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And who would ever have expected a German to do the honourable thing, and marry the girl? Enemy soldiers were not expected to do that, particularly a Boche.
Michel asked himself again and again why her father had, in the first place, allowed her to go to work in Caen as a waitress in such troubled times – miles away from parental supervision.
He supposed that the family must have had an urgent need for ready money during a time when farms were being stripped of their produce to be sent to Germany. It seemed the only explanation. He still felt, however, that her father had been most unwise – and so had his unfaithful trollop of a daughter. Though there did not seem much hope of it, Michel wished savagely that she would eventually starve amid the ruin which was Germany.
He had been truly happy and surprised when Anatole had eventually been sent home by train by the American Army in Germany; they had discovered him amongst a group of refugees from Eastern Germany fleeing the Russian Army; he was trying to walk back to France.
At least, Michel agreed with Maman, they could nurse Anatole, make him as comfortable as possible, until he died. And Michel was the first to say that, even confined to bed, his brother had given both their mother and Michel some moral support.
Anatole was allowed by the Government a small regular sum with which to maintain himself, because he was a returned deportee very ill with tuberculosis. He also had free medical care. Because there was nothing much that could be done to help him medically, he had elected to be brought home to his mother rather than be put into an overcrowded hospital.
Michel’s small savings account was emptied in an effort to buy extra comforts for him, such as second-hand pillows to prop him up, and black market milk and eggs to augment his diet.
Madame Benion was almost beside herself as, in addition to losing her home and livelihood, she had to watch her elder, stronger son die. She and Michel tended him far better, however, than he would have been looked after in hospital, and while they did it she leaned, pitifully at times, on her younger boy for comfort.
The lifelong sibling jealousy between the two brothers had melted amid the burning need to cope with disaster; and their mother, who had always had to work to the point of exhaustion and could not, therefore, give much attention to her children, had opened up to show her deep attachment to her sons. Misery, instead of separating them, seemed to fuse the remnants of the family together.
As Michel arranged to meet Barbara again, he told himself that he was being driven simply by need for a break from a ruthless routine. To break loose just for a few hours would do him good. If he took this unknown English widow to Caen, he had a hazy hunch that he would be setting out on a new path. What kind of a path he could not yet envisage, since, whatever she was, she was certainly not a peasant woman.
The widow was obviously quite startled at his offer of a trip to Caen and he could see that she instinctively hesitated.
He understood women well enough to read her mind. ‘I take great care of you, Madame,’ he promised. ‘Have no fear.’
He lit his last cigarette after first offering it to Barbara, who politely refused it. He carefully compiled another sentence. Finally, he said grandly, ‘I take you a little from your grief, Madame, and also you may see what happen to our cities.’
While she still hesitated, he added, ‘The Americans produce petrol like a cow make water! Lots of it. They say to me “fill her up”. And I do.’
She considered this and then unexpectedly chuckled, as she realised how apt his simile was. She decided that she might as well accept his offer. She really did, rather morbidly, want to see Caen.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask the hotel if they can provide a picnic lunch.’
And I hope I don’t disgrace myself by crying in public again, she thought.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_c42e1d1d-f8df-5c5f-89ca-4d2b82118687)
Barbara spent a sleepless, tear-sodden night. She was, like almost everybody else, so deeply worn out with hard work, poor food and generally doing without that she wondered how she had ever managed to get up the energy to take this trip to France; yet, haunted by the lines of crosses she had seen that day, she could not sleep.
Why on earth had she come?
The answer was, she ruminated between sobs, because her mother, Phyllis Williams, and her mother-in-law, Ada Bishop, had been so persistent about it. She had given in simply to please them.
Her mother had said, ‘Don’t be afraid, luv. Seein’ the grave’ll settle you a bit. Your dad never had one, being at sea, like. But your George has one. You go and look at it. Then you’ll know.’
Know what? More grief? She cried on.
When talking to Barbara, Phyllis had not added what she was thinking: See the grave and then you’ll know it’s finished. You got to march forward, not look back. She wanted her girl to look at other decent men, like Graham in the village, who had been in a reserved occupation throughout the war. Barbara could marry again, have kids, be normal. Not always a widow, as she herself was likely to be.
Her Barbara had had nearly four years of mourning, on top of the ruthless grind of the labouring job to which she had been directed during the war. It was enough plain misery for any girl, Phyllis considered.
Now the war was over and Barbara was free to work at home again. Since neither Phyllis nor Barbara had any but domestic skills, she believed that both of them must work to build up their bed-and-breakfast. No matter how unpromising the business seemed at present, it appeared to Phyllis to offer the best prospect of a decent living for herself and her daughter. Even if Barbara did remarry, it would still offer her and her husband a home as well as employment; the country was so short of housing that any man would be glad to live in such a place.
Despite Barbara’s now being able to help her at home, the end of the war had not brought much rest to either of them. Added to their fatigue had been the continued daily monotonous struggle against rationing and shortages of everything; particularly hard for those like themselves, who had to be hospitable to an equally weary, irate clientele.
Further, many had to cope with the return of disoriented or wounded men, or, like Barbara and herself, the knowledge that their men would not return at all. Of the men who had come home, many had returned to homes and jobs that no longer existed, and to wives who were prematurely old – and so tired. They had also had to face children who had never seen their father and resented this strange man who took up so much of their mother’s attention; several of Phyllis’s neighbours had faced this problem, and had, in seeking comfort, wept helplessly on Phyllis’s shoulder.
No matter which way you looked, the day-to-day struggle to revert to a normal life seemed unending. It was nearly as bad as when they had lived in a slum in the north of Liverpool.
Before the war, while her husband was at sea, Phyllis and her daughter had moved from Liverpool to run their little business. It was a fortuitous move, for during the war the little dockside street in which they had lived had been bombed out of existence.
In 1934, the Williamses had been desperate to get out of the city, as crime increased in their overcrowded, dockside district. Unemployment was rife and, even at that time, there was such an air of hopelessness that Phyllis was anxious to try to get her only daughter away from the area. Barbara’s father was lucky to have a job which was likely to last for a while: ‘But you could never be sure,’ Phyllis would say darkly to Barbara. ‘So many ships is laid up.’
One pleasant summer Sunday, as a treat, they took the train to Hoylake on the Wirral peninsula and went for a long walk along the seashore. At West Kirby, they turned inland to catch a return train from its station back to Liverpool.
One side of the road they took marked the end of West Kirby. On the other was a stone wall which ran down as far as the shore and then turned to continue along the sea frontage. They paused for a moment to lean on it and look out over the field which it shielded.
The field looked so neglected that Phyllis guessed that it had not been cultivated for several years.
‘There’s a house further up, Mam,’ remarked Barbara idly.
Her mother turned to look. ‘So there is,’ she said, and peered at it. ‘It’s empty by the looks of it. What a big garden it must have had.’
They moved on and came to the garden gate. Unlike a farm gate, it was a slightly rusty, elegant ironwork gate. Grass had grown up round it, and suggested that it had not been used much for a long time.
‘Let’s have a look,’ suggested Barbara. She lifted the latch and, with an effort, pushed the gate open.
‘The place is empty,’ said Phyllis, surveying the dusty, curtainless windows. ‘I think it’s an old farmhouse.’
Driven at first by curiosity, they walked round it. There must, originally, have been a huge garden, though no cultivated plan was now evident. The house itself, however, looked quite sound. Even the black enamel on the front door was unblistered by weather.
Phyllis looked slowly round. Gulls screamed overhead; the sea was close enough for the women to hear the incoming tide dashing against a breakwater. Distantly, there was the sound of a steam train approaching West Kirby station.
Spurred by sudden, almost absurd ambition, Phyllis said excitedly, ‘You know, Barbie, this’d make a great place for a holiday. Looks as if it’s got lots of bedrooms – and all this for kids to play in.’ She made a sweeping gesture with one hand towards the enormous neglected garden. ‘And there’s sea and sand right here – and it’s quiet, except for the train – and, as I remember, they stop round eleven at night.’
Barbara had laughed a little derisively. ‘You mean a boarding house?’
‘Yes, like your gran had in Blackpool. I had a good time in it, I did, when I were a kid.’
‘It’s so big! We couldn’t even furnish it,’ replied the practical fifteen-year-old, with a hint of scorn in her voice. ‘And what’s more, it’d be a lot of work – and wouldn’t the rent be something awful? And who could manage a garden that big – it goes on for ever.’ She kicked a stone along the asphalt path at the side of the house. Then she added, ‘And what on earth would Dad say? He were born in our street. He’s used to it.’
‘He could get unused to it – and he likes fishin’,’ Phyllis replied quite savagely. Her husband was currently serving in a ship on the Australian run. She grinned, and then added, ‘We’d need a farmer to do the garden, ’cos it’s certain your dad wouldn’t! He likes his rest when he’s ashore.’
They plodded over to the back of a line of houses which abutted the garden at the far end, to look over a dilapidated wooden fence to enquire of a woman pegging out washing on her clothesline whether she knew if the house were to let.
‘I don’t know,’ the woman replied. She shook out a nappy, took a peg out of her mouth and pinned the garment on the line. ‘It’s a real sad story, you know. It were bought by a Mr Travis, and made all ready for him and his new bride to move into a couple of years back. You’d nevaire believe it – it’s got a washbasin with hot and cold in every bedroom!’ She turned from the line of baby clothes, and folded her red arms across her chest while she contemplated the enquirers.
‘Nice man, he were – businessman from Liverpool, quite old, he was. He’s never lived in it, though. She were killed in a motor smash when they was on their honeymoon in Italy. They always say them Eyeties are mad drivers, don’t they?’
The woman was highly interested. Why would such an ordinary woman want such a big house? She said she was not sure whether Mr Travis would rent.
‘It were up for sale for ages. But who’d want seven bedrooms nowadays? You’d have to have a maid. And it’s too close to the railway track to please them what could afford a servant. They say his wife were an artist, though, and loved painting round here.’
Phyllis and Barbara did not show any signs of walking on, so she said, ‘You could have a look at it, no doubt. Mrs Jones what has the sweetshop in the village, she’s got a key – looks over the place from time to time for him.’
The idea began to blossom between mother and daughter. A bed-and-breakfast by the sea, with a huge garden – and a beach for kids just down the road. And waking up every morning to clean air.
‘Could I go bathing?’ asked Barbara.
Phyllis laughed. ‘Every day if you wanted to, when the tide’s in.’
Barbara began to have visions of splashing amid the waves in a scarlet swimsuit and dazzling all the local lads with her glamour.
At first, Mrs Jones looked doubtfully at the working-class woman and her daughter who were interested in a house meant for gentry. She did, however, finally agree to show them round it, and afterwards gave them Mr Travis’s address.
He proved to be a well-to-do businessman living with a manservant in a big flat near Sefton Park.
Phyllis plucked up courage and, accompanied by a silent, rather scared Barbara, went to see him.
It was clear to them that he did not care much what happened to the property; in truth, the very thought of it evoked memories he would rather forget.
At a time when the country was suffering a great depression, a large house with over four acres of unproductive semi-wilderness round it seemed to have little appeal to anyone. Even the council had refused to buy it for public housing, because the land lease was not long enough to suit them.
Like Mrs Jones, Mr Travis was surprised to be faced with such an eager woman and her daughter, whose accent betrayed that they came from the backstreets of Liverpool. What interest could she have in such a big house, far beyond her means?
When he understood what they wanted the house for, however, he lost his distant manner. It seemed to him a laudable ambition that they should want to improve their lives; they did, indeed, look very clean and respectable. He relaxed a little, and explained carefully to them that he did not own the land and would not renew the lease of it when it ran out.
‘If you buy the house and the lease – which has about forty years to run – you’d be on your own when the lease ends, and your business would be at stake,’ he warned. ‘You’d have to persuade the landlord to renew the lease. Then you might have to pay a lot for the renewal.’
Their faces fell. ‘We hoped you’d let it,’ they chorused.
Anyway, forty years before they faced trouble seemed more like a century to two women who lived in a city where lives were often short and nasty.
‘I could never buy it,’ Phyllis owned up. ‘But maybe you’d consider renting it?’
He smiled suddenly at their persistence. He liked this sturdy woman and her pretty daughter. Why not?
They cheerfully beat down the rent he then suggested, on promise of great care of the property. He was amused, and asked Phyllis if her husband was in agreement with their plans.
‘Any debts you run up would be his responsibility,’ he warned. ‘What does he do for a living?’
Though young Barbara was a bit shocked that her father might be drawn into this wildcat scheme, Phyllis hushed her.
She said placidly, ‘He’s First Mate on a P&O boat. Takes immigrants to Australia. Nice new ship, it is.’ She sighed. ‘He’s away most of the time. It’ll be months before he docks. Can’t complain, though. He’s never been out of work.’
When asked, she unhesitantly named the ship. ‘Been on it ever since it were launched,’ she added.
‘In the absence of your husband, who did you have in mind to be responsible, then?’
‘Well, I’d be responsible. If it’s the rent you’re worried about, I reckon I can manage to pay it.’
‘What with?’
‘Well, me hubby and me – we got a bit saved, and I can cash it, if I have to. And me allotment from him is paid regular. And Barbara here is in service. Add to that, I wouldn’t have to pay ten shillin’ a week rent in Liverpool, like I do now.’
In those days, women on their own couldn’t get bank loans or credit; even if they worked, it was always presumed that the employment was transitory or so badly paid that they could not afford to repay.
As Phyllis looked tensely at the elderly man in front of her, she thought: I’m mad. Why do I want this so badly? And putting up with being made to look so small, just to get it?
She answered herself: For clean countryside and sea air for Barbie. Maybe, just maybe, I could make enough money to send her back to school for a year longer – give her a better chance than I had – though her dad would think I were crazy if I did.
For his part, Geoffrey Travis wondered idly whether he cared a damn what happened to this house. He had other properties, and nobody to leave them to when he died. He had, legally, to pay the ground rent of this one until the lease ran out – but the amount was small. Other than that, he had kept the house watertight, and it would be sensible to continue to do so, whoever was in it.
If it were to be a bed-and-breakfast, it would be in the interests of these women that they keep the house decent.
He asked for references. After a little consideraton, Phyllis gave the name of the priest at her church, and her father. Mentally enlarging her father’s corner store, she said, ‘Me dad’s a grocer. And he knows about bed-and-breakfasts, he does. He owned one in Blackpool till he saved enough to buy his grocery.’ She paused, to consider what more she could add. Then, inspired, she said with great pride, ‘He’s got a telephone.’
About the best that can be hoped for, I suppose, Travis decided. He hoped that the priest also had a telephone, so that he could talk to him directly.
He took Phyllis’s name and address, and promised to give her a decision in a few days’ time.
Faced with the possible reality of her mad idea, Phyllis asked, ‘Could you ask Mrs Jones to show us round it again, sir?’
This was the first indication Travis had had that Mrs Jones had already shown the house. He was a little annoyed. He would have been furious if he had known that most of the village had, at different times, been shown it, just to see the washbasins and the pretty wallpaper.
Considering the two women, the reclusive owner was left wondering at the extent of human optimism.
The greatest advantage of the house to Phyllis and Barbara was that, in addition to the washbasins in three of the bedrooms, it also had a complete, modern bathroom, and a washroom on the ground floor.
‘Perfect for a B-and-B,’ Phyllis breathed quietly to Barbara.
A servants’ lavatory outside the back door made a total of three lavatories, which, both women agreed excitedly, was remarkable. ‘Have to watch they don’t all freeze up in the winter,’ Barbara warned.
It took them two years to get every bedroom reasonably furnished, though it was surprising how well the modest pieces from their existing home looked when spread out. They went to bailiffs’ sales, where one could pick up chairs and tables for sixpence or a shilling each; and an estate sale yielded a massive amount of bedding and bedlinen for a few pence apiece, simply because the heirs wanted to get rid of it. The women completed the bedrooms one at a time, and immediately advertised them in the windows of local newspaper shops, at twopence a week, as superior bed-and-breakfast accommodation.
They risked near bankruptcy by buying new single beds from the Times Furnishing Company in Liverpool on monthly payments.
Because of their excellent new beds, they found an unexpected market amongst travelling sales representatives, a much less destructive clientele than families were. Burdened by suitcases full of samples as they travelled from city to city, usually by train, these men were always looking for places with good beds and a well-cooked breakfast; they ached with years of sleeping on ancient, hammock-like mattresses. The word went round about the comfort of Phyllis’s beds.
Phyllis also placed a modest advertisement in a holiday magazine. This attracted elderly couples from the London area, in search of easily accessible, inexpensive holidays, less noisy than those offered in Margate or Brighton, at a weekly rate which included midday dinner and tea. This meant a lot of extra work, but it paid quite well.
The nearby railway station, so useful to the representatives on their way to do business on Merseyside, also allowed holiday guests easy access to the entertainment of Liverpool and Birkenhead; it proved to be a great asset instead of a liability.
A few months after they obtained the house, Barbara had thankfully left her job as maid-of-all-work to a big family in Neston; keeping a bed-and-breakfast was much more interesting than going back to school, especially as some of the representatives were single young men.
Much to Barbara’s chagrin, her mother kept a very close eye on her. ‘This is a respectable house,’ she would say, ‘and you mind your Ps and Qs, me girl. And you’re going to night school, milady, to get a bit more learnin’.’
And to night school she went, at first protesting, and then quite happily, because she realised that the commercial subjects she studied would be of use in the bed-and-breakfast; or, better still, might get her a post as a private secretary, preferably to somebody rich and famous who would marry her.
Not long after they moved to West Kirby, her mother had given Barbara the job of tidying up the front of the house, which had once been a little flower garden.
