Authors: Rita Bradshaw
The Rainbow Years (2 page)
It was signed Maurice Lyndon and the last few letters of the signature had driven deep into the paper, as though the writer was possessed of a fury he was finding difficult to restrain.
Christopher married and a father? She gave a little moan and then glanced about quickly in case anyone had heard. But he’d told her he loved her, that she was beautiful and desirable and that when the war was over he’d brave the wrath of his father and marry her. She had understood that for someone of his class to marry someone of hers would be frowned upon, but he’d said that once they could be together all the time and he could be there to protect her from any hostility from his family, he’d make her his wife. And she had believed him.
She bit down hard on the back of her fist to prevent herself moaning out loud again. Now she understood why he’d been so cagey about her meeting any of his friends or writing to his home address. And it had been at his suggestion that she’d arranged for Kitty’s sister to receive his letters. He had said that until he could meet her parents and formally ask for her hand it was better to keep things secret in case his father caused a fuss and her parents were offended. In reality, he had been worried that if her da tried to contact him to find out what his intentions were, the truth might have come to light. With the benefit of hindsight it was all suddenly perfectly clear.
Oh Holy Mother, help me in my hour of need. I have sinned, I know I have sinned, but be merciful. Don’t let this thing happen to me. And then she stopped the silent gabbling as it dawned on her what she was asking for. Why would the Holy Mother grant a petition to end the life of this baby growing inside her when it was innocent of all wrong? She was the guilty one and she would have to suffer the consequences of her sin.
Three times Christopher had taken her, only three times, but then once was enough, she knew that. Look at Gladys Blackett. Her Shane had had to leave for the front straight after their wedding night and had been blown to smithereens within the week, but nine months later Gladys had produced a bouncing baby boy. A gift from God to comfort her in her loss, all the neighbours had said, and wasn’t the bairn the very image of his da? Those selfsame women in the streets here around would brand her a scarlet woman and her baby a flyblow, and they would be watching it as it grew, to seize on any likeness they could pin on some poor man or other they had no liking for.
She couldn’t have it.
She glanced about her wildly as though the beautiful summer afternoon would produce a solution. She’d have to do something, take something. She’d heard the talk amongst some of the women in the munitions factory who were no better than they should be. But how could she confide in any of them? A quiver passed over her face. She’d have to, there was nothing else for it. They might be a bit rough round the edges but they were kind enough on the whole. Her da wouldn’t have her bringing the shame of a bastard into the family, he’d kill her first.
She glanced about her wildly as though the beautiful summer afternoon would produce a solution. She’d have to do something, take something. She’d heard the talk amongst some of the women in the munitions factory who were no better than they should be. But how could she confide in any of them? A quiver passed over her face. She’d have to, there was nothing else for it. They might be a bit rough round the edges but they were kind enough on the whole. Her da wouldn’t have her bringing the shame of a bastard into the family, he’d kill her first.
She shut her eyes again, seeing Christopher’s handsome face and deep blue eyes under a shock of rich brown hair on the screen of her mind. It had been six months ago, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, when she had first seen Captain Christopher Lyndon. She and Kitty had recently started work at the munitions factory and the one pound seventeen and six a week they were earning was four times as much as the wage they’d had as parlourmaids since leaving school. So to celebrate her impending birthday they’d decided to treat themselves to a cream tea at Binns. In the doorway she had collided with a tall, handsome man in uniform and dropped the packages she’d been carrying.
He had insisted on buying them tea and cakes in reparation, and then walking them most of the way home to Deptford Road bordering the Wear Glass Works where her father worked. And she had known straight off it was her he was interested in, not Kitty. Something had happened to her that afternoon when he had first smiled at her and she hadn’t been the same since. She’d been head over heels, crazily in love. And that was her only excuse, she told herself bitterly. She had been crazy, mad to let him do what he’d done. He’d been her first lad, though, and she hadn’t known what it was all about the first time till it was over. And then she’d cried and he’d held her close and told her it was all right and he loved her like she’d never be loved again . . .
After each time, her conscience had seared her like a branding iron but in spite of her shame she hadn’t dared to go to confession. She knew the priest was supposed to forget the secrets he was told the minute he stepped out of the dark box, but somehow she wasn’t sure she quite believed it. And the thought of remaining unclean wasn’t as terrifying as the possibility her da might find out what she’d done. In spite of what her da was like, he was on good terms with Father Fraser; butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth when the Father called round the house.
She continued to sit in the sunshine for a long, long time, her head bowed and her eyes staring unseeing at the paper on her lap. Eventually she stirred, and then it was to slowly rip the letter into tiny pieces.
She had given Christopher her heart and soul and mind and body, and he’d just been playing with her, leading her on. She couldn’t bear it, she wished she could die.
Enough.
The word was loud in her mind and she responded to it, straightening her back and raising her head to gaze about her almost defiantly. It had happened and there was no going back. The only question now was how she was going to get rid of the evidence of her foolishness. And that was how she had to think about it. This thing inside her wasn’t a baby, not yet, not till it was born and took breath. She’d missed three monthlies but apart from the odd feeling of queasiness and a consuming tiredness come nightfall there was no physical sign of what had happened to her. Her stomach was as flat as it had ever been. But that wouldn’t continue for much longer.
The word was loud in her mind and she responded to it, straightening her back and raising her head to gaze about her almost defiantly. It had happened and there was no going back. The only question now was how she was going to get rid of the evidence of her foolishness. And that was how she had to think about it. This thing inside her wasn’t a baby, not yet, not till it was born and took breath. She’d missed three monthlies but apart from the odd feeling of queasiness and a consuming tiredness come nightfall there was no physical sign of what had happened to her. Her stomach was as flat as it had ever been. But that wouldn’t continue for much longer.
Bess stood up, letting the fragments of paper shower to the ground like confetti on a wedding day.
But there would be no wedding for her, she thought, beginning to walk along the neatly trimmed path leading out of the park.There never would have been with Christopher and she’d been stupid to believe otherwise. Men like him, privately educated gentlemen who had wealth and influence and ancestry behind them, didn’t
marry
working-class girls. Oh, they might toy with them, amuse themselves with such trifles,
dally
with them - her mouth tightened as the word seared her mind - but marriage was kept for the fine ladies of their own class who were used to soft kid slippers and furs.
marry
working-class girls. Oh, they might toy with them, amuse themselves with such trifles,
dally
with them - her mouth tightened as the word seared her mind - but marriage was kept for the fine ladies of their own class who were used to soft kid slippers and furs.
She wasn’t going to cry for him. She passed the museum and library as she left the park but didn’t glance at the imposing building, lost as she was in her thoughts. She wasn’t going to think about him falling on foreign soil because he had a wife who would do all that, who had the right to do it. From this point on, she was going to think only of herself. It didn’t do to be trusting and soft, not in this world. And God didn’t care. Half the world was fighting and killing the other half and He did nothing to stop it. And she didn’t believe the priests were one step down from the Almighty either.
She stopped, looking up into a high blue sky, the colour as hard and flat as a painting. The thought had come like a revelation but now Bess realised she’d been considering this matter for a long time in the depths of her mind. Her da was cruel and mean and yet Father Fraser thought the sun shone out of his backside. She didn’t know if her da was fooling the priest or whether the Father turned a blind eye because her da always stumped up with a good offering, but either way it reduced the priest to a mere man in her eyes. And that’s all he was, a man like any other.
Even yesterday such a thought would have immediately made her cross herself and ask for forgiveness but today it was different.
She
was different. Maybe the process of change had begun when she’d met Christopher and listened to his views on everything from religion to politics - most of which she admitted she hadn’t understood - but she couldn’t blindly accept everything the Church said any more. And when the war ended she wouldn’t let her da force her to go back to being a parlourmaid. He’d said a skivvy was all she was good for but she’d show him. She’d make something of herself, do something, become someone.
She
was different. Maybe the process of change had begun when she’d met Christopher and listened to his views on everything from religion to politics - most of which she admitted she hadn’t understood - but she couldn’t blindly accept everything the Church said any more. And when the war ended she wouldn’t let her da force her to go back to being a parlourmaid. He’d said a skivvy was all she was good for but she’d show him. She’d make something of herself, do something, become someone.
She began walking again, part of her fearful at her temerity but the other part rearing up against the unfairness of life and the position she found herself in.
But before she could do anything, she had to deal with what needed to be dealt with. For a moment her hand hovered over her stomach, touching the creased linen of her summer coat. And then she brought it sharply to her side, her eyes narrowing. She could do this. She had to do it, she had no option. And she had to do it quickly.
‘Ee, lass, what were you thinkin’ of to get caught out like that? An’ what about your lad? Can’t he do the decent thing an’ marry you quick afore it shows?’
Bess stared into the yellow face of Martha Todd. When she had first started work at the munitions factory she hadn’t understood why the women who filled shells were called canaries, but at her first tea break it had been Martha and one of her pals who had explained that repeated exposure to TNT had turned their faces yellow. Martha and her cronies had thought it a great joke but Bess had been horrified, mainly because she dreaded a jaundiced pallor developing in her own skin. By the time she had worked there a few months and seen two women lose fingers and another blinded in the accidents that were commonplace, she’d realised yellow skin was the least of her worries.
‘He . . . he’s dead. Killed in action,’ she said now, her voice weak, not because of her condition but because they were standing in the section of the factory toilets which had been divided off for use by female employees, and the stench drifting over from the men’s side was overpowering. She felt hot and sick but the toilets were the only place she could have a quiet word with Martha. ‘Do you know anyone who might help me?’ she asked again.
‘Lass, there’s plenty who’d help Old Nick himself for the right price.’ Martha’s voice was soft. She had drawn her own conclusions about Bess’s father from listening to Kitty and Bess talk, and she pitied the pretty young girl in front of her.
‘How much would they want?’ said Bess, a little anxiously. She didn’t have a great deal in the old toffee tin on the top of her wardrobe at home. When she had been set on at the factory her father had made sure her mother doled back one shilling out of her wage packet, thruppence more than when she’d been working as a parlourmaid. It was only her mother slipping her an extra half-crown on the sly each week that had enabled her to save anything at all after she had bought her toiletries and paid for any extras, such as having her boots soled or new woollen stockings. Before she had managed her stolen evenings with Christopher her only treat had been a seat at the Avenue or Palace or one of the other picture houses with Kitty on a Saturday night.
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Martha’s voice was softer still. ‘I’m known for bein’ as good as me word an’ if I say you’re all right that’ll be enough to get it done, but you’ll have to pay after at so much a week. You could do that, couldn’t you?’
‘Aye, yes.’ Bess nodded. ‘I could do that.’ She gulped and then said, ‘How soon could they see me?’
‘I dunno, lass, but I’ll find out. The thing is, you don’t want to go to just anyone for somethin’ like this; some of the old wives don’t care what they do as long as they get paid. The woman I’ve got in mind might be as rough an’ ready as old Harry’s backside but she’s a good ’un an’ she knows what’s what. She’ll make a clean job of it, will old Maggie.’
Bess felt she was going to faint or be sick or both. She stared at the other woman from eyes so huge they seemed to fill her face.
‘You told your mam you’re in a pickle?’ Martha asked.
‘No, no one knows, not even Kitty. I can’t risk me da finding out.’ A little shiver passed over Bess’s face which said more to Martha than any words could have done. ‘You wouldn’t tell anyone?’
‘Not me, lass. Silent as the grave, I can be.’ And when Bess didn’t look reassured, Martha added, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say nowt. I know what it’s like when you’re livin’ with someone like your da. Me own was a swine an’ all.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Put me on the game when I was nowt but eight or nine, he did.’
‘Oh, Martha.’ Up until now Bess had been both slightly afraid and contemptuous of this woman whose reputation was well known, but never once had she asked herself how a woman might come to be working the streets most of her life. Shame made her voice husky when she said, ‘How could you stand it when you were so young?’
Martha shrugged beefy shoulders. ‘You bear what has to be borne, lass, that’s what I’ve learned in life. Mind, I’d have liked to have got wed, had bairns an’ that, but what decent man would have looked the side I was on?’ For a moment Martha’s eyes were unfocused, as though she was looking at something Bess couldn’t see, and then with a seeming effort she smiled, flapping her hand as she said, ‘Anyway, don’t you worry, lass, I’ll see what I can do. A day or two an’ it’ll all be over. I’ll tip you the wink when I’ve set it up.’
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