Dolly's War (25 page)

By this time he was, of course, terrified, his head whirling. He had branded himself a thief. Perhaps he wouldn't be in prison long, but he must try to name some place from which he had stolen the corn, other than his brother's. Alas for the criminal mentality.

He made several different statements (I wondered at that stage in Chas's confession whether my despatch-rider had returned and was describing the criminal's wife!) but in the end settled for the first one, ‘He had been playing cards at his brother's and, while his brother wasn't looking, he had stolen this very large bag of poultry food together with the butter and the tea.' The police couldn't seem to get clear from Chas how he left his brother's premises without his brother being curious as to what was in the sack-like bag which had not been in his possession when he arrived for his social evening. Chas, being an honest citizen got absolutely muddled up, and of course the more worried and muddled he became, the more like the criminal they suspected he was did he appear to his blue-coated kindly-voiced friends. His hand shook as he finally signed away his character and he remained in the Police Station while the law sped to Rob's shop.

Rob was furious that the police should wake him up in the middle of the night. He and his wife worked very hard, for their shop was extremely busy and successful. When he learned that Chas had said he'd stolen from his brother, he was even more furious. ‘He's a b.f.,' said Rob. ‘It's typical of him.' Rob made a statement and said to the departing policemen, ‘I should think you'd be busy enough searching for the big black market boys.'

In the end the whole police station was laughing, all except poor Chas, of course. At midnight the poultry-food had been taken off the ration because there was such a glut of it, and the half-a-pound of butter had melted in the warmth of the police station, no doubt singed by Chas's conscience. As for the quarter of a pound of tea, it wasn't worth the bother, for Rob could prove that on the way to our house the Sunday before he had met a policeman friend and in conversation had said to his wife, ‘Oh, hell, I've left our rations on the kitchen table.'

‘Now I suppose they have your finger prints,' I said accusingly. ‘What does that matter?' replied Chas, and waving his arms dramatically he continued, ‘I am not guilty.' I was just about to start a long stream of recriminations for my night of torture but his dramatic, ‘I am not guilty!' recalled to my mind the judge with a reputation for brevity. The criminal in the dock had dramatically waved his arms to the court and called out in heart-breaking tones, ‘As God is my judge I am not guilty.' Replied the judge, ‘He's not, I am, you are.' Therefore I thought I should let well alone, I would always have something to fall back on in any future domestic argument!

But I couldn't leave well alone and the more determined I was that Chas shouldn't keep chickens again, the more determined he became to own these stupid birds. I was fighting a lone battle, for eggs were still rationed and as Mother said so many times (probably coached by my father), ‘Eggs contain enough nutrient for a meal, and with potatoes, we could manage in an emergency,' and my father insisted that Chas's eggs looked better and tasted better than the shop eggs with the little lion on them. My mother would come down each day with a new ‘sales' quote on the subject of our ‘feathered friends'. Her greatest quote, and one which she thought most daring and modern was, ‘If a man is denied his pleasures at home he will seek them away from home, such is the nature of man.' Rob presented Chas, not only with his large supply of poultry-food, but with a pest-proof bin in which to keep it. This bin was about four feet high, made of heavy metal. It also had a strong hinged lid. And four stiff-legged females took up residence at the bottom of our garden. The only concession made ‘to keep me quiet' was the promise that these ladies would lead a cloistered existence. No male bird would ever ruffle their feathers. So Daisy, Dora, Elsie and Ethel lived a peaceful life. Whether their nun-like existence was a happy one I neither knew nor cared. I couldn't even tell them apart.

In the years after my son's birth Chas found no fault with his life. He liked his job in the docks. Thursday was still card night at Rob's, week-ends gardening and football, and we managed on his wages (only just). Never over-ambitious, he was always more intent on conscientiously carrying out the job on hand. No war now, the years, for him, stretched away peacefully in the foreseeable future. Family crises were usually solved by the time he arrived back on the scene.

On the other hand I was restless. I didn't know why. I didn't know what I wanted. I told myself I was happy caring for my children, indeed I wouldn't let anyone else look after them, and was always ill at ease when they were away from me. Mother suggested I take a night off now and then and visit the cinema, but I couldn't concentrate on the film. Suppose they woke up and I wasn't there. So that when events occurred which could have been tragedies, but which were by a miracle averted, I couldn't relax, and although my ‘Thank God' was fervent, I couldn't forget and would go over and over the occurrence in my mind. Thus, when friends and relatives hinted that I was a little over-protective of my children I felt utterly enraged. I felt that some parents were fortunate their children arrived home safely after they, so it seemed to me, carelessly dismissed them from their sight. Thus I felt it unfair that three near-disasters should have happened to my children. I had no ambition for them, only ever wishing for them a ‘normal' contented life, which was an anomaly, since I was never content and subconsciously was jealous of and resented my husband's contented acceptance of his lot.

One Saturday afternoon I went happily up to Mother's flat, to join my visiting sisters. The men were away at football, Susan was safely at tea with her little friend near by. William, then about two, was playing in the back garden. He was a child happy in isolation, always digging and inspecting holes. He was never any bother. The garden door, a large heavy one, was bolted, the front door as well. He couldn't reach the bolts. No harm could come to him.

The family left just after an early tea and I went to call my son in. There was no sign of him. I just couldn't believe it. The man next door was digging a very large hole in his garden. ‘Have you seen William?' I asked, a little worried, but not too frightened at that stage for Susan might have come in and taken him to play, though I knew this was hardly likely. ‘No,' said my neighbour, shortly. I thought he looked strangely serious. I dashed to my neighbour's house. Of course, Susan and her friends hadn't seen William. The doors were still bolted, he couldn't possibly have left the back garden. The man next door had now filled in his large hole and was raking it over. ‘Are you sure you haven't seen William?' I pleaded vainly. ‘He's missing.' Still the man just said, ‘No.'

My mother called from the window, ‘I've seen Charlie and he's running off to the Park, he thinks William has wandered off there.' I knew he couldn't have wandered off, I knew he couldn't have left the garden, and with my throat dry and parched and a feeling of utter desolation creeping over me I decided to go the Police Station. I don't know why I opened the garden door and looked down the garden again. Had I not searched it thoroughly and called my son's name so many times? In the growing dusk two white spots caught my eye. Two white spots on top of the poultry-bin. What were they? I tore down the garden and head downwards in the bin was my son, his face not quite buried in the corn. How he reached the top of the bin had yet to be worked out. I had yet to go over in my mind the ‘ifs' that had either saved his life or taken him from us. The lid had remained open a couple of inches because of the depth of corn remaining in the bin. I yelled to Mother and carried the little limp figure into the house. His face was wet, his eyes closed, but he was still breathing. Mother bathed his face and put some milk on to warm whilst Father rubbed his grandson's hand and said, ‘Come on, old chap, wake up.' At last William opened his eyes and said to me, ‘I kept calling for you.' And where was I, upstairs chattering away without a care in the world!

Such a load of guilt was too much for me to bear and immediately I transferred the whole of it on to Chas's shoulders. He was to blame. He should never have left the bin-lid open. I had never wanted the wretched chickens. I was just longing for his return when all my torments could be unloaded on to him. I knew I would attack him when he returned from the Park. He looked so white and shaken, so helpless and so worried when he appeared, that at long last I burst into tears. ‘Now, now,' said Mother. ‘All's well, that ends well.' Once she had started on these trite sayings she thought of many more applicable proverbs, her last one being, ‘Accidents will happen in the best of regulated families.' She unearthed a box half full of Christmas crackers and we wore paper hats for a celebration tea. The doorbell rang. Wearing my paper hat I opened it to the man next door. ‘Did you find your son?' he enquired solicitously. ‘Yes, thank you,' I replied. ‘He was in the chicken-bin.' He walked away looking dazed and I knew I should have to explain to his wife one day what had happened, otherwise they'd think me a mental case. ‘Who was calling?' asked Chas. ‘Oh, Mr...' I replied. ‘He wanted to know if we'd found William, and was there any way in which he could help.' ‘He's a very nice man,' said Chas. ‘Isn't he,' I agreed, ‘I've always thought so!'

Before I had recovered from that terrible afternoon, Susan failed to return home from school. More searching took place and I was fortunate enough to find someone who knew she'd gone home with one of the ‘bigger' girls from her school. I went to the girl's house. ‘Oh, no,' said the mother. ‘She hasn't been here.' She then turned to her daughter, a girl older than Susan and rather hefty-looking, and said, ‘You don't know where Susan is, do you, have you seen her this evening?' ‘No, I haven't,' replied the girl. Something in the girl's eyes stopped me from leaving quickly and I glanced round at her as I went down the path. Did she look at the garden shed? ‘What do you keep in your shed?' I asked the mother. ‘You surely don't think she's in there,' was her indignant answer. Just to show me I was crazy she unlocked the shed, and there was a frightened Susan crouching in the corner. The girl had decided to ‘kidnap' her. I was furious with the girl, furious with the mother for saying, ‘She was only playing,' furious with Susan for her timidity, and furious with myself for ever longing to be a mother. ‘I expect you'll have more worries to face yet,' said my mother cheerfully. ‘You hold too many post-mortems,' added my father.

Of course my mother was right, there were many worrying days ahead. Somehow I could cope with illness, even at the most awful time when Susan contracted polio I kept my nerve and unswerving faith in our marvellous doctor. When a child is ill there is so much one can do but when a child is ‘missing' then there is the despair of utter helplessness. I was always so careful to ask child visitors, ‘Did their mother know where they were?' ‘What time were they supposed to be at home?' Chas or I would take them safely home. I always hoped other parents would do the same for me, but alas, this was not always so. When Susan was eleven and at grammar-school, a schoolfriend's father called at the school by car, and collected his daughter and her friends for an impromptu party at his house, some miles away from our district. Children are unpredictable and Susan probably thought she would be home in a couple of hours, but the party went on until ten p.m. and then the father just bade the girls good-night with no enquiry as to whether they had their bus-fare, or whatever. Susan arrived home at 11.30 p.m. having had to walk a couple of miles through a seedy district. By this time I had alerted the police and was almost in a state of collapse, and the father who had thrown the party just shrugged his shoulders.

I often thought it might be a good idea to shuffle babies up at birth, or to exchange them, so that one could lovingly take care of a child without the awful tugging of the heart-strings. A child would perhaps be free then from a parent too dedicated or too emotional. Little knocks, or hurts, or slights, which appear to upset one's offspring mightily at the time, are often forgotten by them very quickly, but a mother sometimes remembers them and perhaps worries about them for many a day. My children were rather serious characters. Susan seemed to have no bother with her homework and I was never asked to assist, which was a relief for I had left school at fourteen, I had passed no examinations, she was much brighter than I had ever been. Her favourite subject was English and she was a writer of interesting essays. A special essay was to be written for some occasion or other. Susan spent one evening on it, writing speedily and took it to school, without suggesting I read it. The next day she returned home, in tears, and passed the essay to me. In red ink across the bottom of the page the teacher had written, ‘Well done, Mother'!

However, I was responsible for the next tragic happening. She was a very poor needlewoman. ‘She takes after you,' said my mother. ‘You always sewed with a red-hot needle and burning thread.' The needlework mistress had given the girls a sampler to work. First of all they must embroider their names across the top of the special material. Susan's progress was slow and the mistress suggested she bring it home to work on it in the evenings at a spare moment. For the first time in her school career she elicited my help and I was determined to rise to the occasion. By the time I had finished, the material contained large holes where I had sewn and unpicked many times. Susan was in tears, Chas furious with me for ruining the sampler, Mother looked at me as though I was a criminal and my poor father rubbed his bald head helplessly. ‘Pretend you've forgotten it at the next lesson,' I instructed Susan cravenly. I would buy some more material and I knew Amy would willingly assist us. She just hated to see children despondent. I journeyed far and wide but could find no identical material and in the end Susan went to school with the holey sampler. ‘Oh dear,' sighed the needlework mistress. ‘Couldn't you have asked your mother to help you?' I was glad Susan admitted it was all her mother's work, for the mistress laughed and arranged for Susan to take Latin instead. She probably thought she would be fighting a losing battle against heredity. (I had been wandering about all day worrying.)