Read Always I'Ll Remember Online
Authors: Rita Bradshaw
Always I'Ll Remember (25 page)
‘Aye.’ From being as pale as alabaster, Winnie’s skin was now flushed a deep pink. ‘I’m quite sure, Mr Tollett.’
‘It’s not mine, I tell you.’ Vincent shrugged off his father’s hand, his voice a growl. ‘She goes to the dances in town and the pictures, doesn’t she? They all do. And I’ve seen ’em with the RAF blokes and the local lads, making eyes at anything in trousers.’
‘That’s a lie and you know it.’ Rowena came into the fray for the first time and suddenly she was very much the lady of the manor. ‘And if you don’t want an action against you I would think very carefully about such accusations. Neither myself nor my friends are prepared to tolerate our good names being soiled by someone like you.’
‘Someone like me?’
‘Yes, someone like you. You ought to be thankful a girl like Winnie would look your way in the first place, especially having seen the type of woman you associate with normally. To call that woman at the dance at Christmas a dog would be giving all canines a bad name.’
This time the farmer had his work cut out to prevent his son reaching Rowena. ‘Sit down, the lot of you,’ he shouted, ‘and shut up! Do you hear? And you,’ he turned to his son, staring down into the livid countenance as he held Vincent on his chair, ‘you’ll do the right thing by the girl. It’s high time you learned that everything in life has to be paid for sooner or later.’
‘You’d believe her against me? Your own son?’
‘Aye, I reckon I would, lad.’ The farmer was under no illusions about his younger son, neither was he blind to the fact that Winnie would make an excellent farmer’s wife and be a welcome addition to the labour force of the farm. If he’d had to pick one of the three it would have been this big, broad, buxom lass who worked as well as any farm hand and who would produce fine, strong grandsons. ‘And that being the case I’ll be taking the pair of you along to the parson come Sunday to see about getting the banns read.’
‘Well, now I know where I stand.’ Vincent was sitting straight now, his breathing sharp and his enmity directed against his father. ‘If it’d been Nicholas sitting here you wouldn’t have taken this tack.’
Farmer Tollett did not deny this. Instead he said, ‘Nicholas is Nicholas and you’re you.’
‘I know that only too well.’
It was deep and bitter, and the older man’s eyes narrowed before he said slowly, ‘Your mother and I have never made meat of one and fish of the other, now then, lad. That’s all in your mind and always has been. But I don’t deny Nicholas is a good lad. That wouldn’t be fair.’
‘And of course you’re always so fair.’
‘I try to be.’
‘And you think leaving the farm to Nicholas is fair?’
‘He’s the firstborn, it’d have been the same if it was you.’
‘But it’s not me, is it?’
‘This isn’t about the farm.’ Farmer Tollett had clearly had enough. His voice rough now, he said, ‘This is about you and this young lass here, and like I said, you’ll do the right thing by her.’
When Vincent lowered his head without saying anything more, it could have been taken for defeat, but Abby was sitting closest to him and she saw the look on his face. Her stomach turned over, and she asked herself if marrying the farmer’s son was the right thing for Winnie to do, even taking into account the forthcoming child. But Winnie would have the backing of Mr and Mrs Tollett, that much was clear, and they would see Vincent treated her well, she assured herself in the next moment. This way Winnie would have the respectability which was so important to her, and her baby would have its father’s name, rather than the stigma that being born out of wedlock would undoubtedly bring. It had to be the best thing . . . didn’t it?
When the occupants of the farm awoke the next morning to the knowledge that Vincent had crept away in the middle of the night, leaving a note for his mother to say he’d gone to join up, Abby had to admit her immediate reaction was one of relief. She had tossed and turned all night, skimming in and out of nightmarish dreams which embodied Winnie sinking in a sea of mud, drowning, or on one occasion being suffocated by a huge snake, and each time she had been unable to help her because Vincent had prevented it.
He was the worst possible type of man for a prospective husband, she told herself between the snatches of sleep, but there was no other option for her friend.
Now, as she stood with Winnie and Rowena in the kitchen staring at Mrs Tollett who was sitting at the kitchen table, the letter still clutched in her hand and the tears streaming down her face, Abby felt that despite all outward appearances this was the best thing for Winnie.
She listened to the farmer who was ranting and raving that he was going to find Vincent and bring him back, looked at Mrs Tollett who was clearly beside herself at the thought of both sons going to war, and then glanced at Winnie who was standing still and silent beside her. It was a shock for everyone in different ways but she still couldn’t bring herself to be sorry Vincent had gone. She was very surprised when Winnie said more or less the same thing a moment later, though.
‘Don’t try and look for him, Mr Tollett.’ Winnie’s voice was quiet. ‘He’ll only go again if that’s what he’s decided, and he’ll make life thoroughly unpleasant for everyone in the meantime. I - I think it’s best he’s nailed his colours to the mast. And we’ll manage here. We’ll all work a bit harder until you can get someone to replace him.’
‘Right at this minute I’m not so bothered about the workload, girl,’ the farmer said heavily, ‘much as we’ll struggle. But for a lad of mine to take a lass down and then skedaddle, it sticks in me craw.’
Winnie lowered her head. In truth she was amazed at the stance the farmer had taken. She had expected to find herself out on her ear the minute they learned of her condition and Vincent’s attitude. It only went to show you never could be sure how someone else would react.
Mrs Tollett pulled herself together and stood up, her voice low as she patted Winnie’s arm and said, ‘I don’t agree with what he’s done but he’s my own and I think a bit of him, lass. The thought of him at the front somewhere . . .’ She gulped. ‘But there’s a place here for you as long as you want it, you and the little one when it comes. And as one of the family, you understand?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tollett.’
‘Gladys, dear.’ Mrs Tollett turned and looked at Abby and Rowena. ‘I think it’s high time you called us by our Christian names, don’t you, girls? Josiah and I couldn’t have got harder workers, that’s for sure, and with all that’s happened I don’t think we’ll stand on ceremony any longer.’
They all smiled, and Winnie looked as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Mrs Tollett bustled over to the haybox which had been cooking the morning porridge all night. ‘I think we could all do with a bowl of porridge before we go out this morning,’ she said briskly. ‘And then I’ll get breakfast as normal once you’ve done the milking and so on. And Winnie?’ She turned, her voice low as they heard Clara clattering down the stairs. ‘You make sure you have plenty of cream on it, lass. All right? That little ’un needs to be fat and healthy when it’s born, living up here.’
As they all sat down at the kitchen table, Abby caught her friend’s eye and they grinned weakly at each other, relief on both their faces. This result was better than they could have imagined. They could sort out how they were going to break the news to Winnie’s mam and da later; they didn’t need to say anything at all for the time being.
Clara joined them, still in her nightie and her face flushed with sleep, and Abby felt her whole body relax. Clara was safe and it looked as though Winnie was going to be set up here. After all the horrible events of the last few months, things were looking up.
PART FOUR
Gum, Nylons and GIs
1943
1943
Chapter Fourteen
T
he wind was whipping over the docks from an icy North Sea and whistling down the streets of Sunderland, losing none of its power as it negotiated houses and factories. To anyone other than a northerner it would have been hard to believe this was the beginning of May, but a harsh winter followed by a cold spring wasn’t anything unusual to the tall man preparing to knock on the door of 12 Rose Street. Besides, with bombed-out buildings everywhere, so many ships and men lost in March and the war seeming to get worse and not better, who cared about the weather? It had been hoped that the Americans coming in would turn things around but there was no sign of it yet.
he wind was whipping over the docks from an icy North Sea and whistling down the streets of Sunderland, losing none of its power as it negotiated houses and factories. To anyone other than a northerner it would have been hard to believe this was the beginning of May, but a harsh winter followed by a cold spring wasn’t anything unusual to the tall man preparing to knock on the door of 12 Rose Street. Besides, with bombed-out buildings everywhere, so many ships and men lost in March and the war seeming to get worse and not better, who cared about the weather? It had been hoped that the Americans coming in would turn things around but there was no sign of it yet.
James Benson took a deep breath, clearing his mind of everything but what he was about to do. He lifted the brass knocker in the shape of a grinning elf and knocked firmly on the door three times. He was not wearing his uniform; he had not worn it since returning to England, although some men who were invalided out of the forces had continued to wear theirs. He couldn’t understand that. He had been glad to be done with the army and everything connected with it. He felt no satisfaction, no pride in having fought in a war where mass slaughter seemed the order of the day.
The door opened and Nora Vickers stood staring at him. He knew Abby’s mother was alone in the house, his father had ascertained that when he had come to the house immediately after hearing that his son was alive two weeks ago. His father had tried to get her to give him an address or contact number for Abby but although she had asked him in and even made him a cup of tea, he had been unable to get anything out of her.
‘Mrs Vickers? I don’t know if you remember me.’ He had decided to play it cool and calm at first, but he was determined he would get nasty if he had to.
‘Of course I remember you.’ In truth Nora had to admit that, but for the visit of his father preparing her, she would not have recognised the man in front of her as James Benson. He looked years older for one thing, his hair liberally streaked with grey and his skin patchy and a funny colour. But she had been grateful Dr Benson had called, even though it had been a shock to learn James had been a prisoner of war these last years when they had believed him to be dead. It had given her time to think and decide on the best tack to take. Now she took him aback as she had known she would when she said, ‘Come in, lad. It’s fair bitter out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had more snow even now.’ She stepped back into the house and he joined her in the hall. ‘Take your coat off and hang it there, that’s right, and come through to the kitchen where it’s warm. You don’t mind sitting in the kitchen? The front room is like an icebox with fuel being rationed so tight. They don’t give enough to keep body and soul together.’
He struggled a little as he slipped off his overcoat. He still found his useless left arm something of a trial but he had learned to walk in such a way that the limp caused by the injuries to his left leg was no longer noticeable. Not that he was complaining, he thought, as he followed Abby’s mother into the kitchen where the range was giving off a comforting glow. He was only too grateful he’d survived with both arms and both legs, and wasn’t reliant on a hook where his hand should be like some of the poor devils in the hospital he’d been sent to on arriving in England.
Nora pulled out a chair for him and didn’t speak until he had sat down at the table. Then she turned to the hob.
‘I’d just made a brew, so that was lucky, wasn’t it? You timed it just right.’ Her voice was almost gay.
His brow wrinkled. Whatever he had expected it wasn’t this friendliness. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Vickers.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you know why I’ve come.’
‘Your father asked me for Abby’s address.’ Nora swung round with two mugs of tea and brought them across to the table, placing the milk and a small bowl containing a white powdery substance in front of him. ‘It’s sugar substitute, I’m afraid,’ she said with another smile. ‘I’ve no sugar but then who has these days? It’s not very nice but better than nothing.’
‘Just milk is fine.’
Before he could say anything more, she fetched a tin containing rice cake to the table, talking all the time. ‘This is where the last of my ration of sugar went this week so you must have a slice. Dried eggs of course but I’ve found if I sieve it in with the dry ingredients before water’s added it makes a fairly good cake. Anyway, we can’t complain in these times, can we? Not about eggs, at least.’
‘No, no, I suppose not,’ he said, a trifle dazed, as Nora put a piece of cake on a plate and placed it next to his mug of tea.
‘Of course some of the bairns hereabouts go guleging. You know, collecting gulls’ eggs. They’re as big as duck’s eggs and very nice, so I’m told, but without any bairns at home and me working fulltime now I have to rely on the dried egg ration.’
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