Wartime Brides (35 page)

She set off down Colston Avenue where the concert hall was advertising some orchestra. From there she cut across the large oval space that was still called the
Tramway
Centre. Since the destruction of the tramway lines by German bombs, only buses ran there now. It was dark by the time she got to Queen’s Square, where the trees were bare of leaves and the grass was vaguely crisp underfoot.

As she passed St Mary Redcliffe, church of the parish since Tudor times, she glanced over at the piece of tramway line that stood erect among the ancient tombstones, like a sign pointing to heaven. It had been there since the night of 24 November. There’d been arguments about whether to remove it. Some had called it sacrilege for it to stay. Others said it should stay as a lasting memorial to the night when the medieval heart of the old city had gone up in flames.

On Redcliffe Hill the smell of cooked meats drifted out of the open door of a pork butcher just before the faggot and pea shop. He’d been there since the eighteenth century, according to the sign above the door. Her mouth watered. Closing her eyes she could visualise the Bath chaps, faggots, pork pies, chitterlings and pigs’ tails oozing fat as they cooled off in the window.

Numerous buses went by, light from their upper and lower decks falling onto the slippery pavements. Car lights were less numerous and flashed by before they could get held up behind horse-drawn brewery drays or coal carts.

Because she was preoccupied with Billy’s Christmas present and what to say to Edna, she hardly noticed the shiny black car pull into the kerb some way ahead. The door flew open unexpectedly just as the railway carriage
had
done a year ago. But this time she did not fall. The impact thumped her forehead. Were those stars she could see or merely the reflection of Christmas decorations on the damp tarmac? In that split second she was back in Temple Meads Railway Station, obsessed with looking for the father of her child until she was sent flying – almost as she was now.

Before the stars disappeared a strong arm lashed out and hit her across the back of the head. Harsh fingers gripped her arm.

‘Get into the car!’

She tried to scream but he was too quick! Too strong! Like a rag doll she was pulled into the seat beside him, her head lolling back against the seat. The door slammed on the outside world. She shook her head in an effort to dislodge the bleariness from her eyes. Where was she? Who was she with? After rubbing her eyes she turned to look at the car driver. For a moment he was just a blur. Then she saw who it was and her legs turned to jelly.

David! Polly sank further into her seat and leaned against the door, needing to get as far away from him as possible.

‘You won’t escape. Not this time.’

Chapter Nineteen

CHARLOTTE COLLECTED EDNA’S
completed sewing for the orphanage. She’d fully expected her company as usual in delivering the little smocks, dresses and romper suits, but Edna had refused. Charlotte could see that her good humour was fairly fragile and she understood. Carol was helping Edna forget. Just like Christmas, Charlotte thought happily. Edna was coping with an unforeseen event! How very seasonal. It made her feel warm inside. Christmas was her favourite time of year. Soon Janet and Geoffrey would be home. She looked forward to it. Suddenly she wanted to absorb all the atmosphere of Christmas in one go – a bit like an alcoholic finding a full bottle of whisky.

On the way home she stopped off in East Street, Bedminster, the long sweep of shops that stretched for almost a mile from the London Inn at one end to the grim, grey police station at the other.

There were plenty of people about and, even though rationing was worse now than during the war, spirits were
high
though purses were light. Queues crowded the butcher’s, the baker’s and the greengrocer’s, but one shop above all others had a mass of people pressed tight up against its window. Intrigued, and feeling childishly excited, Charlotte gently pushed her way through.

Peacock’s Bazaar had scraped together a seasonal tableau display in its window. Cardboard houses with red and yellow cellophane windows stood among cotton-wool snow and, on the roof of the largest, a cardboard cut-out Santa Claus sat in a cardboard sleigh pulled by a red-nosed Rudolf. Colouring books, paint boxes, and baby dolls with staring eyes surrounded the scene as though the red-suited old man had flung them there with reckless abandon. Pride of place went to a rocking horse. A sign resting against one of the rockers read ‘Orders taken’. Charlotte beamed with pleasure. Colin and Edna had been busy! They were doing so well so soon after the war. And all would go well. Hopefully Colin need never know about Edna’s child.

Excited voices surrounded her and she quickly relegated sad thoughts about Edna to the back of her mind as she studied the display.

Small balls of cotton wool hung from threads that dropped down at regimented distances, feebly attempting to give the impression of falling snow.

Charlotte found the scene moving. It was hardly the best Christmas window display she’d ever seen. Shops in Castle Street, such as Jones’s the large department store for instance, used to have some breathtaking displays in the pre-war years. Of course that was impossible now.
The
store was no more than a pile of rubble. And then there was Regent Street. In the Thirties she had made a ritual of having one day of Christmas shopping in London. Even if she hadn’t bought anything, which of course was never the case, it would have been worth the trip just to see the displays and, especially, the crowds of children observing them.

Small upturned faces glowed with happiness around her right now. Their mood was infectious. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she said to one small soul, ‘and what is Father Christmas bringing you?’

The child pointed to the rocking horse and Charlotte wanted to cry. The child’s mother looked Charlotte in the face and furtively pointed to a much lesser present, a painting set. Not everyone could afford a rocking horse. And then someone said something that reminded her how things had changed since the war.

‘Now the old man’s ’ome, it’s goin’ to be a real family Christmas,’ was the remark Charlotte overheard.

Her earlier high spirits had fallen to earth and, as her mood changed, so did the display. She could see it now for what it was. Cheap, tawdry, made from spare bits and pieces of cardboard and paper. The cotton wool was probably from First Aid stocks handed out during the war but never used.

What would David be like over Christmas? A shiver coursed down her spine. She made a momentous effort to regain her self-control. Never mind. What is a family Christmas? A lot of husbands didn’t come home at all.

Suddenly the lights went out. Yet another power cut. A
groan
rose from the crowd around her because the world was less gay and winter darkness had descended again.

Polly’s head hurt but her vision gradually cleared. They’d come to a standstill and it was pitch dark outside. For a moment she half imagined she was back in the blackout, necking in a staff car up along the sea walls, an area of wilderness on the edge of Avon Gorge.

Once her eyes had focused she realised that was indeed where she was.

David was sitting silently beside her. She wondered how long they’d been there and what his intentions were. Obviously they weren’t here for necking. He wasn’t making the right overtures for that.

Her whole body seemed to have frozen. She was desperate to escape. If she could just catch him off guard …

As her fuzziness began to clear, the urge to take flight became stronger.

She looked at David, his eyes staring out at the darkness, the film of sweat lightly coating his face, the shaking hands. Why the hell had he brought her up here? What was in his mind?

They were at the very top of the Avon Gorge. A few feet away there was a sheer drop to the bottom. A terrible thought came into her mind and she trembled. She closed her eyes and swallowed as she imagined her body bouncing against the rocks, falling headlong through the bushes, and finally shattering like a rotten apple on the ground three-hundred feet below.

Another car went by, its headlights picking out the angular jaw and deathly white features of David’s face. The beam was bright but quickly gone. Yet in that moment she’d seen the wetness on his cheeks. David was crying.

It occurred to her that he had forgotten she was there and relaxed slightly. Her chance had come. Slowly and silently she reached for the door handle. For a moment its precise position eluded her. She felt her way, determined not to panic. It had to be done slowly. He mustn’t notice.

The fact that David began sobbing audibly filled her with fresh fear. Despair is pretty deep when it causes a man to cry. She went rigid as he wrapped his arms over the steering wheel then banged his head against it again and again and again.

Her fingers touched something cold. The handle! It moved. One push, the door was open and she was out, running, running for her life.

‘Come back here!’

Polly ran, fear propelling her legs faster at the sound of his running footsteps. Closer and closer! The tips of his fingers brushed her shoulder. She screamed, scared of the darkness but more scared of David and the fact that the gorge was so close and so deep.

Then suddenly it wasn’t dark. Headlights, perhaps the same ones that had passed earlier, pierced the night. They approached quickly. There was a squeal of brakes. The car doors opened even before it came to a standstill.

Two men got out. She ran past but heard their footsteps joining those of David.

He got to her before they did. His fingers gripped her shoulder. She screamed and stumbled. Then suddenly he was dragged off her and she could get to her knees and then to her feet.

‘Now then, what’s going on here, sir?’

Even though they weren’t wearing uniforms, Polly knew the police had arrived. But there was no way she wanted to be asked awkward questions like who she was and what her relationship was to the man chasing her. It was all in the past. She didn’t want it intruding on her life.

Without a backward glance she took to her heels, mindlessly running into the darkness, dipping to take off first one shoe then another, continuing to run faster than ever, the grass frostily cold beneath her stockinged feet.

After the call came Charlotte phoned Julian and begged him to meet her at Bridwell Police Station.

She was shocked when she entered the cell. There was David, his face the colour of cold ashes, his eyes staring and seemingly devoid of emotion.

She whispered his name.

He continued to stare, his fingers entwined in front of him.

She said his name louder.

He looked at her then looked away.

Charlotte raised her hand to her face. This was just too much to bear!

Julian stepped forward, pulled at his trousers just above
the
knees then hunkered down, looking upwards into David’s face as he spoke. ‘What were you doing up on the sea walls, old chap? Can you tell us that?’

David blinked. Charlotte’s hand dropped to her breast. Her heart was thundering along like an express train. Nerves fluttered in her stomach.

Julian tried again. ‘Who was the woman you were chasing?’

Again he merely looked into Julian’s face and blinked.

‘Probably just a lady of the night,’ said the station sergeant, who had danced attendance on them since the minute they’d walked through the station door. Suddenly remembering there was a lady present, and a very upmarket one at that, he blushed and mumbled his apologies. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Julian got up, cupped Charlotte’s elbow in the palm of his hand and guided her to the door.

‘Charlotte, will you hand David over to my guardianship entirely?’

She stared at him, fearful of hearing the awful facts she knew he was leaving unsaid. Marmaduke Clements and his advice sprang to mind. He’d said something to the effect that nothing would be done until violence had occurred and the law became involved. Well, now the law was involved.

‘Are we talking about a mental institution, Julian?’

He paused as if for breath, but she wasn’t fooled. She saw the hesitation in his eyes.

‘Tell me the truth,’ she said.

‘I’m pretty certain it’s a breakdown. Everything’s been
leading
up to it. Bottling things up – all the experiences he suffered overseas.’

Charlotte thought about some of the difficult marriages she’d been dealing with lately. Women complained of men coming back from the war as strangers; the same in body, but different in mind and behaviour. She’d heard terrible things in her job. Children neglected while their mothers were out drinking, new-born babies found in dustbins, wives beaten to within an inch of their lives. And I’m one of them, she thought. It was the first time she’d fully admitted it to herself.

Eventually, taking her courage in both hands, she took a deep breath. ‘If you think you can cure him, then I agree.’

‘I’d like to try,’ he said gently.

‘I would have liked him home for Christmas,’ she said with a hopeful smile. But in truth she already knew what his answer was likely to be.

He shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘I can work wonders but I don’t do miracles. I’ll do my best, Charlotte. I promise I will.’

She asked what she could do to speed things along. He only asked her to promise not to visit for a while until David had made some obvious progress. She promised she wouldn’t. There was no time for her to brood on what he would do. It was three weeks to Christmas. The children would be home from school for the holidays and would take her mind off things.

She was determined to give them a good Christmas. One thing she had no intention of giving them was the
news
that their father was in a mental institution. If adults were likely to be openly intolerant to those with mental problems, children could be downright cruel. Janet and Geoffrey would be hurt and ashamed. Neither they nor David deserved that. She would tell them he was abroad working. ‘Something to do with the army.’