In the sanctity of motherhood have faith…
Her husband served time up at Durham. Rumour says he was a POW. And look at her now… And she calls herself refined.
Were not in their class, are we? What a lady… Lady Margaret! Shes the one who filed that complaint with the council over the allotments. So meek and quiet, and yet…
Yes, but now shes expecting again… Shes gone astray, hasnt she? Does she stop to think? Hows a woman to manage on her own, with two kids already?
Havent you heard? Shes got some fancy chap from the grain merchants chasing after her. Cunning woman, yet plays the martyr. Straight to the council for a grumble, and then on the lookout for a richer man, all while her husbands still alive…
Margaret
The squat, two-storey, stuccoed blocks were set perpendicular to the railway lines, not far from the station. Theyd sprung up in a rush, makeshift lodgings for the men building the nearby cement works and the branch lines. Margarets husband, John, had worked on that project before the war, managing the motor pool. Theyd promised all the workers a real flat in time.
Theyd come here as newlyweds, back in thirty-nine. In the spring of forty-one, their daughter Violet was borntiny and underweight, pale as milk. Margaret became lost in the frantic worry for her baby…
But the factory fell silent when war broke out.
John, what about us? What happens now? Margaret would ask.
She had no family in this northern city. Her parents had been exiled, years ago, to Wales. Her fathers mother, old Grandma Margaret, lived out in forgotten Littlebrook. Shed always struggled, and now, with Father gone, Margaret had no idea how she managed.
John left for the front. The once-temporary blocks became Noahs Ark for the citys displaced; people packed in, patched up the crumbling walls, and tried to make a life when there was nowhere else to go.
The endless shuddering of trains rattled the buildings, the rail foundations so frail the walls cracked and peeled. The tenants would patch the worst holes, scrub their crooked windows until they squeaked, and set geraniums and lace curtains in the sills.
Whatever money John left didnt last. When it was goneand after days of hunger and despairMargaret made her way, Violet in her arms, to the town council. Sitting in the chairmans office, she declared shed come to die. They took pity and found her a job as a nursery helper. That post got them through the war; there, the children were at least fed something, and so they went on, beaten but not broken.
The fighting ended, but John still did not come back. Margaret and Violet waited, endlessly. Margaret now worked shifts at the cement works, surviving on ration cards like everyone else. Everyone was waiting for better days, but they never seemed to come. Those without the black-edged telegrams still clung to the hope that their loved ones would return, but so many never did. The leanest years had set inthe years of true hunger…
From the second-floor window of her tiny room, Margaret could see the trains. They ran from the South to the North, back and forth, carrying people, freight, and hope. Sometimes they idled at the station for hours, waiting for their strange, twisting orders.
In those hungry years, Margarets strength failed her. Always slight, she became even thinner, her face drawn and lined. Violet was six and always hungry. The rations, what little they got, never sufficed.
Hunger became routine. Margaret struggled for every day of survival, always hoping for a miracle tomorrow. Someone might help. Someone…
Her father had died in France; her mother passed away just after the war. Margaret treasured her mothers last letter and the battered photo, her mother in a tiny veiled hat, gazing so tenderly, so young and beautiful. Margaret had made her a silent promise: to never give up.
Margaret was still waiting for John. There was no one else. But as time passed, even hope was starting to wither.
No letters came. Shed heard his regiment had been surrounded, then liberated and transferred to some far northeastern post. She claimed hed been sent eastthough everyone guessed the truth. It must be temporary, she assured herself. But her faith was hardening into silence.
To Violet, she said her father was a herowhich was true enough. She had a photograph: John with his tank crew, clustered atop the gunmetal beast. Hard to spot John amid the crowd, but Violet was certainthat was her father, with the same dark, downward-tilted eyes as her own.
Violet
Violet spent long days alone in that room. She watched the clock, eyed the dish her mother left for herporridge and a slice of coarse bread, if she was lucky. Sometimes, she ate it too early, glancing guiltily at the slow-moving hands of the clock, angry at them for dragging so.
Then shed sit by the window and gaze outside. The hunger returned, and she waited for her mother. Across the way, in the private gardens, red apples ripened all summer. Violet watched them, knowing the local boys sometimes snuck in and dreamt that she too was biting into a fruit, its juice running down her chin. Shed wipe her mouth with her hand and swallow her longing.
Stealing is for scoundrels, her unflappably kind mother would scold.
Violet knew it was wrong, yet she still envied the boys.
She especially dreaded venturing into the shared kitchen, where the smells assaulted her. Everyone lived as best they could. Old Mr. Grice, the neighbour, wolfed down bread and cabbage stew, savoured the thick scent of chicken broth brought by his mother, who kept a proper household across the street. The block residents saw those folk as their betters, nobility in grim times.
The smells swirled about the kitchen, making Violets stomach clench. How does he eat so much? she wondered. Shed have been content with a mouthful. Sometimes she nearly asked for a crust when he left some behind, but begging was forbidden. Theft, unthinkable.
Potatoes
That autumn, Margaret fought for a potato plot. The field, just down the way, had been a communal one. As soon as the first thaw came in March, word spread that it would be divided among the tenants. Margaret, hurriedly tying a scarf over her beret, grabbed a spade (the snow still deep in spots), and dragging Violet behind her, rushed out to the field.
Every inch of land was as precious as gold. Others dashed from all directions toward the plot.
They were too late. People screamed, waved flags, drove in stakes to mark their claims. Those who already had gardens took hefty portions for themselves. Margaret and Violet wandered desperately, searching for any patch left unclaimed. Violets boots squelched in the sodden earth.
Margaret hadnt been so downcast in ages. She wept, trudging home.
Its nothing, Violet. Well find a way…
Next morning, she dressed with extra care, tying her hair in a neat twist, pinning her best brooch to her scarf. She marched to the council and wrote up her plea.
A week later, officials arrived with an entourage, pulling up markers, yanking out pegs. Locals lingered nearby, grumbling but silent, hoping for a fair new division of land.
Margaret was triumphant. The council considered gardens and family sizes. Someone quickly worked out who’d filed the complaint; Margarets window was smashed, a rude gesture drawn on the door, but no more. People knew better than to push things further.
So, Margaret and Violet received a modest plot and several buckets of seed potatoes from the local farm. Margaret even bought a bit more, stretching her shillings. As the thaw set in, she and Violet began digging, spade by aching spade.
Violet watched her small, delicate mother sweat and toil. Each clod and furrow left Margarets hands raw, but she never complained, grinned encouragingly at Violet who followed with the smaller spade.
Sometimes they paused a moment, Margaret leaning on her spade, smiling: Nearly there, love. Theres bread and tea in the bagwell rest soon. We must finish the row, else…
She always trailed off, refusing to talk ill of others. Shed wipe her brow with the back of her hand, gazing fondly at the plot. It was their hopea chance for a kinder autumn, a less cruel winter, and perhaps, another year of life.
They weeded and watered, carried heavy buckets from the well. By September, the spuds turned out well. Violet took joy not in the potatoes themselves, but in her mothers rare happinessMargaret almost kissed each one, delighted at every sturdy bush.
Margaret lugged the heavy sack up two flights to their room, the load almost dwarfing her, dust streaking her pretty face. At home, they spread rags and newspapers on the floor to dry the potatoes, drawing the curtains so they wouldnt green. The earthy smell was strong, but to them, it meant fullnessnot famine.
Carrots and beetroot came in too, and a few onions by the window. It was a feast, a true holiday of enough.
A kindly colleague let Margaret store the potatoes in their cellar. Violet saw her mother count them before allowing a neighbor to help, embarrassed but haunted by memories of last winters hunger. Margaret knew that scarcity, even among the honest, could breed strange desperation.
Apples
Just as things were looking up, trouble found them.
Violet! called out her friend Lucy, the neighbors daughter. Fred and the lads are going picking apples over the waymaybe well get a few if we tag along.
Sometimes, after a raid, the boys would toss a few apples to the girls. Violet always scolded them for their mischief, but she never managed to refuse the giftan apple held a magic she couldnt resist.
Shed handle the apple for an age before eating it, then finally, alone, shed bite in with her eyes closed in bliss.
Usually, she and Lucy waited at the corner of the long street lined by wooden cottages and gardens. This time, though, they wandered farther down. Surely there was no harm in walking, just a stroll.
Violet squatted to tie a fraying lace, fumbling as it refused the eyelet.
Then she heard Lucy cry out behind her: Run, Violet!and Lucys footsteps darted away.
Violet looked up to see the boys pelting toward her, their shoes thudding on the ground. In slow motionlike in the film at the cinemasomeone thrust a heavy, burlap sack plump with apples into her arms.
Violet didn’t even think to drop it. She ran after the boys, her boot sliding, nearly tripping at every step. Almost at the end of the street, she was shoved from behind; she tumbled, scraping her knees, and someone yanked her upright.
Whats this, then? No shame at all? Not a word, little thief?
I… Im not a thief, Violet gasped.
Oh? And whats in this?he snatched the sack away, a look of astonishment. Where do you live? Come on, were off to see your mother… He dragged her along painfully by the arm.
She meekly followed until, after a few steps, she remembered herself.
But Mothers at work…
At work? Fine, then. Youll wait at mine till she comes. And he led her away.
I didnt steal anything! Violet burst into tears. I was just walking, and
Yes, yes. Always the same. You lot raid my trees every year. How much am I supposed to put up with? The man gripped her hand and marched her through the street.
They came to a large, well-kept house behind a timber fence. Bright window shutters, a lush tangle of autumn blooms, apple branches heavily laden in the back, bleating goats, a lowing cow. It was nothing like their cramped room.
Inside, the kitchen was warm and neat, lace tablecloth on the round table, shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers and porcelain animals. On the wall above the bed, a tapestry bore a castle, a lake, swans, and a princess and her prince. Violet stared at it as she sat bolt upright on the sofa, dreading whatever punishment awaitedfeeling more afraid for her mother than for herself.
She had time to notice the man properly: short, balding, red-faced from running, a striped suit, pencils in his jacket. His mothera frail old ladyshuffled in, half-deaf and almost blind. He shouted as he spoke to her:
Gone completely deaf, have you, Mum? Theyre robbing us blind, and you dont notice anything! If I hadnt come back early, the whole orchard wouldve gone. Scoundrels! Lowlife kids! You hear me, you daft woman?
Violet sat, feeling faint, wishing she could vanish.
The old lady came to her.
Scared, are you? Dont be. Hell have his rant, thats all. Fancy some food?
Violet shook her headfear winning over hunger.
Oh, of course you do, the old lady smiled, bustling to the kitchen, then called her to a steaming bowl of soup thick with dill.
She watched Violet with such pity that Violet felt ashamed of the greedy way she devoured the soup. The man returned, eyed girl and mother, and left in silence.
Soon, Lucys mum, Mrs Smith, arrived.
Mr Barnes, please, the girls didnt steal anything. Yes, they walked by, hoping for an apple, but not thieves…
But Mr Barnes refused to let Violet go, insisting Margaret come. After a while, someone must have got word to her; Margaret rushed in, breathless, her hat askew, clutching Violet.
Its fine, its fine, Mr Barnes said, much gentler at the sight of Margaret. Would she scale my fence? The hooligan boys split, left her behind! Here, take thesehe tried to give Margaret apples. She refused, and so he pressed them on Violet.
Dont worry, Ill not report it, he called after them.
Violet couldnt understand why her mother wasnt overjoyedno punishment, theyd been let off. Deep down, she figured Margaret was ashamed: her little girl, nearly a thief. There was no scolding at home, though. Margaret was quiet, lost in thought.
Mr Barnes visited them soon after, bearing a parcel. He offered Violet a pastyit was soft, warm still, the filling of potato and caramelized onions melting delightfully. He glanced over the spread potatoes, asked about the harvest. Margaret set the kettle to boil, but she was reserved and strained, talk only of work and the weather. Violet sensed her mother counting the moments till the man would leave. When he did, Margaret exhaled audibly.
Yet he returned, once with a whole tin of sweets the likes of which Violet had never tasted. Violet was sent outside. She thought her mother would be happy, but Margaret only wept after he left. Maybe Barnes was scolding her for the apple affair?
A few weeks later, Lucy whispered:
Your mums got a beau, hasnt she?
What do you mean? What beau?
You know, a boyfriend. And she wont say yes to him. My gran says she should. He works at the grain merchants, has property and all, and only his old mother left. You lot are skint, and winter will be hard. Your mums a fool for turning him down…
What are you on about? Ive got my dad! To Violet, her father was a living, if distant, war hero. She saw Margaret lost in his letters and his photo, her face naive and even radiant. Violet couldnt be wrongher mother still loved her dad.
Beau, definitely. But your mums far too proud. Your dads probably not even alive, you know.
Nonsense! Violet snapped without anger. Lucy simply didnt understand. If he were dead, a black-edged telegram would have arrived, like it had for so many in their block. Margaret would have been devastated, like Mrs Mills next door, whose wails haunted the night. Margaret had always said John would return.
Lucy was being ridiculous.
Come on, lets slide down Hilltop Green… Childhood hearts were blind to adult terrors.
The Letter
Autumn crept in, slowly frosting the grass, fitting icy glass over puddles. Then, all at once, snow fell overnight, blanketing the world in white. Clouds hung lower, and winter threw up drifts in a week: on roofs, benchesand the postmans cap.
From the window, Violet saw old Mr. Tillingham, the postman, heading their way. Even as a child, she recalled his wartime ritualhed pause on the stoop and shout Just a letter this time, not a telegram! But when he was silent, it meant the worst. He was a stern, taciturn man; after delivering a black-edged telegram, hed take a swig from his flask, handing it to the bereaved as well. Many couldnt bear another sip, and hed simply move on. He carried the news of sorrow from house to house.
Violet feared him. After the war, he stopped the announcements, but some telegrams still arrived.
Letter for you, he said, handing her an envelope.
Violet shut the door on him, but through the glass, saw he waited. She cracked it open again, snatched the envelope, tossed it onto the table, and cowered on the sofa, knees to chest. What if it was a telegram for her father? She couldnt read; shed have to wait for Margaret.
When her mother returned, worn out and anxious as always, she didnt see the letter at first. Violet gave her time to change, then pointed it out, hiding her face in dread but secretly watching. Margaret tore the envelope open, scanned it, checked the inside, the backlooking for something else.
Violet couldnt stand it, dashed up to her mother, hugged her, and peeked at the letter. It wasnt like the old ones: only a few lines, and some numbers. The numbers Violet recognised.
Margarets face was lost, but she didnt cry, didnt tear her hair in grief.
Mum, is Daddydead?
Margaret looked at Violet as though she didnt understand.
What? No, love, no! Daddys alive. Only… only he wont be coming back for a long time yet, thats all. You hear? Hes alive… just far away.
Violet wrapped her arms tightly round her mothers neck. That was enough. Let him stay away, so long as it wasnt a telegramso long as her mother would not weep.
Read it to me. Please.
And Margaret read aloud: that Daddy was well, that he loved them very much, that they would one day be together again. She read and read, and Violet marvelled how so few sentences could hold so much.
What about these numbers?
Margaret quickly folded the letter.
Oh, just the dates, sweetheart. When he sent it. Now hush, Violettell no one that Daddy wrote. Leave it be.
Why? Lucy says Daddys dead, and youll soon marry Mr Barnes, your boyfriend.
Silly talk, that. You know weve got your dad. Hes not deadhes alive. Dont listen to anyone, please.
Violet promised.
In spring, potatoes went in again. Violet overheard a conversation in the field, as Mr Barnes came by.
Margaret, Ive been thinking. Please… Ill take you both in, whatever the world says. I wont give up.
No, Mr Barnes. Please go. We can manage alone.
You realise… if I so much as snapped my fingers
I know.
He was angry, but dug their row in silence.
As summer approached, Lucy was gossiping againViolets mother, she boasted, was carrying a child, not her fathers, but Barness.
By then, Violet herself had noticed the gentle swelling of her mothers belly. Margaret was expecting. But for a child of that time, the truth was veiled. Violet simply refused to believe Lucys words. The new baby could only be her fathers.
It simply could not be otherwise…
