain that could bring her out of what had been a deep sleep. There was only a dull ache now that wasn’t really an ache at all – she wasn’t sure what it was – just a feeling. The clinic had told her she had only a week or two to go now, though no one could say quite when. So was this her time? No, it couldn’t be. Probably just wind. The fear began to subside but it had left her wide awake.

Turning over she closed her eyes again and tried to sleep. But sleep had gone and all that were left were thoughts, the sort of reflections that come at night, persistent, refusing to be ignored.

All this time, there had been no news whatsoever of Matthew. But she wouldn’t think about that. Once on that track it would persist, plaguing her with memories of those wonderful days with him, thoughts of the days that now stretched ahead of her without him, forever and ever. She would end up crying into her pillow. She mustn’t think of him. She would try to think of something else. Something positive. Something happy.

It had been the best move she had ever made getting away from his parents. Emma was such a wonderful, motherly person, she couldn’t have wished for a better landlady, more a friend than anything, so free and easy. It was a rough-and-ready-come-and-go-as-you-please sort of home. Meals were never the ritual they’d been at the Wards’ home. The only time anyone sat around a table – the big bare table in the back room – was when Geoffrey Crawley was home, and even then everyone came one after the other as each plate was filled, leaving the same way, as soon as the plate was empty – no waiting for anyone else.

Helping around the house, going shopping with Emma who held her arm as she got bigger around the middle, was enjoyable. So were these long July evenings. As the sun went down on kids playing in the street, the drawn-out twilight of double British Summertime fading, the Crawleys’ flimsy blackout shutters would go up amid a dozen bits of advice how to make them fit so no light finally showed. With the sounds in the street finally muted by the closing of the thin curtains, they’d all settle down to an evening around the wireless, laughing at ITMA, Arthur Askey and Stinker Merdock, Vic Oliver, Ben Lyon and Bebe Daniels; listening intently to the news read by Alvar Lidell or Bruce Belfrage, hoping to glean a little joyful tidings from the war front. Sometimes she and Emma would have a go at one of the dozens of old jigsaw puzzles that lay around the house, the wireless still blaring to itself, while young Malc sat at the other end painting from a tin paint box on bits of old paper, his brothers playing noisily with some toy or other, Geoffrey in his creaking old fireside chair reading the evening paper or studying his work sheets for the following week. All nice and cosy.