Lexi’s War: A heart-warming wartime saga to bring hope and happiness in 2018

Cecilia didn’t bother to reply to that. Loyalty to all those brothers and sisters over there, his family – but what about this family? His children?

He bent down to pick up the holdall. ‘I’ve brought some little gifts for my bairns,’ he said, ‘and something for my beautiful wife.’ Reaching right into the bag he drew out a small parcel, wrapped in pretty paper. He winked across at Cecilia. ‘This is for my favourite wife.’

Slowly, Cecilia took it from him and opened it. And when she saw what was inside she caught her breath for a second. It was a dainty shawl in black lace, scalloped all around the edge and heavily embossed with jewelled colours of red and green and purple and slashes of sun yellow, and it glistened and shone in the light as she carefully draped it around her shoulders. Not that she ever went anywhere where she could show it off, Cecilia thought briefly, but that didn’t matter. She’d never owned anything as lovely as this and it felt so light and luxurious.

‘There now,’ Albert said softly, ‘and didn’t I know that it was just the thing for my Cissy?’ He got up and put his arms around her. ‘Cissy, my anamchara, my soul mate, my sweetheart.’ Then he placed his lips tenderly on hers.

How did he manage to worm his way back into her good books each time? This absent soul mate, this far-away sweetheart? But he did, and she smiled up at him.

‘Thank you, Albert, for the shawl,’ she said, glad that she had something to give him, too. It was a waistcoat – the same pattern as she’d once made for Mr McCann, in yellow and brown check which would go nicely with trousers of any colour. Meticulously crafted, as always, it had lain in the bottom of the drawer where she kept Albert’s clean things for when – and if – he came home. She would give it to him tomorrow.

After he’d finished his third cup of tea, Albert said – ‘Can I go up and see my babies, my bairns, Cissy? It’s been a long time.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ she retorted lightly. ‘But yes, of course, Albert. But no sound … I don’t want them disturbed.’

Noiselessly, the two went upstairs and Cecilia ushered Albert into the children’s room. As Albert gazed down, his eyes filled with tears.

‘Our bairns are gifts from God, aren’t they, Cissy?’ he whispered. ‘Little Joe has grown so big … he’s going to be strong like his dad!’ And after a moment – ‘He and Phoebe are so alike, aren’t they, with their cute little noses and brown curly hair … and just look at our Lexi! Was there ever a more beautiful child in the whole world, Cissy?’ He paused for a moment. ‘There’s always been something about our Lexi … sharp and quick as a knife, and so determined. You can see it in her face, even asleep, that firm little chin …’

‘Lexi is a wonderful child to me, Albert,’ Cecilia said. ‘Always so helpful and lovely with the younger ones, especially when I’m trying to finish something I’m making, and time and money are short.’ Cecilia didn’t want to prick Albert’s conscience by saying too much about her own way of life and what it entailed. After all, by accepting it, she had sealed her own fate, hadn’t she?

‘Of course, Lexi finished school at the beginning of the year,’ Cecilia went on. ‘She insisted on it, even though I would have liked her to stay on.’ Cecilia sighed. ‘She is so determined to find work, to try and make her way in the world, young though she is. She has got a little job at the sweet shop.’

‘Ah well, then, our Lexi is special,’ Albert said, ‘I always knew it. And she’s going to do well in life, isn’t she … do something out of the ordinary. You just wait and see.’

‘If you say so, Albert,’ Cecilia said. ‘But in our world she’s going to need a miracle, or the luck of the Irish for that to happen.’

They left quietly, and as they reached the other bedroom Cecilia opened the door and nodded. ‘I … we … have a room to ourselves now, Albert,’ she said.

He smiled down at her with that familiar, dark, sensuous smile she knew so well. Then he yawned, slipping his arm around her waist. ‘Sure, and isn’t it time for us to warm that bed?’ he murmured. After all, a man had certain rights.

Cecilia shook her head firmly. ‘You get ready for bed, Albert,’ she said, ‘but I have to pluck and draw that chicken if we’re going to have it for our dinner tomorrow.’

They went downstairs to the scullery where Albert washed himself at the sink while Cecilia sat at the table and started on the chicken. As he went past her, he touched her shoulder.

‘Don’t be long,’ he said.

Although it was now very late Cecilia took her time over the task. She was in no hurry to be a wife to Albert tonight, and anyway, he’d be asleep before she went back upstairs. He’d obviously had a few pints that evening.

She finished what she was doing, then stood and glanced at herself in the small mirror above the sink. She breathed in slowly. She was 42 years old, and looking about 60, with her brown hair going rapidly grey, her face which had once been thought attractive becoming lined, the dark shadows under her eyes making her look permanently tired.

As she stared back at herself, Cecilia recalled Albert’s words about Lexi. About her being, or doing, something special. But it was a pointless thought, a complete waste of time. Everyone knew there was little hope for women. For most, their lot in life was to bear children, keep their men happy, and do housework.

Cecilia paused before going upstairs. It was all very well her husband turning up unexpectedly like he had, but she did not want any more babies. Thankful though she was to have her three healthy children, they must be enough. She could not cope with another mouth to feed, another little one to provide for. And if the worst happened after Albert’s flying visit, she knew she could definitely not cope with the deadly process of trying to interfere with nature …

Upstairs, Cecilia went into the bedroom noiselessly and looked down at her husband. He was lying straight as a rod with his eyes closed and Cecilia smiled – the rhythmic snoring from his partly open lips reassured her that he would not wake easily, and that nothing more would be required of her that day.

Chapter Three (#ulink_82086e10-bd5b-5130-bc9d-e34a22609f81)

The following Saturday evening, Reynard McCann drew himself up to his full height and regarded his appearance in the long mirror with curt satisfaction. He liked clothes and he liked dressing well, and tonight he had chosen dark trousers, a formal shirt with winged collar, and a plain narrow tie. His new waistcoat, in an expensive dark blue brocade, completed the ensemble. As it was a rather cold evening he would be wearing one of his half-length, fur-collared overcoats. Then, lastly, his shoes – perhaps his favourite item of clothing – his boots with the white uppers. His father, also called Reynard, had always insisted that you could tell the quality of a man by what he had on his feet.

Reynard hadn’t slept well the previous night; in fact he rarely had a good night’s sleep. It seemed that his brain could never rid itself of all the teeming thoughts, the schemes, the stresses of a highly successful working life, the memories, and, yes, the regrets, too. He sometimes thought that if he could turn the clock back, just once, he would be a happier man. He pulled himself up. Perhaps a few brandies at the club later might help him have more than his usual three or four hours of restless slumber.

As he stood silently in front of the mirror, Reynard McCann realized that he always avoided actually looking into his own eyes, as if afraid of what he might see there. He looked everywhere else – at his broad forehead, his long, straight nose, and at his full moustache which he regularly fiddled with when concentrating. But he rarely smiled because he didn’t like his teeth which, he felt, could sometimes make him look faintly sinister.

He was well aware what people called him because the boys had heard it in the playground often enough.

It seemed that he was known as Foxy.

Foxy McCann.

When he’d first heard of it, this information hadn’t upset him. In fact he considered it a compliment. The fox was a beautiful creature, sleek-coated, swift-footed, surviving on its wits to fend for itself and its family. Man seldom got the better of the fox unless it was by grossly uneven means.

He went into the wide reception area and from the hallstand in the corner he selected one of his many walking canes, picked up his soft, felt Homburg, opened the heavy front door and left the house.

He decided not to take the car, but instead to walk the three quarters of a mile to his destination – even though the residual pain in his right leg had been giving him trouble recently, making his limp more pronounced. Reynard wished he didn’t have that limp but there was nothing that could be done about it. And it was all thanks to his youthful, hot-headed decision to volunteer to serve in the first Boer War. He’d thought the uniform was extremely smart and would suit him well, but he’d paid a heavy price for his vanity because he’d been injured within two months of the conflict and invalided out, the legacy being the tedious limp which was to go with him for the rest of his life.

Reynard McCann didn’t go to many social occasions, but members of his club had been asked to attend tonight because someone important was to be their guest speaker. Reynard found it hard to relax in company – unless it was work-related. Work had always been his sole motivation in life, thanks to the influence of his father who had drummed into his son from an early age that there was no room for sentiment in business. Business was hard, and you had to work hard – and be hard – to stay on top. And you must always work alone, be ruthless, determined, and utterly self-interested.

Reynard senior had done extremely well in the property market in the east end of London – where his son had been born and raised – but had died in his early fifties from a heart attack, leaving a considerable fortune to his only son whose mother had died when Reynard was an infant.

Having gone to an all-boys school, there had been little female influence for Reynard until he’d met and married Sylvia in his thirties – again, mostly to please his father by hopefully producing another generation to carry on the family firm. Reynard had known very little about Sylvia before marrying her, but they’d got on well enough, and in a fairly short time Alfred and Johnny had been born.

But now Sylvia was sadly no longer with them and on a sudden whim Reynard had decided to leave London with all its sad memories and continue his money-making activities in the West Country. After due consideration, he had decided that Bath looked a reasonable bet, added to which the smaller town would be a better place for his sons to grow up.

He’d soon deduced that amongst the glitter and glamour of Bath’s well-to-do in their magnificent Georgian houses, there was extreme poverty. The sweeping, imperious Crescents – Royal Crescent, Lansdown Crescent – and the more smug and cloistered Circus, all looking down their noses over countless ranks of small dwellings, many of which were practically derelict and unfit for human habitation. All waiting for rebuilding, for renovation, for someone with money to invest. Someone like Reynard McCann, giving him another opportunity to increase his wealth and prosperity. And so it had proved. Well, he seldom put a foot wrong. One bad decision is one too many, his father had always declared.

In the fourteen or more years since his arrival, Reynard had made a name for himself all right. He’d bought and redeveloped countless ranks of terrace dwellings – let out at vastly increased rents – and restored many dilapidated shops at the edges of the town. He was also the undisputed lender of money which made many people afraid of him because he was not known for doing anyone any favours. He knew that, generally, he was hated and he didn’t care. Why should he? He was in business to make money and if that made him unpopular – too bad.

Now, strolling along the streets towards the centre of town, and passing all the crowded pubs and private beer houses spilling out their loud, inebriated customers onto the pavements, Reynard’s mouth hardened. How much of their money – perhaps his rent money – was being wasted on such passing pleasures? Many apparently lived from hand to mouth, yet they seemed to have no problem with squandering what little they did have.

His thoughts made him lift his head up as he walked on. He’d had the wisest training for life that anyone could have, and he was passing that wisdom on to his sons. He hoped they appreciated the life he was giving them. Biting his lip thoughtfully, Reynard wondered what they really thought of him … did Alfred and Johnny like him? As far as he could remember, he had never particularly liked his own father who had often beaten him unmercifully when angry … and Reynard had soon learned that if he made no sound, the beating would stop more quickly. There’d certainly never been any warmth in their relationship, none at all, and his father had only ever greeted him by the occasional shake of the hand.

As for love – Reynard didn’t know what that word meant, and Sylvia had been a shy, introverted little thing and had probably only married him for his money. Perhaps she, too, hadn’t known what love was. They’d certainly never discussed it.

Stopping for a second to give his leg a rest, he frowned as he tried to hold on to a sudden, distant, fleeting memory of something … of someone … a memory of soft arms around his neck, of sweet words whispering in his ear, of a heart beating next to his own. Where was it … when was it?

Then he walked on with more determination. None of that had happened. It was not a memory, it was a figment of his imagination. Or, maybe, a recall of being held to his mother’s breast? That could have been it. Human memory is an unknowable thing. Who knows what lies hidden deeply in the recesses of the subconscious? Perhaps hidden so deeply that it never rises to the surface to be identified.

Exasperated by all this unusual introspection, Reynard increased his step. It was already ten o’clock – he should have been there by now. But as he rounded a corner he came across a gaggle of men brawling, shouting, swearing, and clustering around a bedraggled creature cowering there on the ground.

‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, Mary, Mary daft as a bloody fairy,’ one of them started chanting, and soon the rest all began to join in, poking and pushing at the old woman who stared up at them, her eyes rolling. Then she grinned up stupidly, and began to screech and scream along with them.

‘I’m Mary Mary, daft as a fairy,’ she wailed while holding out a grubby hand in the hope of some cash. “Money for Mary, please, money for poor Mad Mary.’

For a few moments, Reynard stood there transfixed as he watched that crowd of brutes overpowering the old crone … yet as he looked closer he realized that this was not an old woman. She was quite young, but clearly demented and unable to fend for herself. Totally dressed in rags, her long, black hair hung in damp, dirty strands around her thin shoulders, and her teeth were broken and black as she grinned and grimaced.

Reynard raised his cane, thrusting himself forward. ‘Leave her alone!’ he thundered, ‘leave her alone! Do you hear me?’