The River Folk (44 page)

When Lawrence arrived home again, looking wide-eyed with exhaustion, Lizzie tried hard to hide her feelings. She fussed around him, running a bath for him and using double the regulation amount of water. She laid out his suit herself on the bed and helped him tie his bow tie, although in fact, he was far more expert at tying than she was.

He smiled down at her, resting his hands lightly on her waist. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Lizzie. How . . . how have you been?’

She realized he was trying to show concern for her feelings and yet not wanting to open up the raw wound again.

‘Fine,’ she said brightly, but there was a brittle quality in her voice, a forced gaiety that she was afraid he could not help but notice. She patted his chest as she completed the tie and stood back. ‘How about you, darling? You look awfully tired. Is it very dreadful?’

He nodded. ‘We’ve been taken off all other operations, just to concentrate on this wretched special training. We’re getting such a lot of stick from the other chaps now. We just all wish something would happen.’

There were only the three of them at dinner: Lawrence, his mother and Lizzie. Celia made polite enquiries about his life in the RAF, but her interest was superficial and made out of the need for civilized, dinner-table conversation.

‘Father away on business, is he?’ Lawrence asked towards the end of the meal.

Celia leant back in her chair and fitted a cigarette into a long black holder. Deakin moved forward to light it for her and she inhaled deeply and blew smoke rings into the air, watching them float and then dissolve before she turned her limpid gaze on her son. ‘My dear boy,’ she drawled, ‘your guess is as good as mine. I doubt the war is going to make your father change his ways.’ She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. ‘Do you?’

Lawrence looked down at his plate and, beneath the table, Lizzie felt his foot find hers and press it. He needed her, she knew. He needed her to put her arms around him and hold him close and love him. He needed her to tell him that everything was going to be all right.

Lizzie rose from the table and smiled at her mother-in-law. ‘That meal was delicious. I don’t know how Cook manages it with all the rationing.’

Celia blew out the blue smoke again. ‘It’s what she’s paid for.’ She rose from the table, her movements languid, and moved towards the door. ‘Good night, my dears,’ she said offhandedly over her shoulder. ‘If you’re leaving early in the morning, Lawrence, please don’t disturb me. I need my beauty sleep.’

Lizzie watched as Lawrence, who had risen to his feet the moment she had got up from the table, stared after his mother. ‘Good night then, Mother,’ he murmured. ‘And I’ll say “goodbye” too . . .’ but already the door had swung to behind her.

Lizzie held out her hand to him. ‘Come on, darling. Shall we go up?’

He walked around the table and took her hand, clinging to it like a drowning person.

She tried, oh she tried so very hard, to respond to his desperate need of her. She willed herself to be swept along on the tidal wave of his passion, but there was a shadow between them, the shadow of a lost soul whom Lizzie could not forget.

At last, they lay in each other’s arms in the huge bed against a mound of pillows. He buried his face against her neck and Lizzie could feel the wetness of his tears on her skin.

His voice was muffled as he said, ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

She held him tightly. She closed her eyes but her own tears squeezed their way from beneath her eyelids and ran down her face. She stroked his hair as sobs shook him. But she said nothing. There was nothing she could say.

She lay amidst sumptuous surroundings, her every whim pandered to by lackeys. She had no need to work for her living; she had no need to do anything. She had a wardrobe full of fine clothes, enough food set before her each day that would have fed the whole family in Waterman’s Yard. And she was in the arms of a handsome young man who, she knew, loved her. And yet . . . All she wanted was to be back on the river, on her father’s boat, standing at the prow, the wind in her hair, and watching for Tolly on the bank.

The truth came slowly, only moments before Lawrence lifted his head and, in the half-light, looked down into her eyes. ‘Lizzie, my darling Lizzie,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not me you love, is it? It’s Tolly.’

She drew in breath. ‘No, no . . .’ she began to say, but very gently he laid his finger against her lips.

‘Hush, my darling. Just let me love you one more time. For the good times, Lizzie. And we have had some good times, haven’t we?’

‘Yes, oh yes. Oh Lawrence . . .’ Her tears flowed unchecked now and she clung to him. Now their loving was tender and giving, but they were crying, sobbing against each other, both knowing that the next time Lawrence came home, Lizzie would no longer be at The Hall.

Tomorrow morning, after Lawrence had gone, Lizzie was going home.

Lizzie was waiting on Miller’s Wharf when the
Maid Mary Ann
arrived. As soon as the gangplank was in place, Lizzie, her heart thumping in her chest, her mouth dry, ran up it and for the first time since before her marriage, she stepped on to the deck of her father’s ship.

‘Hello, Uncle Ernie.’

The quiet man nodded and said only one word, ‘Lass.’ It was both a greeting and a question. Lizzie looked about her and saw her father standing at the tiller. He was staring at her, but from here she could not read the expression in his eyes.

‘Dad.’ She made her way to him, tears stinging her eyes at the sight of him. He seemed to have aged since she had last seen him. His hair was liberally sprinkled with white, and lines of sorrow were etched deeply into his face. A few feet away from him, she hesitated, found she had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could begin to speak.

Then the words tumbled out, jumbled, scarcely making sense. ‘Oh Dad. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’ve come home. You were right. Please, will you forgive me? I was so dreadfully wrong. Please . . .’

For a long moment, in which Lizzie’s hope plunged into despair, her father stared at her, his face expressionless. Then slowly, as if the action, so long unused, was rusty, he opened his arms wide to her.

With a sob of thankfulness, Lizzie ran into them to be enveloped in the safe embrace of his strong and loving arms.

Later, in the tiny cabin, they talked. ‘Oh, it’s so good to be back here,’ she murmured, her glance roaming lovingly around the confined space, the polished cupboards, the tiny stove where she had cooked so many meals for her father and Uncle Duggie, the bed where she knew she had been born. ‘I’ve missed it all so much.’

Already, Dan was able to tease her gently as they sat together on the bench seat, holding hands, almost like reunited lovers. ‘All that grand living and you hankered for this?’

She nodded and pressed her lips together hard to try to stop the tears that welled in her eyes. But they spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Dan reached over and, with a callused hand that was surprisingly gentle, he brushed them away. ‘Don’t Lizzie, love. Don’t cry. You’re safe home, now. No more need for tears.’

‘But I hurt you so. I hurt everyone. Gran and Grandpa. And . . . and Tolly.’ Now the sobs shook her and she buried her face against his chest. ‘I can’t ever tell him, Dad, how sorry I am. How wrong I was.’

‘Ah.’ She felt the breath sigh from her father’s chest as he said softly, ‘Ah, Tolly, is it?’

It was all he said and all he needed to say, for they both knew what lay behind that simple statement without another word being spoken.

He held her close whilst she cried out her sorrow and then, when she sat up slowly and dried her eyes, he asked gently, ‘What about Lawrence?’

It was the first time he had spoken his name in gentleness.

‘He’s gone back to Scampton. He’s . . . he’s involved in some sort of special training. I don’t know what. He . . . he couldn’t tell me.’

‘Of course he couldn’t, love.’

‘He . . . he knows I’ve come home. He knows it’s over.’

Her father nodded. ‘Poor lad.’

Lizzie’s eyes widened as she stared at him. ‘You . . . you feel sorry for him? For Lawrence? But . . . but I thought you hated him.’

Her father sighed heavily, releasing a lifetime of bitterness. ‘No, I don’t hate the lad. He can’t help being his father’s son.’

‘What is it about his father that you . . .?’ she began, but Dan patted her hand and said, ‘Not now, Lizzie love. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you it all. But not now. Now, I just want to enjoy you being back with me.’ He put his arm about her again. ‘For good, is it, Lizzie?’ he asked softly.

She nodded and then, closing her eyes, she laid her head against his shoulder. The question could rest for now. There would always be another time to ask. She was home where she belonged.

‘Now listen, Mam,’ Dan began the moment he stepped over the threshold of Bessie’s home, with Lizzie hovering uncertainly on the doorstep, nervous even to enter the house that had once been as much of a home to her as had the ship. ‘Before you start, just let me have me say first, for once, will you? Me and Lizzie have sorted everything out between us.’ He put his arm out and drew her in. ‘She’s sorry for what’s happened. And she’s home to stay and . . .’ As Bessie opened her mouth, Dan held up his hand. ‘That’s all there is to be said.’

Bert had come to stand behind Bessie. He slipped his arms halfway around her ample waist – it was as far as they could reach – and peered around her shoulder. He was grinning happily. ‘Bessie, my angel, isn’t that just the most wonderful news? Come away in, Dan. You, too, love. Come and give your old grandpa a kiss.’

‘Now just you wait a minute, Bert Ruddick . . .’ Bessie twisted herself round in his embrace. ‘I’m not having her—’

‘Bessie, my angel, light of my life . . .’ He reached up and kissed her full on the mouth. ‘You have the loveliest mouth, but it don’t half run away with itself – just now and again.’ He lowered his voice, trying to hide what he was saying, but Lizzie’s sharp ears caught the gist of his whispering. ‘The lass is sorry . . . we don’t know what’s happened . . . taken a lot of courage to come back . . . just be thankful . . .’

There was a moment’s silence before Bessie gave a shriek of laughter and clasped Bert to her, burying his face in the softness of her bosom. ‘You’re a good man, Bert Ruddick. The best. The very best.’ Then she turned and held her arms wide to embrace Lizzie, the tears coursing down her plump cheeks.

It was on Bert’s wireless that they all heard the news bulletin later that same week. The modulated tones of the announcer told them that a squadron of Lancaster bombers, flying at a very low level, had attacked the dams in the Rhur valley. Devastating flooding had been caused to the industrial region and the mission had been hailed as a great success, one that could possibly turn the tide of the war.

‘Nine of our Lancasters are missing,’ the announcer concluded in solemn tones.

Lizzie gasped and turned white, but she could not speak, not even when all her family turned to look at her.

Without waiting for the news that would surely follow in a few days’ time, Lizzie knew, instinctively, that Lawrence would not be coming back.

It was Edwina who brought the official news to Waterman’s Yard. She stood hesitantly on the doorstep, unsure of her welcome. The last time she had visited her old friend had been to offer comfort on the news of Duggie’s death. Edwina had not come again to the Yard, but now, further tragic news had brought her unwillingly to Bessie’s door once more.

But now Bessie drew her inside and hugged her. Any constraint between them fell away. ‘We can guess why you’ve come, Miss Edwina,’ Lizzie heard her say. ‘Lizzie’s in a right state, blaming herself.’

Lizzie looked up as they came into the kitchen. Edwina came straight to her, holding out her hands to take Lizzie’s. ‘You know, don’t you, my dear?’

Lizzie, unable to speak, nodded.

‘His plane went down over the target. It . . . it blew up. There was not the slightest chance of any survivors. I am so sorry.’

Shaking, Lizzie clung to Edwina’s hands. ‘I feel . . . so guilty. I should have carried on the pretence. I tried. I tried so hard, but he knew. He guessed. I . . . I feel as if I sent him to his death.’

‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Edwina tried to reassure her. ‘You probably gave him more happiness in these last few months than you will ever know.’ Tenderly, she stroked a tendril of hair back from Lizzie’s face and said, very quietly with a world of regret in her voice, ‘It’s more than I did for my man before he went away to war.’

‘He wanted a child,’ Lizzie sobbed. ‘Lawrence so much wanted to . . . to leave a son to carry on, if the worst happened. I haven’t even been able to do that for him.’ She raised her face to look into Edwina’s. ‘I would have done, if I could.’

‘I know, I know.’ Edwina put her arm around the girl and held her close. ‘But it’s over now,’ she said, unwittingly echoing Lawrence’s own poignant words. ‘And now you must go on with your life, but before you do, can I ask just one more thing of you, Lizzie?’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Randolph is arranging a memorial service in the parish church. Will you attend as Lawrence’s widow?’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘His father won’t want me there.’

‘Oh, but he does,’ Edwina said, surprising both Lizzie and the listening Bessie. ‘It was Randolph who wanted me specifically to ask you to come.’

There were fewer mourners at the memorial service than had been expected. Family members and local dignitaries, who attended out of duty only, made up the congregation. Once, the church might have been packed with the townsfolk paying their respects to a member of the unofficial squire’s family, but Randolph was not liked and Lawrence hardly known. A few ladies from the committees upon which Celia served attended and only one person represented the river folk: Lizzie.

At the end of the service, Lizzie made her farewells to Edwina, who had sat with her throughout, but as she walked away down the long path to the gate, she heard a man’s voice calling her name. ‘Lizzie. Lizzie, a moment, if you please.’