April had been living at Rosemary Cottage for almost a week when she received a reply from Paula’s father, thanking her for her letter of condolence and the flowers she’d sent for the funeral. He’d clearly been devastated by his daughter’s death, and had been deeply touched by the many letters and cards he’d received from her friends. He expressed regret that April had been unable to attend the funeral because of travel restrictions, but wrote that it had been a quiet service in the local church and she was now at rest with her mother in the graveyard.
April had carefully placed the letter between the pages of the photograph album in which their friendship had been recorded in a series of black-and-white snapshots, and vowed that one day she would make the journey to that tiny village and say goodbye to her friend properly.
For now, she had other, more pressing needs to worry about, for although she’d been to the job centre and the housing people, no one seemed to want to hire a pregnant girl with a broken arm, or rent her a room when she had perfectly good accommodation at home. She had run out of options, for her mother refused to contemplate the idea of her staying here until the baby was born, and April was in real dread of what the future might hold.
It was Easter Sunday and for the first time since the start of the war all the church bells were ringing. She sat on the window seat and leaned out to listen to the joyful sound and feel the warmth of the spring sun on her face. The swelling around her eye had gone down and although the bruising was still visible, at least the pain had gone from her face and hip. And yet it was the deep ache inside that tormented her, for Daniel’s betrayal, her dismissal from the WRNS, Paula’s death, and her mother’s lack of welcome were variations of abandonment and she felt horribly alone and vulnerable.
She sat there until the last melodic peal of bells fell silent and then began to get dressed for the day. Mildred hadn’t pursued her questions over the baby’s father, or badgered April about contacting the American army to get him to help financially, for which she was very thankful. She knew she was on her own in this, and was determined to find some way of coping, but she did wish the atmosphere between her and her mother wasn’t quite so cool, for it would have been an enormous help to be able to really talk to her and learn what was in store as far as having this baby was concerned.
With a deep sigh of regret, April stood sideways on to the full-length mirror and ran her hand over the swell of her stomach. She was almost five months pregnant and the day was fast approaching when she would no longer be able to hide the fact. Time was rushing by and yet she was in limbo, unable to plan for the future, or think beyond where on earth she could go until her baby was born. And once it was – what then? Returning home was not an option, for Mildred would no doubt make things difficult by constantly reminding her of the shame she’d brought to her door.
‘And how will I feel after giving you away?’ she murmured to the mound of her stomach. ‘It’s easy now to think about handing you over – you’re not a real person and I won’t let myself think about loving you. But once you’re here and I see you – what then?’ She plumped down on the bed, the questions whirling in her head, the answers out of reach until that long-off moment came.
She was startled from her dark thoughts by the sound of the front door slamming. Peeking out of the bedroom window she saw Mrs Stavely and her sister hurrying down the cobbled lane towards the Sunday market. They’d proved to be chatty and full of fun when Mildred wasn’t about, but cowed and almost silent when she was. April felt sorry for them being so far from home and knowing they were unwelcome, and had done her best to help them feel more at home by making tea and offering to help them find their way around the town.
She finished dressing, struggling a bit to do up the second-hand skirt that only a week before had fitted her perfectly. She desperately needed more clothes, but they cost money and lots of clothing coupons, and as she had very little of either, she’d just have to sew some elastic into the waistband and hope it wouldn’t show beneath the blouse and cardigan.
Having made the bed and tidied the room, she went down the narrow stairs and into the kitchen, where Mildred was going through the post that had arrived the previous day.
‘Good morning,’ April said with determined brightness. ‘Wasn’t it lovely to hear the church bells again?’
‘Yes, very nice,’ Mildred replied, concentrating on a letter.
April poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table and sipped it while her toast was browning.
Mildred set the letter aside. ‘As I haven’t heard to the contrary, I’m assuming you still haven’t managed to find work or accommodation? Are you sure you’ve tried absolutely everywhere?’
‘Of course I have,’ April replied flatly. She sat down at the table and smeared some of the horrid margarine on the hot toast. ‘But the minute the accommodation people hear that I’m living with you, they refuse to help, and when I tell employers that I’m pregnant, they show me the door.’
‘Then you should learn to be economical with the truth,’ said Mildred crossly. ‘Really, April, you can be very dense at times – rather like your father.’
‘Daddy wasn’t dense,’ she retorted. ‘He just liked to be honest – as do I. What’s the point of finding a job and a room to rent if in a month or two I’ll be back on the streets?’ She suddenly didn’t feel at all hungry and pushed the toast away. ‘The only option I have left is a hostel or one of those awful homes for single mothers.’ She regarded her mother across the table. ‘Unless you let me stay here.’
‘I have a better idea,’ said Mildred. She picked up the letter she’d been reading. ‘This is from my brother. He’s getting married in mid-June and suggests that if we accept his invitation he can arrange for us to stay with a friend of his – a Mrs Reilly, who owns some sort of boarding house.’
‘I don’t see how that’s any help,’ said April. ‘I’ll have to leave here long before June.’
‘I’m sure Stan can persuade Mrs Reilly to take you in sooner than that,’ said Mildred. ‘He’s a rather soft, sentimental man, who would never turn you away. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him earlier.’
‘The last time I saw Uncle Stan I was about four – which I believe was the last time you saw him too. I hardly remember him, and it would be incredibly rude to just turn up on his doorstep and expect him to help.’
Mildred waved the objections away. ‘Stan is a great believer in doing the right thing,’ she said dismissively. ‘I grant you, your arrival might prove a little awkward, but if this Mrs Reilly has a boarding house, then I’m sure she’ll take you in if the money’s right.’
April regarded her steadily. ‘You seem to forget that I have no money.’
‘The government pays those taking in evacuees, and I’m willing to add to that if it will get you settled and out of my hair.’
Stung by this, April squared her shoulders and met her mother’s cool gaze. ‘How very generous of you. And what if Mrs Reilly doesn’t want to take me on in my condition – or has no rooms to let?’
The hand waved again to negate her objections. ‘You’re just playing devil’s advocate,’ Mildred retorted. ‘Everyone needs a bit of extra money at times like these, and I’m sure Mrs Reilly is no exception. She takes in evacuees and all sorts according to Stan, so a pregnant girl will hardly be a bother, especially if she’s paying over the odds on rent.’
April felt a tremor of despair as she stared at her mother. ‘Why do you hate me so?’ she asked. ‘What did I ever do to you that stopped you from loving me?’
Mildred met her gaze briefly and then concentrated on her brother’s letter. ‘This is not the time to get emotional, April, or go into things you simply wouldn’t understand.’
‘Why not? We’re alone in the house, and once I leave here, I doubt I’ll ever come back. I would have thought it was the perfect opportunity to clear the air.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother said impatiently. ‘You’re attempting to make something out of nothing as usual. Really, April, you can be very trying at times – picking away at things just like your blessed father used to do.’
April made no comment as it would serve no purpose, but she wished wholeheartedly that Mildred would respect her father’s memory and not use it to put her down all the time.
Mildred set the letters aside and clasped her hands on the table, her gaze drifting to some spot beyond April’s shoulder. ‘There are other more important things to focus on. You’ll need some decent clothing to take with you – that skirt is far too tight and the rest of it is very shabby. I can’t have you turning up at Stan’s looking like that on top of everything else. He’ll think we’re living in reduced circumstances, and I do have my pride, you know.’
April snorted softly with derision.
Mildred carried on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘I’ll also sort out your travel permit and a train ticket to Cliffehaven. You’ll have to barter with this Mrs Reilly over any extra – there’s only so much in my bank account that I can spare over the next four months. After that you’ll have to sort things out for yourself.’
‘And when are you planning for me to leave?’
‘As soon as the travel permit and ticket are arranged. I suggest you telephone Mrs Reilly and book yourself in for the end of the week. Everything should be through by then.’ She glanced across at April. ‘I also suggest you tell everyone you’re engaged and that your fiancé was sent abroad before you could arrange a wedding. It would be pointless to pretend you were married – your identity papers and so on will prove otherwise.’
April nodded, for it made sense. ‘Will you be coming down for Stan’s wedding?’
‘I really don’t have the time or the inclination,’ Mildred said brusquely. ‘My brother and I have never been close, and I’m sure the invitation was sent more out of duty than anything. But you can make my excuses when you see him. He’s evidently still working at Cliffehaven station.’
April felt a chill of foreboding as she watched her mother push away from the table and gather up her jacket, gas-mask box and handbag. An invitation sent out of duty was one thing, turning up in need was quite another.
Mildred pushed the letter across the table. ‘Make that telephone call and then write to Stan to let him know you’re on your way,’ she said, slipping on her jacket. ‘I have to go and do a stock-take, and then I’m out to lunch with friends. I don’t know what time I will be back.’
The front door slammed behind her and the house fell silent. April burst into tears. She had been effectively abandoned to an uncle she could barely remember and some woman she’d never heard of. She sobbed with distress, longing for someone to care – to tell her it would be all right and that she was no longer alone. But the only company she had was the steady ticking of the kitchen clock.