Daughter of Mine (39 page)

Celia remembered she’d stood and faced Sister Jude, so scared she badly wanted to pee and her hands were clammy with sweat, and Sister Jude had looked her up and down. ‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘Your father has already chastised you.’

Resolutely, Celia pushed such memories away. What good did it do recalling such things? This was another life, living with Lizzie, and the sumptuous baby, Georgia, as well as all the women in the yard, who always had a cheery word. And so she laughed and joked as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

Lizzie knew it was no life for Georgia, staying inside day after day until dusk fell, and she talked to Violet about it one evening. ‘She’s young to leave in a nursery, ain’t she?’ Violet asked.

‘Violet, she’d have a better life than she does here, when I am afraid to cross the threshold of the door,’ Lizzie said. ‘Anyway, I’m not thinking of now, this minute, I was thinking more of after Easter. I could have her weaned by then and she’ll be five months in April.’

‘I do see what you mean,’ Violet said. ‘Where was you thinking of going, like, cos I reckon you could have your old job back if you wanted. They know about Georgia, like, but they all remember the attack and the police coming round and they don’t hold you responsible, not one bit—at least not those who were there at the time. They have sent you their regards, like. Wouldn’t you consider going back there?’

‘I did,’ Lizzie said. ‘But I rejected it. See, I’ve never left any baby at a nursery school and I feel I’m better
staying close to her. The factory where Celia works in Rea Street is just up the road from the day nursery. She is making wings for Lancasters and says they can’t get enough people. All I need to do is go down to the nursery and see if they will have a place for Georgia.’

Violet didn’t argue further. None of hers had been left in a nursery either, but these were strange times. ‘Won’t you miss her?’

‘Every time I think of it, my stomach gives a lurch. But we need the money and this will be better for Georgia. Everything I do is for her sake.’

‘I know that, bab,’ Violet said softly. ‘No one would ever doubt that.’

Lizzie visited the nursery in mid-March, for it was an early Easter that year, and the Matron in charge said places were available for mothers undertaking war work. She looked at Georgia sitting on Lizzie’s knee opposite her on the other side of the desk and asked, ‘Was your husband an American, Mrs Gillespie?’

Lizzie knew the reason the woman asked was because the few black men about were linked to the American forces, so she said, ‘My husband was a serving soldier in the Royal Warwickshires and he was killed in North Africa.’ She went on, for she knew she had to tell the truth about Georgia, before rumours were dripped into the woman’s ear, ‘Georgia is not my husband’s child. She is the result of a brutal rape I suffered last year in the blackout.’ And then, as the woman continued to stare at her, she asked, ‘Will that matter?’

‘Not to me, or any of the staff here,’ the matron said. ‘We treat the children equally, wherever they’ve come from. It might upset some of the mothers, but
shall we cross that bridge when we come to it?’ The matron smiled encouragingly and Lizzie felt her shoulders relax and knew she was believed. ‘You get your job, Mrs Gillespie,’ the matron went on, ‘and we’ll be pleased to see your little girl on Tuesday, 7
^th
April when we reopen after the Easter break.’

Even knowing she was doing the best thing, it upset Lizzie to deliver her baby into a stranger’s arms that first morning, however kind they appeared to be. She thought about her all day, and was glad of Celia’s company.

But, in the end, she got used to it, and what helped was that no one at nursery seemed to be the slightest bit fazed by the colour of Georgia’s skin. In fact, she was quite a favourite. None of the mothers seemed to mind either. She’d seen one or two of them look askance at her, some with plain disgust apparent on their faces, but they didn’t transfer this to the baby and Lizzie could cope with that.

By the early summer of 1942, the sight of GIs in the streets of Birmingham was not uncommon. There were a fair few black servicemen amongst them and Lizzie was usually cautious in her dealings with them, which Celia and Violet felt quite understandable in the circumstances.

Not everyone felt like Lizzie, though. In a world virtually starved of young men for so long, many girl’s were intrigued by the young GIs. They dressed smarter and seemed to have more money than the average Tommy; they brought a splash of colour into an England wearied by the restrictions of war, and caused
many to remark wryly that, ‘They’re overpaid, oversexed and over here.’

Many British people couldn’t get over the disparaging way some white Americans treated their black companions. It upset the British attitude of fair play. ‘I mean, ain’t it enough to fight the Germans, Japs and Eyeties without rowing with one another,’ Violet grumbled. ‘I was stood in a queue in a ciggy shop on Bristol Street and these white blokes came in and told these black blokes, who had stood there ages, mind, to get to the back of the queue.’

In a country where queuing had become a way of life, jumping that queue unfairly was seen as a dreadful thing, and so Lizzie asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, the man serving in the shop called the black fellers back and let the white chaps have the rough edge of his tongue,’ Violet said. ‘Said
he
decided who to serve and when in his shop.’

‘Quite right,’ Celia said. ‘I understand why you don’t like the coloured men and you have every reason, Lizzie, but any I’ve met have been really polite.’

‘Our Carol says that,’ Violet agreed, and went on with a nod of her head at Lizzie, ‘Anyroad, little Georgia mightn’t be the only half-caste babby in the area soon, human nature being what it is.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Obvious, ain’t it?’ Violet said. ‘I mean, the girls are all over the Yanks. Carol says it’s the same at the dances. Often they dance more with the blacks than the whites and…well, you don’t get chocolate, chewing gum, and especially nylons from shaking hands with a feller.’

‘Violet!’

But Celia knew what Violet said was true in many cases. Nylon stockings were a dream for most people. Lizzie still didn’t think a girl would do that for a pair of nylons, but when she said this both Celia and Violet laughed.

‘When was you born?’ Violet asked. ‘Some of the young lasses now have not had a proper courtship at all. Any bloke they liked was often whipped off and some have never come back. Added to that, girls are working in greater numbers than before. They’ve more money in their pockets and more freedom as well, and then the place is flooded with Yanks, out to sample the local talent in their free time.’

‘And some of them are good-looking,’ Celia put in. ‘And charming and, so I believe, generous. Some of the girls I work with have said so.’

‘Why don’t you go to the dances?’ Lizzie asked. It was a matter that had been preying on her conscience for some time. It seemed wrong Celia should closet herself away, being content each night to sit in the house listening to the wireless or reading.

‘I’m happy enough.’

‘It’s not right, Celia.’

‘I tell you, I’m fine. Once bitten, twice shy.’

‘Not for the rest of your life, surely to God,’ Lizzie said. ‘Our Johnnie more than likes you.’

Celia blushed and looked even prettier, especially when she protested, ‘He barely knows me.’

‘Isn’t that what he’s trying to do, get to know you in his letters?’ Lizzie said, for since Johnnie had sent the card and Celia had passed her eighteenth birthday, he’d written a weekly letter to her. In the beginning,
she’d shown them to Lizzie, but for the last few weeks she’d been more reticent, though she wasn’t going to admit that or commit herself to anything. ‘You’re reading too much into that,’ she protested. ‘Johnnie is just being kind.’

Lizzie knew it was more than kindness, but she might make things worse instead of better to press Celia further and so she dropped the subject.

She watched Celia feeding Georgia the bottle she’d heated for her and knew Georgia was going some way towards helping the healing process for Celia, for Lizzie knew how much Celia missed her own baby. Since Georgia had been weaned, Celia often fed her and she would do anything else for her too.

Georgia had changed too. Abundant jet-black curls topped a face the colour of milk chocolate. She had huge dark eyes, a button nose and a rosebud mouth that turned upwards so it looked as if she was constantly amused by something.

She had little to grumble about of course, as yet anyway. She loved nursery, and when taken home Celia would spend hours playing with her. She had her astride her leg playing horsey, or teaching her pat-a-cake, or would trace her finger across Georgia’s palm, reciting ‘
Round and round the garden
…’

Georgia was fortunate in having the toys Niamh and Tom had left behind, and as she learnt to sit up, the truck with bricks that Niamh had had for her first birthday came into play. Celia would spend hours building towers for Georgia’s podgy hands to destroy, and they’d hoot with laughter each time.

All the women in the yard, except for Sadie, who’d
kept her distance since Lizzie’s return, had taken to little Georgia. But Lizzie knew that wouldn’t be the case everywhere and, despite what Violet said, she’d hate people to think she’d just forgotten her principles for a pair of nylon stockings.

American soldiers, both black and white and miles from home, were often invited to share a meal with a family, and as one woman at work remarked, ‘Never thought I’d see my old man sit down at the table with a couple of coloured blokes. But he did, and afterwards he said they was the same as us underneath and ended up standing them both a drink down the boozer.’

All this was well and good, Lizzie thought, but she couldn’t think that way about them and no one who knew her would expect her to.

To say Scott McFarland was more or less in shock since he’d come to England would have been putting it mildly. In America they’d had boys and men going off to war, but apart from that, for ordinary Americans, life had gone on as before. He’d heard of the blitzing of ordinary British cities, seen pictures in the papers and on the news reels back home, but he found it was one thing to see it in a detached way and another thing to be there: to see the gaping holes where shops, houses etc. once stood, and the craters in some roads making them impassable. Sometimes there would be a sea of rubble where whole streets had been destroyed.

And the people. He couldn’t get over the people. Many were war-weary, their faces often grey with fatigue and their clothes shabby, but their humour and courage made him admire them greatly. But now he’d set off with a heavy heart to try and make amends for something dreadful and terrible that his brother had done.

Bell Barn Road was relatively easy to find, and when he’d gone up Bristol Passage, as the lady conductor on
the tram advised, he stood at the top and stared. One side of the street was a mountain of debris; contents of many houses spilled out and smashed to fragments and mixed with bricks and charred beams, roof slate and brick dust. The shell of one house opposite a small shop still stood, its neighbour leaning against it drunkenly one side and the roof lifted from it.

This was Scott’s first experience of back-to-back housing, for, as far as he was aware, they had nothing like this in the States and he’d been in England just a week. This pleasant, warm Saturday in June was the first time he’d been able to come here. Certainly there were no houses like this around St George’s Barracks in Sutton Coldfield, where he was based.

He took a grip on himself. He wasn’t here to judge and criticise but to try to right a wrong. He remembered what his brother had written in the letter he’d left.

I did it to avenge Shirley, but I know I did a grievous and shameful thing, and although I wasn’t in my own mind there is no excuse. It’s certainly not what Shirley would have approved of.

I intended to see to this myself, to see the family and confess, try and recompense them in some way, but if I don’t come back could you do this, Scott? I can’t trust anyone else to see this through.

I don’t know if Steve is still alive, but as well as his wife who I violated, he spoke of children. Those children have haunted me and the great tragedy I inflicted on them, and they were innocent of everything. If I don’t return, find them,
Scott. You’ll know what to do when you see how they are.

Scott looked about him. They mightn’t be here at all, he thought, if their father is overseas—or perhaps dead. The children were maybe being cared for by grandparents, or, failing that, in one of the city’s orphanages. But Matt’s involvement began in this street and he glanced at the address he’d written down:
2, back of 301.
He found 301, it opened onto the street, but he had no idea how to find the back of it.

He made his way up the street to the shop he could see, intending to seek information there before he began knocking on strangers’ doors.

Gerald Moorcroft was in the shop when he saw the young black American soldier almost hesitate before pushing the door open. Gerald saw that he’d removed the cap from his head as he entered and he liked that: it showed good breeding, respectable in Gerald’s book. And the man was smart. His beige jacket and trousers were the sort of thing British officers wore and the shirt beneath was pure white. Added to that, his trousers were well-pressed and his shoes shone so Gerald imagined you could see your face in them. The whole attire and the man’s manner pleased Gerald Moorcroft and he smiled. ‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for information,’ Scott said. ‘Seeking a family called Gillespie.’

Immediately, Gerald was wary. In his opinion, enough had happened to that bonny Lizzie Gillespie and he wanted no further trouble landing at her door.
What business could she have, or want to have, with a young black American soldier.

‘What would you be wanting with Lizzie Gillespie?’ he asked.

‘Lizzie Gillespie!’ Scott repeated incredulously. Could it be…? But he had to be sure. ‘Is that Steve Gillespie’s wife—Lizzie?’

‘Yes, though Steve’s copped it, like,’ Gerald said. ‘North Africa.’

Now Scott was confused. He’d thought the woman dead. A faint hope began burning inside him, but he had to be certain. ‘I really need to speak to this Lizzie Gillespie.’

‘What makes you think she’ll want to talk to you?’ Gerald asked.

‘I think she will,’ Scott said earnestly. ‘It’s of utmost importance.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Please, I mean her no harm.’

‘Look,’ Gerald said. ‘Let’s put things on the line here. I like Lizzie Gillespie and she’s had a rough deal at the hands of a black bloke like yourself. This isn’t owt to do with the half-caste baby Lizzie had after she was attacked, like?’

‘Half-caste baby?’ Scott repeated in horror, while his mind went into overdrive. Ah, God, surely not. He noticed the shopkeeper looking at him, noting his agitation, and he asked, ‘This baby, when…when did she have it?’

‘Dunno, sometime before Christmas,’ Gerald said, scratching his head. ‘Cos she was home before that Pearl Harbour was bombed.’

‘Then it’s even more important I see her,’ Scott said, and then as Gerald’s eyes widened he said, ‘No, I had nothing to do with anything that might have happened. I’ve been in Britain just one week, but I may know who it was that attacked her, and hasn’t this lady a right to know that?’

Gerald nodded his head. He could see she had.

‘And I need to know where the baby is.’

‘What you on about? Where you’ll find Lizzie, there you will find Georgia.’

‘She kept it?’ Scott said. ‘She didn’t leave it in some orphanage somewhere?’

‘No,’ Gerald told him. ‘She kept it. Wouldn’t do owt else, so I heard tell. Gone through it as well because of that decision.’

Scott could bet on that. Mixed marriages, and therefore mixed-race children, weren’t common in the States, but it did happen. He’d not seen it in Britain, though, in fact black people were almost like a novelty to them; and though in the main they were friendly enough, he’d seen few of the black soldiers dating white girls, though he’d heard they were popular at the dances.

But for a woman to bring a half-caste child back here…Why had she done that? Why hadn’t she hated the child and wished rid of it almost as soon as she’d given birth? He had to speak to her.

‘You swear you mean her no harm,’ Gerald said.

‘I swear it,’ Scott replied. ‘I just wish to speak to her.’

‘Right,’ Gerald said. ‘Now, if I’m wrong about you and anything happens to Lizzie because of it, you’ll wish you had never been born. I’ve made a note of
your number and I’ll have your name before you go.’

‘Scott, Scott McFarland,’ Scott said, extending his hand.

Minutes later, Violet spotted Scott passing by the window to knock on Lizzie’s door and she said, ‘Barry, there’s a big coloured bloke knocking on Lizzie’s door. Get out there and see if everything is all right.’

Gloria and Ada had been having a conflab on their doors and giving an eye to Gloria’s small son and Ada’s daughter playing in the yard, but the words died in their throats as they saw the man.

Scott had been quite appalled by the cobbled area he’d stepped into and he took in the smell and saw the overflowing dustbins and the dirt and grime. The only clean thing he could see was the washing on the lines criss-crossing the yard, held on tall props. He nodded to the women watching him open-mouthed, but they made no response. They didn’t know what he wanted with Lizzie Gillespie, and until they did know they were making no friend of him.

When Barry stepped from the house next door he wasn’t smiling either, but Scott would not allow himself to be intimidated and the knock he gave was loud and imperious.

Lizzie sighed, certain it was the priest, and really she could do without the man. But when she saw the black GI standing there she was transfixed by terror. She didn’t take in his smart appearance as Gerald Moorcroft had, she only saw his colour and she said sharply, ‘What d’you want?’

Her voice, high in surprise and fear, alerted Celia who was upstairs putting Georgia down for a nap.
Anxious for Lizzie, she pulled the child back from the cot and pounded down the stairs with her.

Lizzie was so alarmed by the man’s appearance she barely heard him say, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Gillespie—you are Mrs Gillespie?’ She just stared at him and so he went on, ‘My name is Scott McFarland.’

All Lizzie could think of was that this was the man who had attacked her come to finish her off. Common sense would have told her he’d hardly do that in broad daylight in full view of everyone, but a person in such intense fear doesn’t listen to common sense and Lizzie could have wept in relief when Barry came into view. ‘All right, Lizzie?’

He saw the state of Lizzie, so he addressed the man. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just a word with Mrs Gillespie.’

‘I have nothing to say to you.’ Barry’s solid presence had given Lizzie the power of speech again. ‘Go away. Get away from my door.’

And then Celia joined Lizzie at the door with the baby in her arms. She was beautiful, bonny and welldressed, and obviously well-cared for, and Scott was, for a moment, awed by the sight of her.

‘So, if that’s all.’

‘No,’ Scott said, thrusting his foot in the door so it couldn’t shut.

‘How dare you!’

‘Just say the word, Lizzie,’ Barry said, ‘and I’ll throw him out.’

‘Please listen,’ Scott implored. ‘I mean you no harm, I want you to know that, but I need to talk to you about the baby. Is it your child?’ he said to Celia as
she was holding her. He had to be sure what the shopkeeper had told him was accurate.

‘No, Georgia is mine,’ Lizzie answered, lifting her from Celia’s arms as she spoke.

‘And how old is she?’ Scott asked.

‘I don’t think that is any of your business,’ Lizzie said angrily.

Celia, seeing Lizzie getting agitated, said, ‘She’s seven months, and why should you want to know that?’

Scott didn’t answer. Instead he asked another question. ‘Who is her father?’

‘Okay’. Lizzie declared. ‘This has gone far enough. You come to my door uninvited, force your way in here and then ask personal and intrusive questions. I don’t know what your game is, but you go and play it someplace else. You are not welcome here and I want you to go.’

‘You heard,’ Celia said. ‘Get out!’

Scott knew if he was to leave now he’d never come back. His own innards were complaining of what he had to do and he wanted to run away and forget all about it, but he knew if he did his conscience would never let him rest. He owed it to everyone involved, and this woman most of all, to tell her the whole truth. ‘Please give me a few minutes?’ Scott begged. ‘I didn’t come here to annoy or harass you and I’m sorry if it seems that way. I will ask you no more questions, but tell you a little bit about myself and then maybe you will understand. Please, I honestly think I might have information for you and it is about your child.’

Lizzie started. ‘And is it information I’d want to have?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ Scott said. ‘But it is information you need to have.’

The man’s words and the sincere way they were spoken caused Lizzie’s limbs to shake. Could it be that after all this time she could find something out about the man who attacked her? ‘This information you have, is it…does it concern the attack made on me?’

Scott nodded.

Barry was startled. Could it be that this man could clear up some of the mystery surrounding the attack on Lizzie? He’d certainly come on a special errand for something. ‘Maybe you should hear what the chap has to say,’ he said. ‘I’ll come in with you if you like.’

‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘I think Violet would be best.’

Ada and Gloria watched the interchange at the door and then Barry going into his own house and Violet coming out of it. ‘What d’you make of that?’ Ada said when Lizzie’s door had closed.

‘Dunno,’ Gloria replied. ‘But it’ll be summat all right. Tell you what, the goings-on at Lizzie Gillespie’s are more entertaining than a play.’

Inside the house, Scott was looking around the room, noting how small it was and yet how cosy. The three women were ranged opposite him and he could almost feel their animosity. He hadn’t been asked to sit down and Lizzie stood watching him with eyes full of trepidation, rocking the child in her arms. Violet glanced at her and then said to the man, ‘Come on then, say your piece and then you can sling your hook.’

Scott drew his hand through the springy curls on his head nervously, aware that his legs were shaking
and his mouth was incredibly dry. ‘What I am going to say first may seem irrelevant,’ he began.

‘Just get on with it.’

‘Okay,’ Scott said with a sigh. ‘My family own a hardware store and timber merchants in Baltimore and in 1927 my father died. I was seventeen and the eldest and I quit school. My Mom had gone to pieces and I ran the business, and my sister Carla, who was two years younger than me, took on the house and looking after Ben, who was only two years old. No one had time to bother about Matt. He was thirteen and had adored our father. He was Dad’s favourite too. Kindred spirits, Dad used to say they were.

‘After Dad died, Matt hit the skids big-style. I tried to hide as much as possible from Mom, but when he disappeared altogether at fifteen I was relieved. I think everyone was, though Mom did make efforts to find him.’

He gazed across at Lizzie and she met his gaze dispassionately. ‘You’ll see the relevance of all this shortly,’ Scott said, and went on, ‘No one heard anything of Matt till 1936. He’d joined the American Air Force and wanted to marry a nurse called Shirley who’d nursed him through some illness he’d had.

‘Not long after their marriage the Air Force asked for volunteers for a force that would be based in Britain, and Matt, with Shirley’s encouragement, enlisted for this and was eventually based in a place called Castle Bromwich in the summer of 1938.’