The River Folk (43 page)

‘Lawrence, no. We mustn’t. We’ll be late for dinner.’

‘It’ll wait,’ Lawrence murmured, his mouth searching hers and his fingers pushing their way beneath her brassiere. ‘This won’t . . .’

Their coupling was soon over. Taken by surprise, Lizzie had no time to begin to enjoy it, even if she had not still been seething with anger at Lawrence’s high-handed attitude with her over her underwear. But Lawrence did not seem to notice. He rolled off the bed, straightened his clothing and said, ‘Hurry up and get ready. We’ll be late.’

During the time Lawrence had been away, Lizzie had given a great deal of thought to what might be wrong between them in the marriage bed. She had listened to how the other girls had talked about their husbands and young men and she had been to the cinema twice where she had watched, fascinated, as the heroine seemed to give herself to the hero with complete abandon.

Later that night, lying beneath him once more, Lizzie closed her eyes and imagined she was Hedy Lamarr or Rita Hayworth. She caressed Lawrence and moaned and writhed, simulating pleasure.

‘Oh darling, darling,’ he murmured at last, panting against her neck in the aftermath of desire, ‘that was glorious.’ He raised his head and looked into her face. ‘You felt it too, didn’t you?’

She nodded, guilty at the lying, yet feeling it was justified for she had made Lawrence so happy.

He kissed her gently. ‘You were wonderful – wonderful, my dearest love.’

They made love constantly throughout the week of his leave, seeming to spend most of the time in their bedroom.

‘What must your mother think?’ Lizzie said, feeling embarrassed.

‘She’ll understand, though . . .’ he pulled a face, ‘I doubt their marriage has ever been as good as ours. Mind you,’ he grinned cheekily at her, ‘it did produce me, so perhaps they were happy at first.’

He laid his hand against Lizzie’s stomach. ‘Do you think you might be pregnant? I do so want a son.’

Lizzie glanced at him coyly, pushing away the guilty knowledge that, for her, their week of passion had been only an act. ‘It won’t be for the want of trying, will it?’

He was pushing her back against the pillows. ‘One last time, Lizzie, please, just one last time before I have to go . . .’

Perhaps in time, she could not help thinking as his hands caressed her and his mouth found her breast, I will feel what he feels. Perhaps in time, it won’t be just an act. She dug her fingers deep into his thick hair and held him close, arching her body to meet his, but as she moaned in pretended ecstasy, a tear squeezed its way from beneath her eyelids and ran down her temple.

Christmas 1942 was the most miserable Lizzie had ever spent. Lawrence could not get leave to come home. It was not the lack of traditional fare, for the Christmas dinner at The Hall was almost the same as in peacetime – roast turkey with chestnut stuffing and roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, followed by Christmas pudding and brandy butter, made with real butter. There were trifles with real cream and real coffee to follow. How many other households would be able to afford, or even have access to, such luxuries? Certainly not her family in Waterman’s Yard. Yet, with all the deprivations that the Ruddick family would be suffering, Lizzie longed to be there. She knew her grandmother would be fortunate indeed if she had managed to acquire a chicken for their dinner. More than likely the pudding would be a sugarless Christmas pudding from a wartime menu issued by the Ministry of Food, and the coffee would be made with acorns.

But Lizzie would have given anything to have been in Waterman’s Yard amidst the laughter and the teasing, rather than sitting at the long table, handling the fine silver and eating off the expensive china plates between the silent Randolph and Celia Marsh.

It was a relief, after Christmas, to return to the WVS centre and to join in the lively chatter once more.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ At times, Barbara was almost as big a gossip as Phyllis Horberry, yet her tales were told with kindness. There had always seemed to be a hint of malice in Phyllis’s tattle. ‘You know the Olivers that live in the ferryman’s cottage at Eastlands?’

Lizzie stiffened and found she was holding her breath. She listened, but said nothing.

‘He used to be the ferryman, didn’t he? Works in Phillips Engineering now, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah, since the beginning of the war.’

‘Who runs the ferry now then?’

Barbara shrugged. ‘Not so much call for it nowadays with motor transport using the bridge, though I think a few of the locals still use it to get from Eastlands to Westlands across the river. I ’spect his wife operates it or his lad. They’ve got a lad with a funny name. Ollie or summat like that.’ Lizzie bit back the reply that sprang to her lips as Barbara continued. ‘Well, me and Ted Oliver were walking out together years ago, but I soon packed him up. He was a violent bugger, he was. He only ever hit me once, mind you, but that was quite enough for me.’

‘He married Susan Price, didn’t he? Old man Price’s daughter?’

‘Tale went,’ someone else said, ‘that someone jilted her. I forget who, but they say she married Ted Oliver on the rebound.’

‘Aye,’ Barbara said grimly, ‘and I bet the poor woman has lived to rue the day, an’ all.’

‘What about him?’ another, impatient for the juicy morsel of gossip, prompted.

‘He’s buggered off,’ Barbara said bluntly.

Lizzie felt herself reddening, not at the language – she had heard far worse on the river – but her heart went out at once to Tolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean? He’s run off with another woman.’

‘He never has.’

‘It’s true. He’s had a fancy piece for years, they say. In Westlands. She was married an’ all, but her husband’s been in the army since the beginning of the war and he’s been killed. So Ted’s moved in with her.’

‘The bastard,’ someone murmured. ‘Didn’t waste any time, did he? That’s not nice, that.’

‘It’s the war,’ said another. ‘You’ve got to take your happiness where you can find it.’

‘Mebbe, mebbe not,’ Barbara said. ‘But in this case you can’t blame the war. This time, it’s Ted Oliver.’

‘I feel sorry for his wife. She’s a nice little woman, by all accounts. The only good thing she’s ever had in her life is her lad and now he’s going in the RAF any day . . .’

The gossip flew around her head, being chewed over and digested, but Lizzie heard no more. Her mind froze. Tolly, her dear Tolly was going away. He’d be eighteen in a month or so’s time, just after Christmas. And she hadn’t realized. Wrapped up in her own life, she hadn’t remembered that soon he, too, would be going to war.

Tears blurred her vision. Oh Tolly, Tolly, her heart cried. How could I have forgotten?

Lizzie’s hand trembled as she knocked at the door of the small white cottage on the riverbank.

Susan opened the door. ‘Why, Lizzie, how nice.’ Her smile was warm and genuine and she looked happier than she had looked for years. ‘How smart you look. Come in, come in.’

Lizzie stepped across the threshold and said, ‘Has he gone?’

Susan’s smile widened and her eyes twinkled. ‘Who? Ted?’

Lizzie felt the colour creep into her face. ‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

Susan reached out and touched her hand. ‘I know you didn’t, love. But I expect everyone knows – or they soon will. Yes, he’s gone and to be honest, it’s good riddance, Lizzie, ’cos he’s made our lives hell at times. Mine and Tolly’s.’ Her smile faded and her mouth tightened. ‘It was the biggest mistake I ever made. But my father was so for me marrying Ted and he wouldn’t ever believe what was going on in this house. He sided with Ted against me, his own daughter. Can you believe it?’

Lizzie shook her head and fought to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘It . . . it was Tolly I meant. I heard he’d been called up.’

Now Susan’s face was sad as she nodded. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not called up, exactly. He volunteered, but he doesn’t go till January, until after his birthday. He’s still here. Do you want to see him?’

‘If . . . if he wants to see me.’

Susan smiled again. ‘I’m sure he will.’

As she followed Susan through into the next room, Lizzie was not so sure, but the smile that lit Tolly’s face when he looked up and saw her was reassuring. As he rose to greet her, he seemed to Lizzie to have grown even taller, and he had filled out so that the gangly youth had gone. Now his shoulders were broad and the floppy hair had been cut short and was smoothed back with hair cream.

‘He’s getting ready to be one of the Brylcream boys,’ Susan teased and her glance caressed her son fondly, although she could not quite hide the anxiety that lay deep in her eyes.

‘Shall we go for a walk along the bank?’ he said and minutes later, as they strolled beside the river, Lizzie murmured, ‘It’s just like old times.’

‘Not quite,’ Tolly said, in his gentle voice that was now deeper. He glanced her up and down. ‘You’re not quite dressed for salmon fishing, are you?’

She gave him a rueful smile and they walked on in silence for several minutes before she burst out, ‘At least you’re speaking to me. My family won’t have anything to do with me. I haven’t seen any of them for months.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘Is my father all right? Have you seen him recently?’

Tolly nodded. ‘He’s fine as far as I know. Always gives us a wave as he passes by.’ He grinned briefly. ‘He doesn’t chuck coal or veg or tins of fruit at me any more, but he always looks out for us.’ His voice was even deeper as he added softly, ‘Both of us. Mam and me. He always has done.’

Again there was a long silence before Lizzie said, ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you?’

As if by silent, mutual consent, they stopped and turned to face each other. Tolly put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Are you happy, Lizzie?’

She answered swiftly, too swiftly. ‘Of course I am.’

Tolly said nothing, but he raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Then he let his hands fall heavily away from her and he thrust them deep into the pockets of his trousers. ‘That’s all right, then,’ he muttered glumly.

Lizzie had the feeling that he would have been far happier if she had told him that she was lost and lonely and utterly miserable in her new life.

And it would not have been so far from the truth either, she acknowledged to herself, though the words remained unsaid as they walked on together.

Lizzie didn’t see Tolly again before he went away, although she continued to visit his mother in the ferryman’s cottage. She heard that he had completed his basic training and was learning to be a rear gunner on Lancasters.

‘Isn’t that dreadfully dangerous?’ she asked Susan fearfully. Lawrence had told her that the rear gunner’s turret was the most vulnerable part of the aircraft that he now piloted.

Susan had tried to smile bravely, but had failed miserably.

‘I’m so proud of him, Lizzie, but I’m so dreadfully afraid for him. So terribly afraid . . .’

By the time Lawrence came home on his next leave, Susan had already heard that the aircraft in which Tolly had been flying had been shot down and that all the crew had been posted missing, presumed killed.

Lizzie sobbed against Lawrence’s shoulder. ‘He was my friend. My very best friend ever since we were at school.’

He held her but the soothing words she sought, needed, were not forthcoming. ‘Aren’t I your best friend now?’ he asked, sounding hurt.

‘That’s different,’ she murmured, her words muffled against him.

He led her towards the bed, tried in the only way he knew to take her mind off her sorrow. But lost in her grief for Tolly, Lizzie could not even make the effort to put on the act. She lay acquiescent beneath him, but not participating, whilst he took his pleasure, using her body.

At last he rolled away, frowning. ‘You could at least pretend you’re enjoying it,’ he said bitterly, and she gasped wondering if he had guessed the truth.

Then, spiritedly, she flashed back, ‘And you might show a little more concern when I’m so upset.’

They stared at each other, dismayed to find they were in the middle of another quarrel.

Although they had tried to make up, by the time Lawrence’s brief forty-eight-hour leave was over, there was still a constraint between them.

‘I’m sorry, Lawrence,’ Lizzie said, genuinely contrite.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, but she could see from the tightness around his mouth and the resentment in his eyes that it was anything but ‘all right’. ‘I don’t know when I’ll get leave again,’ he went on. ‘I’m being posted to Scampton to a newly formed squadron, six one seven. You mustn’t tell a soul, Lizzie, it’s all very hush-hush. We’re to have special training, low flying over water at night. They won’t tell us why, but it must be something big.’

‘Oh Lawrence . . .’ Now she clung to him, feeling a surge of concern. ‘I do love you. I’m so sorry about . . . about everything. Try to get home again, soon. It’ll be better, I promise.’

But it wasn’t. When he came home again – for Scampton was only a few miles away and he could easily get home even for only a few hours – if anything, the situation was worse. Lizzie had been lonely and miserable with no one to turn to for comfort. She had visited Susan, but had found herself in the role of comforter. Now she had no one. Her father and grandparents were lost to her and Edwina was far too occupied with keeping her school running and all her pupils safe from the bombing, to say nothing of the war work in which she involved herself.

Even the work that Lizzie did for the war effort had become monotonous and now she was without the friendly camaraderie of the other girls. The one or two with whom she had formed a casual friendship, Barbara in particular, had moved on. Some had gone on to do other work, one or two of the younger ones had joined the forces and the new batch of women and girls seemed to view the wife of Lawrence Marsh from The Hall as an outsider. Lizzie was listless and mourning the loss of her friend. Then she was riddled with guilt because it should have been her husband and his safety that dominated her thoughts.

But all she could think was,
Oh Tolly, Tolly. I’ve lost you
.