While We're Apart (3 page)

Mary bypassed the front door and headed round to the back of the house where her bicycle leant against the kitchen wall, the punctured tyre as flat and forlorn as her failed vegetable patch. Both needed attention, but the days were getting ever shorter, and there never seemed to be enough time to get through all the things she had to do.

As she stepped inside the kitchen she felt the frail warmth after the chill of outdoors, and gratefully dumped the basket of shopping on the scrubbed table. She stood in front of the range, her gloved hands slowly thawing as she held them out to the meagre flames in the grate.

The windows rattled from the buffeting wind as the sky darkened and the first needles of sleet hit the glass. At least the bad weather would mean no enemy raids, she thought as she warmed enough to remove her scarf and gloves and undo her overcoat. Glad to have these few moments of solitude to gather her wits and come to terms with Jack's imminent departure, she checked that the locket remained hidden beneath her knitted sweater, the chain masked by her hair, and then began to unpack the shopping.

There was a tin of spam, and another of bully beef, and two loaves of what the government were calling the National wheatmeal bread, which none of them enjoyed eating, but served to stave off hunger pangs; a parcel of liver and kidneys; potatoes, onions, parsnips and carrots; a tiny portion of cheese, another of margarine, a packet of dried egg, another of tea, and a bottle of Camp coffee. There had been no sugar or tins of syrup, neither had there been any flour or suet, but at least she'd got the majority of things on her list.

She placed the ration books on the old dresser along with her purse, then stowed the shopping away in the various rickety cupboards, her wellington boots clumping over the uneven flagstone floor. The kitchen was her favourite room, even though it was shabby and the floor chilled your feet if you dared to take off your shoes. The window above the stone sink had been nailed shut since the cord in the sashes had rotted away, the ceiling was high, the once-white paint now a tobacco yellow from years of cooking and the smoke from the range. The dark green tiles behind the sink and wooden draining board were chipped, the grouting crumbling and grey with age, but the pots and pans that hung above the freshly blackened range gleamed with her meticulous polishing.

Mary filled the tin kettle and placed it on the hob. She was reaching for the teapot when the sound of a brusque voice stilled her.

‘Where have you been?'

Mary placed the teapot carefully on the draining board before she turned to face her mother, who was leaning heavily on her walking stick in the doorway.

Emmaline appeared to be the quintessential sweet little old lady, for she was short and plump, with a round, usually cheerful face, apple cheeks, blue eyes and curly white hair. Dressed in a pink cardigan, grey wool skirt and white blouse, and with a lavender-blue woollen shawl about her shoulders, she looked like everyone's favourite granny.

Mary knew her mother was well aware that this outward show of sweetness and care made her popular amongst the villagers, and admired by the charities she ran, and she used it to get her own way with everyone, especially with her husband Gideon. Yet there was a different side to her that showed only when they were alone, for her eyes would become cold, the soft voice scathing, and the smile would be replaced by a sneer.

‘There was a long queue at the grocer's,' Mary replied.

‘Liar.' Emmaline's voice was soft but with a flat note of accusation underlying it. Her expression was frosty, her lips thinly drawn as she held Mary's gaze.

‘I'm not a liar,' Mary replied with studied calm.

‘Yes you are,' Emmaline said almost dismissively, as she hobbled into the kitchen with the aid of her walking stick. ‘Mrs Hobbs said you left the grocer's almost an hour ago. Where have you been?' As Mary hesitated, her mother's eyes narrowed. ‘Or should I ask who you've been with?'

Mrs Hobbs was the local gossip and could always be relied upon to pick up her telephone and spread her vicious tales to Emmaline. Mary took a deep breath. ‘I've been with Jack Boniface,' she said quietly as she took off her coat and hung it on the hook behind the door.

‘You're nothing but a trollop,' hissed Emmaline. ‘A cheap little tart.' Her arthritic fingers clutched the walking stick as her flinty gaze bored into Mary.

Mary tipped up her chin. ‘I'm not a liar or a tart,' she retorted, ‘and I don't think Dad would like to hear you calling me such names.'

Emmaline's lip curled. ‘If he's too soft to see what you really are, then that's his lookout,' she muttered as she sat at the table. ‘But you were born with the stain of sin on you – and it's still there in every wanton inch of you.' Her disdainful gaze swept over Mary's curvaceous figure. ‘You're a liar, and no better than you should be, considering . . .'

‘That's quite enough of that sort of talk, Emmaline,' interrupted Gideon Jones from the doorway. He came into the kitchen as if weary of life and sank into a chair, his long face drawn and pale from the cares that burdened him. At sixty-nine his dark hair was liberally sprinkled with grey and receding fast from his thin but strong-boned face. Dressed in his shabby black suit and shirt, with the starched white collar that denoted his calling, he looked old and haggard, and Mary's heart went out to him.

‘Oh my dear Gideon,' Emmaline sighed, her expression suddenly contrite. ‘I'm in such pain with my arthritis that I hardly know what I'm saying.' She placed her crippled hand over his, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘But Mary was late home and she upset me by lying about where she'd been.'

His puzzled dark gaze rested on his wife for a moment, and then his expression softened as he turned to Mary. ‘We are all born with sin, my dear,' he said in the melodious deep Welsh accent that held his parishioners in thrall every Sunday. ‘But it is washed away in the love and forgiveness of Our Lord.' He eyed her with gentle reproach. ‘Have you lied today, Mary? Is that why your poor mother is in such distress?'

Mary had always been amazed at how easily Emmaline could bring on the tears, but as she looked into her father's loving, trusting eyes, she had to confess. ‘I was late home and didn't explain fully where I'd been, so yes, I lied to Mother by omission.'

As Gideon was about to speak, Emmaline placed her hand on his arm. ‘She was with Jack Boniface again,' she said quietly, ‘and I'm deeply worried about how she flaunts herself with that boy.' She gave Gideon a tremulous smile, and dabbed a handkerchief over her moist eyes.

Mary bunched her fists in an attempt to control the indignation and hurt caused by her mother's manipulation of the situation. ‘Jack's enlisted,' she explained hurriedly to her father. ‘He's leaving tonight and we just wanted some time together to say goodbye.' She took his hand, her eyes pleading with him to understand. ‘We've done nothing wrong,' she added softly.

Gideon ignored Emmaline's tut of disbelief. ‘I can understand you wanting to say goodbye, after all you've known each other since you were small children. But it's unseemly to be alone with Jack, or indeed any other man. A woman's virtue is beyond price, Mary, and you are of an age when temptation is at its strongest.'

Mary blushed as she remembered the stolen kisses and the way Jack had embraced her.

‘You see that, Gideon?' crowed Emmaline. ‘She's nothing but a hussy.'

‘Be still, Emmaline,' said Gideon calmly. ‘Let our daughter speak.'

Mary met her father's gaze squarely. ‘Jack and I love each other,' she said, ‘but we've done nothing shameful. I wish you and Mother would learn to trust me.'

Emmaline's lips curled in a sneer as she eyed her daughter, then smoothed into a soft, rueful smile for Gideon. ‘How can we trust her when she meets that boy in secret and then lies about it? I'm worried, Gideon, not only for her reputation, but for the shame it might bring to you.'

Gideon hated scenes, and he fidgeted in the chair as his worried gaze drifted between his wife and his daughter. ‘I think, Emmaline, that you should apologise to Mary for your harsh words,' he said eventually. ‘I know you're concerned, but I don't wish to ever hear you speak to her like that again.'

Emmaline stiffened, and although her voice was taut with suppressed anger, her eyes brimmed. ‘It's not me at fault here,' she said, blinking at the tears. ‘The girl is wayward and needs to be disciplined before she shames us all with her wanton ways.'

‘It is you who brings me shame,' he said sadly, his eyes sorrowful. ‘Couldn't you find it in your heart to love our daughter – to trust her and be as kind to her as you are to others?'

Emmaline's true character showed in her pursed lips and narrowed eyes as she glared at her husband with righteous indignation – but something in his expression silenced any reply she might have been tempted to make, and she looked away.

Mary hadn't missed that intense look in her father's eyes, or the way her mother had reacted to it, and she wondered what it meant. Her father's plea echoed her own feelings, and she wished she could have heard her mother's answer.

As the awkward silence lengthened, Mary regarded her mother and felt a profound sense of regret for the lack of warmth between them. Emmaline had never raised a hand to her, and she'd conducted her motherly duties with brisk, cool efficiency as Mary was growing up. Yet her spiteful tongue had wounded deeply, always finding fault, never missing a chance to denigrate and accuse her of being sinful when her father was out of earshot.

Despite her motherly figure and sweet facade, there had been no cuddles and bedtime stories, no kisses or interest in her progress at school, and Mary had had to rely on her gentle father to provide the affection she so sorely needed. Now she was on the cusp of womanhood, she could look back over the years and see that Emmaline had merely been performing a necessary and rather onerous duty, and was incapable of giving more.

As the sleet rattled against the window and Emmaline's dispassionate gaze came to rest on her, Mary had to accept that nothing would ever change between them. Heartsick, she turned away and took the boiling kettle off the hob. ‘Let me make a cup of tea,' she said in an effort to dispel the awkward atmosphere. ‘This cold wet weather is obviously making Mother's arthritis very painful, and I'm sure you must be thirsty by now, Dad.'

Gideon visibly relaxed as Mary set the teapot on the table and hunted out the cups and saucers. ‘Thank you, Mary,' he replied quietly. ‘I'm sure your mother appreciates your thoughtfulness.'

Mary doubted that very much, but she had other things on her mind. ‘I'd like to go to the station tonight to see Jack off,' she said as she poured the tea.

‘But you have said goodbye already,' he said with a puzzled frown.

‘I know.' She sat down and reached for her father's pale hand. ‘But he's going to war, Daddy, and I might never see him again.'

He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You say you love one another,' he said finally, ‘and I have seen how one can get emotionally carried away in such circumstances. I think it's best if you don't go tonight. It wouldn't be seemly.'

‘But—'

‘You heard your father,' purred Emmaline. ‘He has said you're not to go, and that is that.'

Mary saw the spiteful gleam in her eyes but didn't rise to it. Her father was exhausted and he hated it when there were ructions.

She began to make the spam sandwiches for lunch, her thoughts on Jack as the wind howled around the house, the rain hammered on the windowpane and the kitchen clock ticked away the minutes to his departure. Despite the trouble it would cause, she was determined to get to the station tonight.

THE KITCHEN AT
Beach View Boarding House was a haven of warmth and comfort as the rain pelted against the windows and the wind howled in from the sea. The blackout curtains had been drawn despite the early hour, a rabbit stew was slowly cooking in the range oven, and there was a soft glow from the fire and the single low-watt ceiling light.

Peggy Reilly finished ironing the last pillowcase and added it to the pile of crisp laundry on the table. She placed the iron to one side of the range hotplates, folded up the towel she'd been using on the table as an ironing board, and ran her fingers through her freshly washed, and still damp, curly dark hair. Her smile was tender as she watched her father-in-law, Ron, amusing baby Daisy with her toys. He was a scruffy old Irish rogue who went his own sweet way, and he and his lurcher, Harvey, were the cause of most of her troubles, but she loved him, and knew that this house of women relied upon him.

Despite the homeliness of this little scene Peggy was rather distracted, for her thoughts were scattered, and she was filled with a restless, nervous energy. Her husband Jim was coming home on leave tomorrow, and although her best dress had been carefully pressed, her shoes polished and Daisy's outfit was folded and ready, she was certain there had to be something she'd forgotten to do in preparing for it.

The house had been in chaos following Kitty Pargeter's wedding to Roger Makepeace, and she'd spent the last six days dashing about trying to clean and tidy and make everything perfect. Not that it was easy in a house this size, for it was getting shabbier by the day and needed a thorough renovation – which was neither affordable nor practical in these times of strict rationing and seemingly endless raids by the Luftwaffe. All the frenetic activity had kept her too busy to think how she might feel if Jim's leave was cancelled at the last moment again, but now she'd begun to dare to hope that he really would be coming home.

Peggy gathered up the pile of freshly ironed laundry and carried it upstairs to the linen cupboard before checking that Ron had cleaned the bath properly, and not left damp towels all over the floor, or whisker shavings in the basin. Satisfied that everything was tidy and clean, she inspected each of the bedrooms, and then paused a moment to look out of the top-floor front window which had the only view of the sea. It was as grey as the sky, the murky waves whipped into white, crashing foam as the rain came down like stair rods in the wind that howled across the Channel.