LITMIR.BIZ

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did you expect me to keep him out of a sense of duty?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘I couldn’t help it if his mother died. Your father, out of gratitude, told Marie Coverdale that she and her son would have a home here as long as she lived.’

      ‘Yes, and out of gratitude she worked in this house like a servant, almost, and – and -’

      ‘And Todd wanted for nothing. Even after your father died, I saw to it that nothing changed. They continued to live here and Todd went to Grammar School!’

      ‘He got a scholarship! Todd was like a brother to me, yet you sent him away, when his mother died.’

      ‘To his aunt, who was willing to have him. But why all this raking up of the past? You said nothing about his going, at the time. And we are talking about now, and you leaving home! What is to become of me, when you go – if you go.’

      ‘No ifs,’ Caroline said softly, gently. ‘If I pass the medical, I’m going. And it isn’t a question of duty, either to you or to this country. I’m joining up because I want to; because something is telling me I must. Can’t you understand? Can’t you, for once, think of something other than yourself?’

      ‘Well, now I know you have taken leave of your senses! Me – selfish.’ The tears left Janet Tiptree’s eyes, her jaw hardened. ‘Me, who has been father and mother to you, thinks only of myself? Shame on you Caroline. Don’t make me more upset than I already am! I suggest you go to bed, and wake up tomorrow in a better frame of mind. And apologise for the things you have said!’

      ‘No thank you. I am well past the age of being sent early to bed. But I am sorry if I have hurt you, if I seem ungrateful for all you have done for me. And I am sorry for your loneliness over the years, but please stop treating me like a child?’

      ‘Then stop behaving like one and remember where your duty lies. And I have nothing more to say. I shall go to bed. I have a migraine coming on. Will it be too much to ask that you bring me up a hot drink, and an aspirin?’

      She opened the staircase door and without a goodnight, walked sighing to her room…

      ‘Oh, lordy!’ Carrie whispered when she heard the banging of the bedroom door.

      It had been exactly as she thought: the pleading, tears and recriminations. It always was, when her mother wanted her own way. Sometimes her mother had a hard heart, inside that sweet exterior. It was sad she was a widow, but the Great War had left behind many widows – Todd’s mother for one, whose husband had crawled into the void between the trenches. Todd’s father had been shot by a sniper as he dragged his wounded officer to safety.

      Mind, her father had been grateful; given his word that widow and son should be cared for. And her mother accepted it, because she always took the least line of resistance – and because it suited her to have unpaid help in the house.

      Carrie looked at herself in the wall mirror; gazed unblinking so her resolve should not weaken, because there was something else her mother wouldn’t like, if ever she found out.

      Fix a date for the wedding? Not yet. Because Jeffrey had shocked her, shown a side to his nature she had not known to exist, and she had not liked it. She recalled his mouth, sensuously pouted, his eyes narrowed so he need not look at her and his mouth, wet on hers.

      ‘I’m going to the war, Carrie,’ he had said, ‘and if you loved me, you’d let me. We’re engaged, after all. Where’s the harm in it? And anyway, you can’t get pregnant the first time.’

      So she had let him; had lain there unresisting, eyes fixed on the ceiling whilst he pushed and grunted and shoved.

      ‘Told you it’d be all right, didn’t I?’ He had nuzzled her neck when it was over, then slid off the bed and pulled on his trousers. ‘And it’ll be better, next time.’

      Next time, thank heaven, was at least three months away, and by next time she could well be out of reach. And she didn’t want there to be a next time. Not yet. Not until she could talk to Jeffrey about her fears, her feelings, because if that was what doing it was like, then she had got it all wrong.

      She shrugged and walked to the window, arms folded tightly around her, mouth stubborn, gazing as twilight touched the garden, muting colours, softening outlines.

      The wood pigeon that nested in the tree in the lane outside flew past her line of vision, alighting atop the wall, cooing and burbling. It waddled, pecking, then flapped up to its nest. Poor silly, fortunate bird. It didn’t even know there was a war on.

      But there was a war on and she was going to join it, and not all her mother’s tears would stop her. Soon, she would have to register for war service so why not choose, as Jeffrey had done, what she would do and in which arm of the Forces. Army, Air Force, Navy – did it matter? Could anything be worse than remaining in Nether Hutton, a dutiful daughter, waiting for Jeffrey to come home on leave from the Navy and marry her, just because that was what everyone expected them to do?

      She wished she could talk to her mother about what happened that night she had gone out to play whist and left them alone together. Yet she knew she could not, must not.

      She slid home the door bolts and turned the key in the lock. Then she pulled the blackout curtains across the window and went to the kitchen.

      A hot drink for her mother, and two aspirins. A little honey in the milk and a glass of water for the tablets. A dutiful daughter again, who would one day be a dutiful wife to Jeffrey.

      But not on his first leave. Only when she was ready to be a wife. And on this heart-achingly beautiful May evening, she was not.

      ‘Sorry, mother,’ she whispered to the honey jar. ‘I’ve got to have time to sort out my life my own way. And sorry, Jeffrey. I will marry you, but not just yet; not until we have talked.’ Because something so very important could not be open to doubt, or left to chance.

      And tomorrow, no matter what her mother said or threatened, she would go to the recruiting office. She had to.

      ‘Let’s check to see if we’ve got it right,’ the ATS corporal in the Recruiting Office said. ‘Nancy Morrissey, of 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. Date of birth November 22, 1924. And you wish, if you pass the medical examination, to join the Auxiliary Territorial Service – right?’

      ‘Right,’ Nan said, just a little chokily. ‘And I want to be a typist.’ She took the folded piece of paper from her handbag. ‘Got a certificate…’

      ‘That won’t be necessary, at this stage. If you pass, you’ll be given an intelligence test,’ the corporal smiled.

      She had a nice smile, Nan thought; had a ring on her engagement finger, too.

      ‘I – I wouldn’t like to be a domestic,’ she breathed. ‘I want sumthin’ better than bein’ an orderly.’

      ‘An orderly is not to be looked down upon,’ the corporal reproved. ‘You will be wearing the King’s uniform – something to be proud of, whatever job you do. Oh, and your next-of-kin…?’

      ‘That’s me Auntie Mim – Mrs Miriam Simpson, 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. I’m living with her, now, ’cause we was bombed in Liverpool.’ No need to mention her stepmother. ‘Me dad was killed when they bombed the hospital. I hate them Nazis, rot their socks!’

      ‘Rot their socks indeed.’ The corporal raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m from London – East End.’

      ‘Aaah,’ Nan nodded, a bond between them established. ‘And I’d like to get in as soon as possible. Auntie Mim can only let me stay for four weeks, see?’

      ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’ She handed back the identity card and ration book Nan had offered in lieu of her birth certificate. ‘Farthing Street is your permanent address as from now?’

      ‘For four weeks, till the lodger comes back. After that, I can’t say.

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