A Cross of Dandelions and Daisies
John Dickinson
Copyright John Dickinson, 2011
Smashwords edition
ISBN: 978-0-9872087-1-2
*** Chapter 1: Rebecca ***
Coventry was a city of ruins. Fallen buildings piled in the streets, waiting to be shoveled into lorries. Grandmothers picking through skeletal remains of their homes, searching for reminders of what life used to be. Those buildings not totally destroyed had walls sheeted with plywood to make them habitable. Families who still had homes took in boarders, and co-operatives were formed to make the most of what limited food was available. Water and electricity became luxury items as underground pipes burst and overhead poles collapsed. People stopped bathing but nobody seemed to notice; we all carried the same stink. Dark shadows cradled our eyes and our cheeks became hollow – but we kept smiling. Somebody brought a gramophone into the street and women took turns to crank it up and change the record. We sang every day and every night during the bombing. I never understood why we were so happy; perhaps we believed we would win the war. Or perhaps we had nothing left to lose.
It was in December of that year I returned from the shelter later than usual. In addition to our usual sing-along, some of the ladies decided to put on a bit of a show for the group at the shelter. We rehearsed it for weeks; even sewed makeshift costumes. It was just a short skit using Cinderella as the plot but making it relevant to the war. We included some of the popular war songs, but changed the lyrics to suit the skit and make it funny. At thirteen years of age, I was the only person young enough to play the part of Cinderella, a French maid, held captive by the ugly Nazi sisters. I was made to clean their house and wash dishes while they went to parties with German officers. It ended with Hitler being turned into a pumpkin and the sisters chasing me because I fell in love with a British soldier hidden in the fire-place. It was very silly but we got plenty of laughs and I skipped and sang all the way home.
The house we rented had been damaged by the bombing. Half the roof was missing and only the basement rooms were habitable; we put buckets under the leaks. Mum was offered alternative accommodation but she refused. She said she would rather have a house to herself that leaked than share a dry home with other people. I would have preferred to share, just for the sake of having company, but Mum liked her privacy.
‘There’s no need for all them to know our business,’ she would say.
But this night I was safe; the bombing had been over the other side of the city.
I expected Mum to be home but there was no lamp at the window. Our electricity had been cut off weeks earlier, so after closing the front door to protect from the wind, I removed the candle from my skirt pocket and lit it with a match from the box we kept on top of the light switch. With one hand cupped around the flame, I made my way through the house to light the hurricane lamp that hung over the kitchen table. I extinguished the candle, returned it to my pocket, and used a taper to carry a flame from the lamp to the kitchen stove. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove ready for when Mum came home. Removing my gloves to warm my hands, I waited for the fire in the stove to catch properly. When it did I added two chair legs, scavenged from the ruins of the Rialto Theatre, and five lumps of coal, from the bucket next to the stove. I washed two potatoes, placed them into a saucepan of water along with half a turnip, some beans and a few cabbage leaves stolen from an allotment in Violet Street. With the dinner on to cook, I began to relax. I never knew what time Mum would arrive but it was important her dinner was ready when she did.
After an hour, I gave up waiting and ate my dinner, leaving Mum's on the side of the stove with another plate over the top of it to keep it warm. It was well past closing time where Mum worked but it wasn’t unusual for her to be kept back late. She had explained that the pub was often booked for private parties after closing and it was a part of her job to entertain any special guests. I didn’t really mind, except that I got very scared being in the house on my own at night, especially since we lost the electricity. The stove was fast losing heat so I decided to have my evening wash and get into my dressing gown ready for bed. I filled a saucepan from the kettle, unhitched the hurricane lamp and carried them into the bathroom. Shadows bounced across the walls as I walked, tempting me to skip my wash and wrap myself in a blanket until Mum got home; but then I remembered by hands would be black from the coal. I walked slowly, being sure not to spill any water, heading for the bathroom sink. Once there, I rested the lamp on the bench, put the plug in the sink and tipped the water from the saucepan. I quickly stripped to my underwear for a sponge bath and then pulled my nightshirt over my head and removed my bra and knickers to sponge the bits I'd missed. I was shivering but by washing very quickly my body felt invigorated and soon adjusted to the cold. By the time I was finished I felt clean, fresh and ready for bed. I picked up the lamp and turned to leave the bathroom.
Something caught my eye; a shape in the bath. It looked like a person. Screaming, I ran from the room and stood, terrified, in the hallway, staring at the bathroom door. Holding the lamp forward as far as I could reach, I strained, searching the darkness for movement.
‘Who’s there?’ I called, frightened I might get an answer, and more frightened when I didn’t.
‘Whoever you are, you’d better run because my Dad’s got a gun,’ I was shouting, ‘Hey, Dad, I think there is a man in the bathroom. Come quick and bring your gun.’
No sound or movement came from the bathroom.
‘I’m warning you mister – you’d better run.’
I waited and watched. My teeth started to chatter and my shoulders ached from the cold; I wanted a blanket more than ever. I walked backwards towards the kitchen and, without taking my eyes from the bathroom, reached behind the kitchen door and removed an old raincoat. I pulled the raincoat over my shoulders, moved closer to the bathroom and set the lamp on the floor. I stamped my feet, to mimic the sound of a man’s footsteps.
‘Hey Mister, here comes my Dad. Hey Dad, did you bring your gun? You’d better run fast mister; I don’t want you to be shot dead. Last chance -- better hurry.’
I was shivering and my legs were wobbly, but sweat was pouring from my brow. Still no movement from the bathroom. I walked gently backwards into the kitchen and felt around for the broom. It wasn’t where it should have been; I had to divert my eyes for just a second to locate it. It was leaning against the sink under the window at the far end of the kitchen. Fear was beginning to overtake me as I crept over to retrieve it and tiptoed back to the hallway. I felt a little braver with the broom in my hand. I waited for a few minutes, the broom raised over my head, listening, but the only sound was my own breathing. Perhaps it had been my imagination. I lowered the head of the broom to the floor and positioned it behind the lamp. I then used the broom to push the lamp across the floor towards the bathroom. Slowly, pausing frequently to listen, I inched the lamp through the door. The bathroom was small, with only a bath along the side wall, and a sink under the window facing the door. It appeared to be empty but I couldn’t see behind the door or inside the bath, which was bathed in dark shadow. I moved closer and, holding my breath, I raised the broom and poked inside the bath. Something was definitely in the bath. I breathed a sigh of relief. Mum often gathered the weeks washing to soak in the bath overnight. My fear did not fully dissolve but my courage returned enough to enter the bathroom and pick up the lamp. To confirm my silliness and put an end to my fears, I held the lamp high and turned to examine the contents of the bath.
My body recoiled. The lamp fell to the floor. The room plunged into darkness and filled with the sound of screaming. I ran blindly from the room, crashed into a wall and slid to the floor. I stood up quickly and groped my way along the wall until I became trapped in a corner. I pulled the raincoat tight around my body and continued to scream.
‘No! No! Somebody help me. Please God, somebody help me.’
Over and over, I screamed; but nobody came. I crumbled to the floor. The screaming subsided into sobbing until exhaustion brought sleep.
When I awoke, it was daylight. My joints ached and my legs were numb from being trapped under my folded body. I pulled my legs free with my hands and waited for the pain to subside before standing up. Slowly, I walked to the bathroom and looked again at my mother’s naked body soaking in a bath of bloodied water. I returned to the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind me.
I didn’t go to work that day. Instead, I lit the kitchen stove, put the kettle on for a pot of tea and methodically cleaned the house. My head felt like a pillow had been squashed into my brain. I scrubbed floors and washed walls, all the time with a picture of Mum’s floating body in my mind. By three o’clock in the afternoon, except for the bathroom, there was nothing left to scrub so I made a cup of tea, put one of the kitchen chairs outside the bathroom and sat and talked to Mum through the door. I knew I should tell Mum’s sister what had happened but I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing her the way she was; she needed to be respectable. I entered the bathroom with the chair and sat to talk to her some more.
‘What happened, Mum? Did you slip and bump your head? You should have waited until I got home. Why did you need to have a bath?'
I was blubbering.
'Why couldn't you wait until I got home? Are you leaving me? It’s not fair. What will I do now? What will I do?’
I lifted the chain to remove the plug and ran back to the kitchen. It was about an hour before I returned. Mum’s body had slumped further into the bath and she looked pale with matted hair and a worried look on her face. She was staring straight at me. It didn’t seem right that I should be seeing my mother naked; I determined nobody else should either. Taking two towels from under the sink, I covered her body, then went to the bedroom to select the clothes she should wear.
It took the rest of the evening for me to do what I had to do. I patted her dry as best I could while she was in the bath then rolled her body over the edge and onto a blanket I had spread on the floor. With a cushion from the settee for her head, I patted her with fresh towels to make sure she was perfectly dry. I looked for the wound that caused all the blood but couldn’t find anything – not even a bruise. There was a flannel and a long knitting needle in the bottom of the bath, which she may have slipped on or got stabbed with but without a wound, nothing made sense. Getting her into her clothes was difficult. Even though I had patted her dry, the clothes stuck to her body as though it was wet and the joints of her arms and legs did not want to bend. I did her bra and pants first, to make her decent, then sat her body forward to pull her Sunday dress over her head. When I was finished, it didn’t look right; everything was crooked and nothing sat on her body like it should – but it would have to do – I didn’t know how to fix it.
When the air-raid sirens sounded that night, I didn’t respond; it didn’t seem right to leave her on her own like she was. By dragging the blanket she laid on, I got her into the living room. With difficulty, I sat her up, with her back propped against the sofa. Her joints were stiff, unwilling to bend. I had to push hard, constantly apologising and explaining that she needed to sit up. I crouched low to get underneath her and rolled her body upwards, onto the sofa. A couple of times she rolled back to the floor when she was half way up, making me giggle. I didn’t think Mum would mind; she had a good sense of humour and enjoyed a good laugh. Eventually, I managed to sit her up, although it was with a bit of a slouch. After straightening her dress as best I could, I got her makeup from her handbag to put a bit of colour back into her cheeks. Before it got dark, I made us both some dinner; I knew she wouldn’t eat it but it didn’t matter. That night, I put a blanket over her shoulders and slept on the rug by her feet.
The following morning I went to work as usual, with the excuse that I was sick the previous day. I did not mention my mother, other than that she was not well either. At lunch time the foreman called me over and sent me home. He said that from the quality of my work, I was obviously still not well and I should stay home until I was completely better. I was afraid if I stayed away too long, I might lose my job; but he said not to worry; my job was safe for as long as I wanted it. The last thing I felt like doing was going home so I just wandered the streets without thinking until it began to get dark.
That night I slept on the sofa with Mum. We were both freezing cold so I put her overcoat around her shoulders and we shared an extra blanket. I did not sleep well; my mind raced with thoughts of what would happen to me with Mum gone. Originally, I was supposed to have gone on the train with all the other children to another part of the country, until we won the war; but Mum lied about my age and arranged for me to stay and work. If they knew Mum was dead, I would be sent away. I thought that maybe I could keep it a secret; but how would I live? The local stores were used to me buying our groceries with Mum’s ration book; and with the little extra I earned at the factory, I could get by. But what if I got caught? It wasn’t right to leave Mum on the sofa the way she was, and she was beginning to smell. She would have to be buried. According to Mum’s sister, Aunt Kate, everyone who died in the bombing was put into a big pit, all piled on top of each other and covered over with dirt. I didn’t like the thought of that.
On the fourth night I walked around to my Aunt Kate’s house. Two of her sons, who were a bit older than me, were at the house but when Kate saw the look on my face, she knew something was wrong and sent them out. A couple of times she asked how Mum was but all I could say was that she was not well. Every time I said it, I burst into tears. She changed the subject to bring me up to date on what was happening with her husband who was in Europe somewhere winning the war; I wasn’t really listening. After a cup of tea, she sat close and put her arm across my shoulder.
‘Now, tell me what’s up,’ she said, ‘You can’t keep it bottled up forever. You can tell me anything, you know that.’
Tears ran down my face. I don’t think I stopped talking for at least a half an hour. Aunt Kate was crying with me, all the time saying, ‘Poor darling, poor darling, having to go through all that’. She let me talk until I could talk no more and my eyes bled dry, then took both my hands in hers and brought me to my feet.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘you’ll be staying with me for a while. You always said having me for an aunt was like having two mums; well, for now, I’m your new mum’.
‘But what about Mum,’ I said, ‘and what will happen to me? They’ll send me away.’
‘Over my dead body. Sorry luv, bad choice of words. What I mean is that I will take care of what has to be done for your Mum and you will come and live with me for a while. Nobody is going to send you anywhere.’
She paused for a moment then turned to look at me, smiling through her tears.
‘The question is, does anybody need to know?’
I looked back at her without understanding.
‘What I mean to say is, what happens now is nobody’s business but ours; it’s all family business.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘No neither do I but let me think a bit. Has anybody from your work met your Mum?’
‘No.’
‘And you do all the shopping, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told anybody else she’s dead?’
‘No,’ I said, tears coming back to my eyes.
‘Then move in with us. I’ll be your mum and nobody will be any the wiser.’
‘But what about Mum’
‘I know love; seems a bit cruel. We’ll give her a nice funeral; you know, flowers an all. Find somewhere nice in the garden and do it all properly. She’d like that.’
I thought about what she was saying. It sounded nice and it seemed right to keep it in the family. Aunt Kate was the only other person I wanted to know about it. I couldn’t bear the thought of strangers taking Mum away and burying her with all those other people.
‘But what if they find out?’ I asked.
‘How could they? It’s not as if we’re telling a lie. I am your second mother and my maiden name is the same as yer mum’s. I hereby adopt you as my legal daughter; how’s that?’
I smiled and put my arms around her waist. ‘I’d like that.’ I said.
‘One last question;’ she said, ‘Did your mum ever bring her customers home?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, do you know what she did for a living?’
‘Yes, she worked in a pub.’
‘Very good then; did she ever come home with any men friends after work?’
‘No.’
‘Did any men ever call for her at home?’
‘No; why should they?’
‘That’s all I need to know. I’ll let the pub know she won’t be back. I'll tell them she's gone to Manchester.’
During dinner, Aunt Kate told her sons that my mum had to go away for a while, and to prevent me from being sent away, she was adopting me as her daughter. The boys didn’t seem to care much but said that they missed their own sisters, who had been sent to safety when the war started, and it would be fun to have me around. They even promised to escort me to the local dance the following week.
After dinner, Aunt Kate showed me to my room then left the house. I didn’t see her until the next morning after breakfast. When her sons had left for work and we were alone with the dishes, she took my hand and sat me down on the sofa.
‘How are you feeling this morning, girl?’
‘Much better,’ I said.
‘That’s good. Have you thought anymore about what we spoke about last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you feel about me being your new mum?’
‘I’d like that, very much.’
‘Good,’ she said, ‘then come with me.’
She stood, still holding my hand and led me out, into the street.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, holding back.
‘Don’t worry, lass, I’ll be with you all the way. We need to say some words over your mum. After you went to bed last night, I went to the house. You did a lovely job lass; sitting her up like that; very pretty she looked.’
I smiled.
‘I thought it better if I buried her quick. Didn’t seem right for you to do it; took me most of the night but I’ve got a good back, and hard work never hurt no one.’
I followed her to our home, my mind in a fog; nothing seemed real anymore.
‘I took the rug from the bedroom; her favourite it was. Laid it nice and neat in the grave; she looked a right picture laying there, then I covered her up with her blankets so no dirt could get on her face an all. I was very gentle. She’s at peace now; in Heaven with God and the angels.’
She paused to look at me, ‘How you feeling, girl? Are you all right?’
I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t sure that I was all right but I was content, and happy for my new mum to take control.
We stayed at our house for an hour or so. I gathered some daisies and dandelions, and made a little cross, which we buried flat where Mum’s head would be, and where it would not be seen. Aunt Kate made three cups of tea, which we drank with some bread pudding, while talking to Mum. Aunt Kate collected what we needed from the house and the ration book, while I stayed to say some prayers and, goodbye.
Over the following months I called in to say hello to Mum every day after work but in February the house scored a direct hit from a bomb and Mum’s grave became a pile of bricks. I didn’t mind really because it made it look more like a proper grave. I tied two pieces of wood together to make a cross and stood it between the bricks at the top of the pile. I didn’t go back after that.
*** Chapter 2: Rebecca ***
Like slaves at a Persian market, we lined ourselves against the wall; a stroke of lipstick and a touch of rouge, with gossamer in our hair to guard against idle strands drifting out of place. Dresses crisply starched and shoes dyed to match the colour of our frocks. Long slender heels bit into the wooden floor as they forced us to walk on our toes. Most of us sat in uncomfortable, stiff backed chairs as we awaited approval from the local warriors.
The hall was huge, its walls studded with tall arched windows heavily guarded with draped blankets to hide us from the night and the German bombers. The warriors stood in groups puffing on Woodbines and peering through hooded eyes; eyes that dropped to the floor when their gaze was met. The more adventurous, cruised the polished floor, evaluating the pack for the girl of their choice. These were more courageous and searched for eye contact to help them decide which of us were more likely to say yes when asked for a dance.
It was two weeks before my seventeenth birthday and the first time I had been allowed to go to the local dance without a chaperone. The lights dimmed, the floor emptied, men cleared their throats, women straightened their backs and the drummer tapped a light tempo to lead the band through the evening. I was feeling very grown up and if I was lucky, my feet would ache so much by the end of the night that I would have to remove my shoes to walk home in comfort. I rarely had to wait long for a partner as the years had been good to me. The scrawny, sickly image that once glared back through the mirror had somehow transformed into a neatly attractive figure with full bodied, shiny black hair that tumbled upon slender shoulders.
As the mellow tones of a saxophone drifted to blend with the haze of cigarette smoke haunting the ceiling, the first gallant men escorted their ladies to the centre of the room and gently circled and swayed to the rhythm of the opening number. The floor quickly filled and I became lost in a sea of dance and dreams. Oh, how I loved to dance.
I’d seen him several times during the evening and each time became trapped by his steady gaze. Without doubt, I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. Certainly, he was the most handsome man in the room. With so many young men away at the war it was unusual to see such a dashing figure without a uniform. His blond, wavy hair reflected beads of light that bounced from the revolving ball spinning high above, and his smile came from somewhere deep behind his eyes. As he walked towards me I dropped my head and studied the cracks in the wooden boards. What if it wasn't me he was aiming for? What if it was the girl at my side? I couldn't risk looking up in case I let slip a smile that might later turn into a look of embarrassment. I stared and waited for an emotional eternity until, at last, a pair of shoes that shone like the sun stopped before me.
‘Would do me the honour of this dance, Miss?’
I slowly raised my head and quickly fell in love. He was so beautiful. When he spoke it was like a thousand Irish harps vibrating in the wind. His gentle accent sent a tingle down my spine and to look into his eyes was to be trapped in a whirlpool. I wanted to answer, ‘Yes! Yes!’ but no sounds came. I simply nodded, stood and continued to study my feet. We made our way to the centre of the floor as the band struck the opening bars of ‘Who’s taking you home tonight?’ It was my favourite song.
His name was Seamus and his hold was strong as he led me swirling, shuffling and striding across the floor;. It felt good to be in his arms. He was an excellent dancer. Very gently at first, with a turn of a wrist or draw of a hand, he tested my reaction. The more I was able to respond to his subtle commands, the more challenging they became, until swirling and laughing we circled the hall without my feet ever seeming to touch the floor. We didn't speak at all while we danced, which was just as well because I would have been totally tongue-tied. Every time he looked into my eyes my heart sang a love song. At each interval I was afraid he would find me dull, and drift away in search of somebody more interesting, but he stayed, puffing gently on a cigarette, embracing me with his smile and serenading me with his tender Irish accent. We spoke of the war, where we lived, where we worked and of how we spent our evenings. Not that I said very much, apart from responding to his animated curiosity, yet it seemed that he soon uncovered all there was to know about me. He told of his childhood where he roamed the green fields of Ireland to fish on the banks of the Shannon River and of the pranks he played at school.
Too soon, the band struck the opening cords of the final waltz and my enchanted evening drew to a close.
As he walked me home through the darkened, war-torn streets, we held hands and huddled close to protect each other from the damp cold air. We spoke little and only in whispers, as if sharing a special secret. I was not yet seventeen and I was falling deeply, hopelessly in love. Every now and again my knight stopped, pulled me tight against his chest and we kissed; a long lingering kiss that reached deep to uncover emotions that were more powerful than anything I'd ever felt. I had kissed a few boys before but it never felt like this. It was as if he was able to electrify all the nerve ends of my body with his touch, and make them dance with joy. I wanted to sing and dance all the way home. My body ached to be with him forever, so much that I feared my life had become a dream and that I would soon awake to find him gone.
What happened next was brutally unexpected. As we lingered in the small park opposite my home, my gallant hero changed. With what was to be our final goodnight kiss, he became tense, demanding and forceful with a savage strength that I'd never experienced in a man before. I became uncomfortable, then confused. I tried to move away. I wanted to run home. I asked him to let go, that he was hurting me, but he pushed his body against mine and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, pinning my arms to my side. I turned my head sideways to escape his lips. I became frightened and began talking quickly, searching for something that would distract him into letting me go.
‘I’m late. My aunt will be worried about me; she’ll be watching from the window. No! Please, not tonight. You’re hurting me. Please let me go. I have to be up early tomorrow. Please, please, let me go. My shoes are hurting me. Watch out, I think I hear somebody coming.’
I tried to step back, but tripped and we fell, my arms still pinned and Seamus on top of me. I began to panic as he covered my lips with his to muffle my cries. The damp grass penetrated the cotton of my dress and I felt one of my shoes slip from my feet. I kicked and began crying, pleading for him to stop. Hands lifted my jumper then fumbled at the buttons of my blouse. My bra was lifted to expose my breasts. A hand, stinking of tobacco covered my mouth, coarse lips found my virgin breasts and a knee hammered my inner thigh. I screamed, but without sound. There was a taste of saliva mixed with sweat and Woodbine. I couldn't breathe. My head was spinning and I knew I was about to faint. Then -- the pain. Oh, such terrible pain, deep and sharp, tearing flesh, like my body was being torn in half; a fiery coal searing through flesh to burn within. I twisted my body. My arms broke free, pushed and punched, more pain, this time at my temples, a taste of blood, the smell of fear, and the touch of terror. A scream forced its way past my lips but was stopped by the coarse sleeve of his jacket pressing against my neck; I couldn't breathe. Vomit collected in my throat then climbed to burn inside my nostrils. The full force of his body rammed hard against mine, sending fresh pain to every corner of my being; like fire igniting dark corners. His breath panted wildly in my ear like a savage dog. The stench of tobacco and sweat was suffocating. At the peak of his fury, he stopped and lay panting; his face buried against my cheek and saliva escaping onto my neck. His body went limp, allowing me to break free. Rolling my body, I twisted from under him. Stumbling and falling I ran blindly home through tears of terror, tripping up the concrete steps, losing my other shoe, and fumbling for the key to the front door that would protect me.
Confused and ashamed I ran to my room, grateful the rest of the family had gone to bed. With my face pressed to my pillow, for fear of waking my younger cousin whose room I shared, I cried as I relived my nightmare. I had been cheated, used, violated, and there was no one I could turn to for comfort. I knew I had been raped but couldn't understand why. What had I done to provoke such an attack? Was I being punished for my vanity? I wanted to scrape the skin from my body and wished my mother was alive to scrub me clean with carbolic soap. After a while, my sobbing quietened and I crept into the kitchen, which also served as the family washroom, and removed my clothes. After washing my dress and underwear in the sink, I used the wet dress to scrub my body as best I could. Squeezing it hard in my fist, I scrubbed my loins until the pain brought new tears to cover the old. When I looked at the little brass clock that watched from the shelf, it was three o’clock in the morning. Soon the family would begin to awaken. Quickly, I cleaned the sink, wiped the damp floor with my dress, then crept silently back to my room. Sliding cautiously between clean sheets, I stared at the moonlit ceiling.
For the rest of the weekend I stayed home, pretending to be sick, which I was -- sick of life. I never returned to the dance hall, and if I had to walk past it for any reason, I crossed to the other side of the street. On weekends I stayed home to help Aunt Kate with the housework, refusing to spend time with my friends, but on the third week Aunt Kate called me to the front door. I had a visitor.
‘I've missed you at the dance hall.’
I was too shocked to reply and too afraid to slam the door in his face.
‘I came to say how sorry I am for what happened.’
I stepped outside and closed the front door before he could say any more that might be heard by the rest of the family.
‘I don't know what came over me. I must have had one too many.’
The tears welled in my eyes as I remembered the pain.
‘I want to apologise. I was a real bastard. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘You hurt me.’
‘I know and I'm really sorry. I should be struck by God for what I did. I don't deserve to live anymore and if you don't forgive me I'll kill myself.’
I looked up, shocked by his words.
‘Honest; I can't go on living with the memory of what a bastard I've been.’
I didn’t reply. I wanted him to go away.
‘I've never done anything like that before, and I don't know what came over me. Please say you'll forgive me.’
I looked down at his shoes trying to escape his eyes and the spell of his voice.
‘I think I'm in love with you. I can't help it.’
‘How can you say that,’ I said ‘after what you did. You hardly know me.’
‘I know but it's true. I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you; and not just because you were the prettiest girl in the room -- you were special.’
‘You are being silly -- In what way?’
‘I don't know, there was just something about you. You're not like the other girls. I knew you were special the moment I saw you, and I fell in love. I tried to stop myself but I couldn't, and that's what makes what I did all the worse. I'd rather die than hurt you.’
‘But you did hurt me.’ I said, leaning my head a little closer.
‘Then I deserve to die.’ he said, straightening his body as if a decision had been made.
‘No! Please.....’
‘How can I ever undo the pain and disgrace I’ve caused you?’
‘It wasn’t all your fault.’ I lied.
‘Then let me make it up to you. Come to the dance next Friday.’
‘I’ll never go back there – never again.’
‘Then somewhere else; a picnic – a picnic in the park. We’ll find a river.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think we should.’
‘How will I prove how much I love you if I never see you again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then say you’ll come. Don’t torture me this way. Say you’ll come. I’ll sit on your doorstep forever if I have to.’
His voice was getting louder. I was terrified Kate would hear and guess what happened. Young women who shared their bodies out of wedlock were not treated well by the community and if word got out, my whole family would be the shame of the town.
‘You’ll have to go. I have to get back.’
‘Can we, at least, talk about it?’
‘We can’t talk here.’
‘Then where?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Then I’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘No. You can’t call here again.’ I pleaded, starting to panic.
‘Then where can we meet. I have to see you again,’ his voice rising again.
‘Shush, they’ll hear you. Keep your voice down.’
‘I don’t care who hears. I want to tell the world.’
‘Please go away. You hurt me.’
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted the situation to end. I wanted to tell him I hated him for betraying my trust but the words stuck in my throat. I had never stood up to anyone in my life and I knew I was weak. I wanted to shut the door in his face -- tell him he was a bastard; that I would be happy if he killed himself – or, better still, that somebody else would kill him. They could send him to fight in the war and get hit by a million German bullets. Instead, I stood frozen to the doorstep, unable to say what I felt. I was a little girl again, too frightened to stand up for myself, too afraid to do or say anything that would cause others to get upset or angry with me. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks and I hated myself for the coward I was.
‘All right,’ I relented, ‘wait across the street while I get changed; I will come out in ten minutes. We can go for a walk, but that’s it, I never want to see you again.’
Seamus smiled and walked backwards onto the pavement.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said, and walked across the street.
Aunt Kate watched as I came back into the house without saying a word. I couldn’t meet her gaze as I went to my room, wiping tears with the hem of my dress.
Three months later we were married. Our brutal union had left me pregnant and it was not proper for a child to be born out of wedlock. I was also persuaded by Seamus into believing I was headed for a storybook romance. Since the days of cutting out paper dolls, as a child, I dreamed and prepared myself for, Mr. Perfect; a man who would love me and for whom I could devote my life. My dreams put me in a cottage; clean and bright with a thatched roof and a garden filled with flowers. I would cook, sew and clean while the children played happily in the yard. Together we would wait until Daddy came home from work to shower him with hugs and kisses. After dinner, when the sun went down, I would sit by the fire at my husband's feet while he read the paper and smoked his pipe. I would read stories to the children, that would be interrupted every now and then by their father who would look over the top of his newspaper to give a kind word and a smile.
In place of the cottage of my dreams, we spent our married life nomadically roaming through a series of dirty, single roomed flats. Except for a double bed there was rarely any other furniture and it was left to me to ferret for tea chests, boxes, scrap linen and such to provide a table, curtains and a cot for the baby.
Seamus never rose before noon, after which he took great care grooming himself for his day. If there was food, he relaxed over breakfast, enjoyed a Woodbine with his cup of tea, then left without a kiss. Where he went, I never knew, but I knew it wasn't to the office. During our entire marriage I never knew him to do a single day's work. After three or four day’s absence he returned; his clothes smelling of tobacco and urine and his breath filled with the stench of stale beer. To make matters worse, he wet the bed.
One day, during his absence, I decided to air the mattress outside. It was one of those rare, sunny days that England throws out every now and again. Blackbirds sang and the people of the city walked with grins on their faces and joy in their step, telling each other what a wonderful day it was. Men called you Luv and women called you Ducks. The whole city wore a smile.
I hauled the mattress down the stairs, through the back door into the small, sunlit garden. I had enough disinfectant left in the bottle to give it a good dose and I was looking forward to a night of clean sheets and fresh smells. As I prepared to begin, I caught a glimpse of movement from a small tear in the centre of the mattress. Peeling back the corner of the rip to explore further, I reeled back in horror. My stomach heaved. I ran to the corner of the house, held on to the coarse bricks to prevent myself from collapsing, and vomited onto the dandelions.
It was almost an hour before I mustered enough courage to return with some kerosene. By then the maggots had migrated to cover a large area of the mattress, fleeing the bright sunlight. I poured the kerosene over the mattress and added a lighted match. While it burned, I ran upstairs with tears of self pity and scrubbed every inch of the room until the setting sun and exhaustion coaxed me to curl up on the floor beneath the blankets.
Two weeks later I became ill with severe pain in my lower back. My blood pressure dropped so low, I was unable to stand. I was rushed into hospital where I gave birth to our first child; a ten and a half pound baby boy, James.
Having a baby took the pain out of not always having a husband. My days became less lonely and my thoughts less focused on where and with who Seamus might be. Without stable accommodation and income, I relied heavily on relatives and friends to feed and clothe our son. James was a hit with my relations as all babies are, he was showered with gifts of clothing and money and I was always given a good meal. Any money I received was hidden away but I always left a few shillings for Seamus to find when he returned home.
Two and a half years after the birth of our son James I awoke to the sounds of his crying. We were back in Coventry, living in a box room above a corner shop. To cook, we shared a small kitchen stove and sink located in the downstairs passage entrance. Seamus wasn't home which meant James shared my bed. By the tone of his cries I knew that besides wanting a bottle, his nappy needed changing. But first things first. I pulled a blanket over my shoulders, pushed my feet out from their covers, allowing my legs to drop and swing my body upright. The moon shone through the small window above the bed, spreading squares of silvery light across the floor. Something moved. My heart skipped and my hand flashed to stifle a scream. Across the floor were dozens of mice. Some went scurrying when they saw me, others just looked and continued washing their faces. My feet sprang back from the floor and my knees snapped against my chest. With my arms wrapped around my shins, I sat frozen. I couldn't move, my senses were numb, but James was screaming and needed attention. Slowly, I uncurled my body, reached for James, and drawing him close to my chest, made my way to the kitchen. With each step I swung my blanket across the floor and shouted at the mice. Every shadow had eyes; every nook and cranny harboured a rodent. I wanted to run outside to the safety of the street, to hide my head in the safety of some caring soul, but the shrill of my baby's cries quelled my panic. When I reached the kitchen, I quickly prepared my son's bottle, my eyes continuing to probe the shadows as I whispered the gentle words of a lullaby in his ear. Once the bottle was ready I placed it in a small saucepan of water, sat it on the stove and struck a match to light the gas. It didn't light. James, still screaming, cupped against my chest, he refused to be patient. With shaking hands I struck another match. Still the stove refused to respond and I realised we were out of gas. To feed my son I would first have to feed the gas meter but I had no money. Foraging through the cupboards, tearing lids from boxes and adding dead matches I was able to keep a small flame burning on top of the stove, long enough to heat the bottle.
The following evening I was evicted for waking the landlord and not paying the rent. I had no idea where to go; Seamus hadn't returned and I had no money. All I could do was wrap my son snugly in his pram, padded against the cold with what little clothing we owned, and wait in a narrow ally that ran down the side of the shop. My only hope was that my husband might pick that night to return home. Sitting with my back to a boarded doorway, the collar of my coat turned up to shield off the cold fog, I rocked the pram struggling to stay awake. After a while it didn't seem to matter; I sobbed myself into a troubled sleep.
I awoke, startled by a flash of blinding light burning holes in my eyes. Turning my head and raising my arm to protect from the light, I reached with my other hand for the pram.
‘What you doing ’ere miss?’
My eyes searched the darkness behind the light, the tenderness of the voice giving pause to the tension knotting my spine.
‘Bit late to be walking the baby, ain't it Miss?’
The beam of light moved to the pram and I was able to distinguish the silhouette of a policeman's helmet. My body slumped with relief as I sobbed my tale of woe. After listening without interruption, he took me by the hand and raised my cramped body to its feet. Leading me back to the shop the policeman banged loudly on the door to wake the landlord who, after a brief discussion, agreed to allow me to stay until my husband returned.
Two weeks later James came toddling in saying that daddy was coming. I stood at the door to welcome him home but he walked past me removing his jacket and slumped into a chair.
‘I'm starving; what's for tea?’
*** Chapter 3: Rebecca ***
On Christmas Eve 1946, England was still celebrating the end of its war with Germany and I gave birth to my second son. We were living in an abandoned army barracks but I was rushed to a women's refuge in Duggens Lane when I entered labour. James went to stay with Aunt Kate. Seamus, of course, was nowhere to be found but had insisted that if our new baby was a boy he would be called William after my husband's brother.
The birth went smoothly but when asked what name was to be put on the birth certificate I hesitated; I was not fond of my husband's brother. At that moment the door burst open and we were confronted by the confused face of the cook. Red faced and clutching her hat tightly with tiny fists, she stood hopping from one foot to the other, awaiting permission to speak. Permission never came but she spoke anyway.
‘Very sorry to intrude,’ she said, ‘but there’s a man outside demanding to come in.’
‘What man?’ demanded the midwife.
I tried to sink into the mattress imagining Seamus with his beery breath intimidating the cook.
‘Don’t know Miss. Said his name was Justin, and that Mrs.. Rebecca would want to see him.’
The midwife looked over her glasses at me, demanding an explanation but all I could do was shrug my shoulders. I didn’t know anybody called Justin.
‘Tell him to go away,’ snapped the midwife. ‘He has come to the wrong place.’
The cook stood motionless with sad eyes that pleaded not to be sent back to the intruder.
‘Don’t just stand there woman, send him away.’
But the words were wasted. To the cook’s relief, the door burst open and my heart leapt at the sight of my Uncle John's smiling face. Aunt Kate’s husband was back from the war.
‘She said you were Justin?’ I said, pointing to the cook.
‘I am,’ he said, ‘I’m Just in time; just in time to see your new son.’
I laughed as he moved forward to share a hug and I remembered just how much I loved my uncle.
‘We were just about to name the baby.’ I said.
‘Then I really am just in time.’ He said, pleased with his sense of humour. ‘So what are you going to call him?’
‘What else,’ I replied, ‘his name is Justin. His name is Justin William Rourke’.
I later discovered that while I was giving birth to Justin my husband was at the bedside of another woman who was giving him twins.
Six months after Justin was born we were evicted from the barracks and moved to live in a room in a house owned by the wife of a young Coventry soldier who failed to return from the war. Seamus still disappeared on a regular basis but came home most days to be with his children. On one of those nights Seamus was away, Justin awoke earlier than usual with an empty stomach and a dirty nappy. I lifted him into my arms and crept into the hallway, the floorboards creaking with each tip-toed step. As I passed the landlady's door it flew open, causing me to catch my breath.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’
The shock of sudden movement sent me back with a gasp; for a second I failed to recognise him. When I did, tears filled my eyes as I struggled to cope with the realisation that the naked man before me was my husband.
‘Nosey bloody slag.’
I stood frozen. A clenched fist connected with my face. My head snapped back to bounce against the wall and my body staggered as a torrent of punches found their mark. I hunched my body and turned my back to protect Justin.
‘You spying fucking bitch.’
I slid slowly down against the wall, my legs jelly; my body numb. Something pounded into my ribs, followed by a blow to the base of my skull. A fist grabbed my hair and my face crashed into the wall. Tender fibers collapsed inside my nose and the world exploded in a sea of bright red. My brain floated above my head. I curled my body into a crouch over Justin. Warm fluid bathed my lips with the taste of blood. I coughed out a broken tooth. Fingers around the back of my neck lifted my head and jerked it forward. My putty nose smashed back into the wall but there was no pain. I gripped tightly onto my son as a black mist invaded by body and sent everything dark. I floated gently to the floor.
Regaining consciousness was like awakening to an unknown world that emerges through a veil. My nightgown was stiff with dried blood, my eyes were matted shut and the pain in my ribs made it difficult to breath. I tried to remember why I was lying in the hallway and wondered if I might have fallen down the stairs, or perhaps it was a dream and I would soon wake up. I turned to roll over and sit up but the sudden pain in my side caused me to yelp and return to my original position. Something was pressing into my ribs. Something was wrong. My mind raced as memories flooded back. The pain disappeared. I knew the pressure against my ribs was Justin. I scurried onto all fours and pulled him into my chest. There was no movement, no breath. I smothered his face with kisses and tears, pleading for him to wake up. Limping, I carried him into the kitchen, turned the tap and bathed his face with water cupped in my hands. I crumbled to sit on the floor caressing my son’s lifeless body and wept the tears reserved for the dammed. The landlady's door remained shut.
Throughout my twenty years of life, I struggled to win the love of others, but in spite of all I did, I always seemed to end up destroying everything. I couldn't figure out what I was doing that caused people to treat me with such contempt. It seemed the more I tried the more I was abused. And now my son was dead in my arms. I had smothered him with my body. If only I had left him in his cot. If only I had lifted him into my own bed. If only it could have been me instead of him. How peaceful it would be to end the pain and the heartache. How simple it would be to lie down to sleep the eternal sleep of tranquility, where nobody could hurt me. I considered feeding the gas meter. It held the promise of eternal peace but I never had enough money; not that it really mattered -- I knew I couldn't do it. Instead, I bathed and dressed Justin and lay him gently in his cot and returned to the kitchen. I removed my clothes and sat with my feet in the kitchen sink to wash the blood from my body.
When I got back to the room, James was awake, playing with the alarm clock. I dressed him quickly and put a slice of bread into his hand. After dressing myself, I grabbed Justin and what clothes I could fit into a canvas bag and led James downstairs. I lay Justin gently into his pram and we walked into the street.
For hours I walked, not knowing where to go. I carried James for most of the time as I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting on the edge of the pram. I had ten shillings hidden in the bottom of the pram so I knew I could find a room for the night but I didn’t want to stop. It was only when James began crying that my mind cleared enough for me to think of what I would do. I turned into Milton road to make my way to the railway station. As I crossed the road, a hand gripped my elbow. My legs buckled as I turned, expecting to see my husband.
‘Sorry to startle you miss, but aren’t you Seamus Rourke’s Misses?’
I didn’t speak – I couldn’t. I had expected to see Seamus. All I could do was nod.
‘You have to help me. I don’t know where else to go.’
I didn’t know who he was and he wasn’t making any sense.
‘Please come.’
I nodded again. I had nowhere else to go. I turned the pram and walked by his side. As we walked, I turned to study him more closely. A slim young man in sailor’s uniform, about my age with fine blond hair and in need of a shave. He walked with a hint of a limp that gave the impression that he had recently returned from service overseas. He was like so many others that walked the streets in their uniform looking for work after being dumped from the Navy.
‘Do I know you?’ I finally asked.
‘Not likely,’ he laughed ‘but I know you. Or at least, I know your husband.’
I didn’t like the way the conversation was going and slowed my pace.
‘Don’t worry; I’m not angry, at least, not any more. I was at first but what’s the point? I’m better off without her don’t you think?’
It wasn’t a question I was prepared to answer and I was becoming increasingly nervous.