The Letter (5 page)

Tina reached for her coat and picked up her little suitcase.

‘You’ve packed? You bitch. How long have you been planning this?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Since the day you hit me so hard across the face I needed stitches over my eye…’

‘That wasn’t my fault, my ring caught you…’

‘Since the day you punched me and split my lip, since the day you stubbed your cigarette out on my arm, since the day you first
raped
me, since the day you stole my money to put a bet on. Since our bloody wedding day. Should I carry on?’

As she voiced this out loud for the first time, she found a long-buried inner strength, and with it, a conviction that her sanity and indeed her very survival depended on her walking away.

She was in the hallway now and as she opened the front door she held her head high and marched away, without a single glance back.

‘Tina, come back here. I’m sorry.’ His knees gave way and he crumpled to the floor.

It was all Tina could do not to break into a run as she made her way down the terraced street. She felt like she could run and run forever. And she would need to when Rick discovered she had raided his back pocket whilst he was asleep and taken all the money.

Later that afternoon, Tina knocked on the door of the smart semi and nervously waited for an answer. An attractive blonde woman, face fully made-up and sporting masses of gold jewellery opened it.

‘Can I help you?’

‘You must be Sheila. I’m Tina.’

She held out her hand which Sheila ignored.

‘Err....is Graham in?’

‘Does he know you?’

‘Yes, I’m a friend. I work in the shop next door to his on Saturdays.’

‘Who is it, Sheila?’ Graham called from somewhere in the house.

Sheila opened the door a little further and beckoned Tina in.

‘Says she’s a friend of yours.’

‘Tina!’ exclaimed Graham, arriving in the hallway. ‘What’s happened, love?’

Seeing Graham’s caring, concerned face made Tina’s voice wobble. ‘I’ve left him, Graham.’

‘Oh, God. Come here,’ He took her into his arms and embraced her firmly.

Sheila looked on with bemusement and Graham turned to her.

‘Sheila, put the kettle on would you?’

Tina pulled herself together. ‘It’s alright, Sheila, I’m not stopping. I just wanted to let Graham know what’s going on. He’s been a good friend to me and if it wasn’t for what he did for me yesterday then I wouldn’t have been able to leave.’

‘You took his money?’ Graham asked incredulously.

Tina managed a smile. ‘Every penny. I’ve found a small bedsit to rent. I spotted it a few weeks ago but couldn’t afford it then. Anyway, it’s still available so I’m going there. It’s not too bad really. The furniture’s ancient and the walls are so thin I can hear the bloke next door change his mind, but at least it’s all mine.’

‘He’ll come looking for you, you know,’ Graham said gravely.

‘I’ve no doubt he will. He knows where I work, he may turn up at the shop too, but I don’t care, Graham. He won’t lay a finger on me in public. He’s way too clever for that.’

‘He could follow you though.’

‘Please, Graham. Don’t you think I know all this? Why do you think it’s taken me so long to make the break.’

‘Sorry. Do you need a hand moving in?’

‘I only left with a small suitcase so there wasn’t much to move in really, but thanks anyway. Look, I’d better get going, I’ve a few things to do.’

‘If you’re sure. I’ll pop in the shop next Saturday. Take care of yourself now.’

As Tina settled down later that evening with a cup of cocoa, she began to relax a little. She was exhausted, so she allowed her head to loll back on the settee as she closed her eyes. She felt strangely empty as she reflected on her disastrous four year marriage. She didn’t know what the future would hold and this filled her with both fear and excitement. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue and, frustrated when she couldn’t find one, tipped the contents of the bag out on to the floor. Lying on top of all the clutter was the letter she had found in the pocket of that old suit. Feeling incredibly intrusive, she picked it up and carefully opened the sealed envelope, trying not to damage it in any way. The writing was neat enough but strangely child-like, as though the writer was not used to using a pen. Tina tucked her legs beneath her and began to read:-

180 Gillbent Road

Manchester

4th September 1939

My Darling Christina

I’m not very good at this sort of thing, as you know, but right now my heart is breaking and this is spurring me on. The way I treated you yesterday was unforgivable but please know that it was just the shock and no reflection of my feelings towards to you. These past few months have been the happiest of my life. I know I’ve never told you this before but I love you Chrissie and if you let me I want to spend every day we have left together proving it to you. Your father tells me you don’t want to see me anymore and I don’t blame you, but it is not just about us any anymore – there is the baby to consider now. I want to be a good father and a good husband. Yes, Chrissie, that is my clumsy way of proposing. Please say you will be my wife so we can raise our child together. The war may separate us physically but our emotional bond will be unbreakable.

I need you to forgive me Chrissie. I love you. Forever yours, Billy xxx

She finished reading and shivered involuntarily. Although she never used her full name, she had been christened Christina herself and she felt an instant bond with this Chrissie. It was all so sad. Why had Billy not posted his letter? What became of Chrissie and their baby? Maybe she could try to find out who these people were and deliver this letter to its rightful recipient. At the very least it would be a welcome distraction from all her other problems.

Chapter 4

Billy - Spring 1939

Billy Stirling had always known he was handsome because his mother never tired of telling him so. Therefore it came as no surprise to anyone that at the age of twenty-one Billy was never short of female attention. His black hair, worn a little too long, was swept back with
Brylcreem
, his clean-shaven face revealed a dark, almost swarthy, complexion and, amazingly given the number of cigarettes he smoked, his teeth were a brilliant white and perfectly straight. When he laughed, his smile illuminated his face and his cheeks revealed dimples which made him look like an audacious little schoolboy. The deep scar over his left eyebrow only added to his exotic looks and always elicited gasps of sympathy from adoring girls when he told the story of how he had acquired it. Not that he could remember anything about the incident, but his mother had told him the tale many times.

*

Alice Stirling loved her son with a fierce intensity and was extremely protective of him. Her husband, Henry, thought she thoroughly spoiled him, and was even a little jealous of the amount of love and attention Alice lavished on Billy. When their first-born son, Edward, died in infancy from consumption, Alice had been inconsolable and blamed herself. Nothing Henry said or did could assure her that she was not to blame. If only he had managed to sound convincing, she might have believed him. All Henry knew was that he had returned at the end of The Great War and his son was dead. He never even got to hold him. Edward was only five months old when he died and his little body was too fragile to sustain the relentless coughing up of blood, night sweats and fever so typical of the disease. Even though consumption was associated with poor hygiene conditions, Alice had cared for her son in the best way she could. She knew that they were poor. Food was scarce since rationing had started in January 1918, but this was the case with the majority of families during the war and their babies hadn’t died. The flat they rented was a one-room hovel, but Alice had done her best to keep it clean. It was damp and clammy and the moisture clung to everything. Edward had been a sickly baby from birth and the smell of his regularly regurgitated milk hung in the air. At bed time, Alice swaddled him in blankets and took him into her bed, where she held him close all night, waking frequently to check he was still breathing. However, in spite of all her efforts, Edward had died anyway and the guilt had gnawed away at her, slowing sapping her belief in herself as a mother. After he returned from the trenches, Henry withdrew into himself and Alice found it increasingly difficult to reach him. They rarely spoke to each other and this miserable existence seemed set to define their marriage. Even though she doubted herself as a mother, Alice longed for another baby. There was a huge hole in her heart that could only be filled by nurturing a new life. However, the chances of her falling pregnant were non-existent given the distance that had grown between her and Henry.

Then, one day, quite soon after little Edward had passed away, Alice had overheard two women gossiping in the corner shop. Her ears pricked up and she sidled closer so she could hear what was being said. Then, when she had heard enough, with her heart racing, she left the shop and hurried home. To her relief, Henry was not there so she quickly changed into her Sunday best, complete with fur hat and gloves. The hat smelled musty and dank but it would have to do. She gave it a quick brush and arranged it carefully on her head. She regarded herself in the tiny, square mirror over the kitchen sink, which also doubled as their bathroom, and added a smear of pink lipstick. She knew she should really wear flat shoes for the long walk ahead but heels looked so much more elegant with her suit. With one final look in the mirror, her face a picture of determination, Alice closed the front door and set off at a brisk, purposeful pace.

The grey facade of the orphanage was ingrained with decades of dirt and weeds grew in abundance in the gutters. The black paint on the front door had long since lost its lustre and was now cracked and peeling. The whole place looked austere and most unwelcoming. Nevertheless, Alice swallowed her apprehension and climbed the stone steps up to the entrance porch. She wafted away a cobweb that had caught in her hat. The huge brass knocker was stiff and she fumbled with it clumsily before managing to coax the iron ring into producing a satisfactory rap. After what seemed an eternity, the heavy door opened and a nurse in a crisp, starched uniform looked Alice up and down.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

It was at this point that Alice realised she had not rehearsed what she was going to say.

‘Hello…err…I…My name is Alice Stirling,’ she stumbled. ‘May I come in?’

The nurse folded her arms across her chest and stared down at Alice. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Is that a problem?’

The nurse shook her head and sighed but still opened the door wider and beckoned Alice inside.

‘Oh, why, thank you,’ said Alice gratefully.

‘Wait here. I’ll get Matron.’

Alice watched as the nurse disappeared down the hall. The smell of disinfectant and over-boiled cabbage pervaded the air, a combination which made Alice feel nauseous. Her mouth was dry and the perspiration beaded on the back of her neck. She was beginning to regret wearing the hat.

‘How can I help you?’

Alice spun round to face the Matron. She had a rather kind, expressive face which did not fit with her voice and Alice was momentarily taken aback.

‘My name is Alice Stirling and I’m here about the baby.’

‘What baby? We have lots of babies here.’

‘Of course,’ Alice apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.’

‘You’ll need to be more specific, I’m afraid.’

A baby began to cry in the distance and Alice suddenly felt her throat constrict and her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her gloved hand.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Matron, her tone softening somewhat.

‘Not really. I lost my little baby, you see.’

‘And you think he might be here?’

Alice was confused for a second.

‘Oh no, of course not. He’s dead.’

The matron’s eyes widened at the bluntness of Alice’s response. She took her by the arm.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Alice nodded as the Matron led her to her office and closed the door.

‘Now, why don’t you tell me what all this is about?’

Alice felt an overwhelming desire to unburden herself.

‘My baby. My beautiful baby, Edward, died when he was only five months old. Consumption, they said. There was nothing I could do but I know Henry...’

‘Henry?’ interrupted Matron

‘My husband,’ explained Alice. ‘I know Henry blames me. He says he doesn’t of course, but I couldn’t even keep him alive until his father returned from the war. What sort of a mother am I? He never got to see his own son. Now we barely speak, he drinks too much, never shows me any affection and thinks his grief is worse than mine because at least I got to spend five precious months with Edward.’

The matron handed Alice a handkerchief.

‘Now, now. Don’t blame yourself. Lots of babies die from consumption. It’s very common, you know. I’m sure you did everything you could.’

Alice blew her nose noisily into the handkerchief.

‘It wasn’t enough though, was it?’

She didn’t know how much longer she could endure this misery.

Matron glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘We’re about to have tea now and I need to go and supervise. Why don’t you join us?’

‘You’re very kind. I will, thank you.’

‘Then you can tell me what brings you here. You mentioned a baby?’

Alice followed the Matron to the dining room where all the children were already seated along rows of oblong wooden tables. Tea was simple, just thick slices of bread and butter and a watery stew.

Alice had known it was him the moment she saw him. It was the heavy gash over his left eyebrow that had confirmed it. She went up to him as he sat in his high chair banging his spoon. As soon as she approached he stopped, beamed a toothless smile and held his arms aloft, asking to be picked up. Alice scooped him up and breathed in his milky scent. He had a little paper wristband on bearing his name and date of birth.
‘William Edwards. DOB – 20
^th
March, 1918’.