The Secret Notebook Page 15

  I was surprised to learn that Enid trained as a midwife a long time ago, before going into the boarding house life with her first husband, but as she rightly said – childbirth is something that doesn’t really change.

  Once I had the warm bundle that was Tom in my arms, his wispy brown hair, unfocused eyes searching, lips rooting and perfectly formed fingers closing around the tip of one of mine, I thought nothing could match the emotion expanding inside me. I felt such an overwhelming rush of love.

  I told baby Tom that his dad would be so happy he’d arrived.

  ‘Would you like to hold him, Mother?’ When I offered Tom to Enid, the gentleness in her features brought tears to my eyes. It really was a different side to her.

  ‘Hello Tom.’ She smiled down into his face, her forefinger tracing his sturdy little chin.

  ‘I’ll go and get you a brew and a spot of something to eat.’ Marian excused herself. ‘Back in a few.’

  There was only one more thing I wanted in my life – Jack.

  Always, the thought of him gave rise to a sharp pull of emotion. Tom gave a little squeak then, distracting me from those thoughts and rather than dwell I let myself be swept into the magical moment.

  ‘He’s a lovely little soul,’ Enid said, surprising me yet again and handing him back as he rooted and fussed, saying she’d better get back to the Bing Lea.

  ‘I’m so grateful for your help, Enid, you’ve been wonderful. Thank you.’

  She smiled, a rare sight, but a welcome one. I hope we may be turning a corner, becoming friendlier.

  No sooner had Enid gone than there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Dora and her sister, Katherine, came into the room quietly sporting a duo of smiles.

  ‘Mum sent this.’ Dora popped down a small tray that bore a large mug of tea, a plate of corned beef hash and carrots, and a great chunk of Victoria sponge. ‘She said you’re probably ready for something to eat, coz you were busy with Tom over mealtime!’

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you, I’m excited to show Tom off.’

  Marian followed the others in. ‘He’s very handsome, like his dad, Molly.’

  It’s strange, but I have to remind myself regularly that no one else in the world – except Jack and Joe – knows the secret.

  ‘Jack will be thrilled.’ Dora settled on the side of the bed to take the offered baby. ‘I’ll send him a telegram from you, shall I? Just put Tom’s weight and “Mum and baby doing well”?’

  ‘That’s kind, Dora, thanks.’

  ‘Do you mind if I tell Matt? It might help to cheer him up. They’ve had a rotten time lately.’

  ‘I imagine he’s still upset about the Freckleton disaster?’

  ‘Well—’ Dora stroked Tom’s soft cheek ‘—he is, they all are there, but there’s been another accident, at Warton this time. One of his close friends was killed.’

  I had never even considered losing a close friend like Dora, it was something I didn’t want to contemplate, but I imagined that the pain for Matt must have been immense, especially as he and his fellow airmen were so far away from home in the States. Friends could be more like family, bonds formed quickly. I’d seen it happen amongst the billets, they laughed, fought, talked and fooled around once they got to know one another – much like family.

  ‘Poor Matt. Yes, of course, tell him and bring him to visit so Tom can meet his Uncle Matt.’

  Dora rocked Tom; I couldn’t take my eyes off him whilst I savoured the corned beef hash, cake and the tea. I was ridiculously hungry; it was the first meal since going into labour and I was more than ready for it.

  Blackpool, Saturday October 7, 1944

  Dear Diary, Tom is two weeks old and I’ve started to get out of bed and potter about after my lying in. I’ve decided also to keep a note of what happens here so I can remember to tell any news to Jack.

  Tom feeds well and takes so much of my attention that I don’t think about Jack all the time.

  Just a lot of the time.

  I wrote to Jack yesterday and Dora posted it on her way to work. I told him how Tom’s nails look almost translucent, like the inside of those pretty seashells – pink and delicate and perfect in miniature; how his skin is softer than a cloud and his eyes are blue. I wrote, too, that Enid told me an interesting thing – sometimes the colour of a baby’s eyes changes as they grow. Another interesting thing she said was that their eye colour always changes from light to darker if it does alter, but she’d never seen it go the other way around – from dark to light. As always, in my letters all my news to Jack is light and I told him the truth: that I couldn’t wait for him to meet our baby son.

  I told him, too, that I couldn’t wait to have him hold me tight again like he did on our honeymoon and on his visit since. I told him that I thought about him endlessly and the photograph of us laughing into one another’s faces takes me back to that exact moment on our wedding day every time I look at it and I feel such love and warmth and complete happiness held in that moment. I wrote that I thought I might be getting to grips with being a mum and that it was a lot different to how I’d imagined. It was nothing like playing with a doll as I’d done when I was much younger!

  I realised it was high time that I wrote to Jack’s parents and let them know about Tom, too.

  My Dear Mr and Mrs Blackshaw,

  * * *

  I write in case word hasn’t got through to you to let you know you are grandparents. I had a son, Tom, seven and a half pounds, on 23rd September.

  * * *

  He is a contented soul and his smile reminds me so much of Jack. My friend Dora says it is wind making him smile, but I’d rather think that he’s already a happy soul.

  As I wrote those words, the longing to see Jack was so intense, I gasped, and then gulped down the rising emotion. When I managed to pull myself together again, I blew my nose, tucked my hanky up my sleeve and carried on.

  I hope this finds you well and settled in at your new address in Shaw. Mum, Dad and I used to live close by there, too, on Highbarn Road in Royton.

  * * *

  I was very sorry to hear your home in Manchester was bombed, that must have been awful.

  * * *

  I hope that I will be able to introduce you to your grandson before too much longer. Hopefully, it will become easier to travel soon.

  * * *

  I’ll close now, but if I can, I’ll see if my friend can take a picture of Tom, and I’ll send it to you, just in case you can’t travel for a while yet.

  * * *

  Do take care and very best wishes to you both, and of course your family.

  * * *

  With love from your daughter-in-law, Molly Blackshaw, and your grandson, Tom.

  After Dora took the letters off to post, I thought that one thing I’d learned about being a mum was that there was nothing – nothing at all – to compare to what I felt for the warm bundle when I rocked him in my arms, sang – not well, but he didn’t mind – and held him close, the clean baby smell of him bringing home love so consuming it was beyond words.

  Blackpool, Sunday October 8, 1944

  On my way to the kitchen today there was a loud knock. I moved silently along the dark hallway and opened the door. Black dread squeezed me tightly as I was handed a telegram addressed to Mrs Blackshaw, though it took a moment to realise that was me as I was still getting used to my new name. The type was squarish, unfamiliar and official looking, and the word ‘priority’ struck a chill into my insides. I felt sick with fear, my breath shooting from my lungs, leaving me dizzy; I felt like a vice had squeezed out all the air, black spots dancing on the edge of my vision.

  Struggling back to my room, I opened it, checked Tom was sleeping, a good thing he was because I came over all faint and sank to the edge of the bed, I didn’t trust my arms not to shake if Tom needed holding.

  It read:

  Deeply regret to inform you that your husband, Flight Engineer Sergeant Jack Blackshaw
, has been reported missing. Letter following.

  My Dear Diary, I swear my body turned to water. My arms turned shaky, I sweated profusely despite the chill in the air, my breath felt to be stuck in my chest and would not come in or go out, funny noises left me like gasps. I put my hand to my head to try and stay sitting upright.

  I became distantly aware of a tap at the door; it was Marian, she asked whether I’d like a cuppa, but I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t get my breath to respond.

  Slowly the door creaked open and I must’ve looked pale or something or just strange because Marian came in, her eyes going wide as she took in the open telegram as it fluttered to the floor.

  ‘Molly, what’s happened?’

  My shaking hand pointed to the telegram. ‘Missing…’ I said, ‘Jack is missing.’ The voice speaking didn’t sound like mine. More like the timid squeak of a young child.

  Marian picked up the sparsely worded communication and asked if she could read it. I nodded and she scanned it quickly.

  ‘I’m sure he’s either laying low, or he’s been taken prisoner. He’ll still be alive, Molly.’

  ‘Yes.’ At last I took a deep breath and got some control of my shaking limbs. ‘Yes, of course he is all right.’

  As though agreeing, Tom made a little squeaking sound, his small fists pummelling the air. ‘Your daddy wouldn’t leave us, would he, Tom?’

  ‘I’ll fetch us both a pot of tea.’ Marian’s hands took one of mine between them and she added gently, ‘Everything will be all right Molly. Just believe that until you hear any different.’

  I smiled a watery smile at her and nodded my thanks. She was back in no time with a cuppa for us both. I asked Marian whether she thought that Jack’s mother would have been told that he was missing, or whether it was just the next of kin. ‘I think it’s just the next of kin.’ Marian set down our cups on the dressing table.

  I was the next of kin.

  Something shifted inside me when I realised that I was now considered a more fitting contact than even Jack’s parents. I wondered silently, too, whether Joe had gone missing at the same time, or whether he was in a different squadron. There was no way to know, unless I contacted Mrs Blackshaw by letter and asked her if she’d heard anything about Jack or Joe.

  Again, my Dear Diary, it felt wrong to give her more worry that she must already have. It was a concern I could not imagine – having two of your offspring away from home fighting for King and country.

  How Mrs Blackshaw, like me, must dread the telegram stamped ‘priority’ arriving, bearing the terrifying news of loss or lost.

  I asked Marian if she knew what happened now and she said she had a couple of friends whose husbands had also been reported as missing in action. She said that quite quickly after the initial telegram a more detailed letter came with the results of their investigations. The news had been good for one friend – her husband was a POW – and not so good for another friend.

  She added then that it was very important not to lose hope and not to let nervous worries make my milk dry up, for Tom’s sake.

  My two overwhelming thoughts, my Dear Diary, were Please, God, let Jack be alive and Thank God for Tom.

  Blackpool, Tuesday October 17, 1944

  I couldn’t function properly for days, couldn’t stop the pain of not knowing from swamping about inside me, like thick black treacle that I couldn’t be free of, or the tears that welled up time after time until my eyes were permanently swollen. I didn’t write any words until I made the decision to write to Jack. I know he would not receive a letter so I’ve decided I will write any and all news – little but important things about Tom – here in my notebook. That way I can copy out the news and send it to him when I hear he is alive and well. It gives me something to look forward to – a positive thing.

  As the telegram had said a letter turned up just now. Like the telegram, it knocked me for six but somehow the added details did offer some hope. I’ve stuck it in here:

  From Wing Commander G D Garner

  * * *

  Royal Air Force Station

  * * *

  Dear Mrs. Blackshaw,

  * * *

  May I be permitted to express my own and the squadrons’ sincere sympathy with you in the sad news concerning your husband, Sergeant Jack Blackshaw.

  * * *

  The aircraft of which he was the Flight Engineer took off to attack a strategic target in France on 28th September 1944, and nothing further has been heard.

  * * *

  You may be aware that in quite a large percentage of cases aircrew reported missing are eventually reported prisoner of war, and I hope that this may give you some comfort. This is not to say that any further information about him is available but is a precaution adopted in the case of all personnel reported missing. Rest assured that you will be notified immediately by Air Ministry when any information is received.

  * * *

  Your husband's effects have been collected and will be forwarded to you in due course through Air Ministry channels. Your husband was a most proficient Flight Engineer and his loss is deeply regretted by us all.

  * * *

  Once again, please accept the deep sympathy of us all and let us hope that we may soon have some good news of the safety of your husband.

  * * *

  Yours very sincerely.

  Blackpool, Friday October 20, 1944

  It was later the same week, Dear Diary, Enid came across to visit. She rolled a big pram into mine and Jack’s room, a warm smile on her face. She said it was ours to use for as long as we needed it as Agnes’s daughter had stored it in her garden shed and no longer had any use for it. She added hurriedly that it had been given a good clean up, and I found for the first time I was moved by something other than misery to step over to where Enid stood by the window and hug her close whilst whispering my thanks.

  I told her it was a wonderful gift to bring me because it meant now that I could take Tom out for a nice long walk on the promenade and blow the cobwebs of weeks of confinement away. And I felt the sudden need to feel the sun on my face. Even cold sunshine – or even fresh air and no sunshine would do.

  I was surprised anew at Enid’s kindness, this different side to her.

  ‘I wonder if you and Marian would like to come for a walk on the prom with me and Tom?’ Normally, I would happily walk alone, but I felt strangely vulnerable.

  ‘I would, actually. Agnes is taking good care of our billets just now and it’s quite warm outside.’

  Marian declined to come with us; she said she was halfway through making the evening meal but she would love to come along another time.

  Whilst we walked to the end of Bank Street and then across the road onto the prom, I found myself speaking without thinking.

  ‘I like us getting along this way, Mother, I feel like I’m only just getting to know you properly.’

  ‘Aye, well, I used to love working with babies. When I married my first husband, he was already up to his elbows in the boarding house so I didn’t really have a choice but to leave my chosen work to support him.’

  As we continued to talk and walk, Enid shared that she had been a very young bride the first time and her older first husband, Walter, a dour chap expected her to slave away whilst he drank the profit and did the bare minimum of work. She’d realised over the years that he only married her to be a skivvy, and he’d had no intention of having a family of their own. ‘I was heartbroken that having sacrificed my work as a midwife, learned all I could from my own mother, he’d denied me what I wanted the most. A child. A family.’

  She said she had no freedom of choice to start a family, and no time to do the job she loved and had spent a long time learning. ‘He would not even let me come and go as I pleased, allowed me no opportunity to go out and dance or have fun because he ranted that my place was in the home, doing for him.’

  She added, ‘I’ll admit I felt envious of the freedom you had in your life to just come and go wi
th no ties. You had so much independence; you walked, you danced, you went out and had a good time with Dora, friends, and you didn’t seem to answer to anyone. Even your dad never thought to clip your wings or lay down the law.’

  She said when she’d confided in my dad about her first marriage, he was always offering to take her dancing, to the pier to shows, or just for walks. ‘But it was strange. Too many years being married to a slave driver made me find it hard to just let go and live a little.’ She smiled then. ‘Although Bert and I did have some happy times. Your dad was a good man.’

  She seemed to find it easier to confide in me now that I was married, now that I had a baby. I was surprised when she told me that she would like to get shot of the boarding house once the war was over, because whilst she was very happy to serve her country that way, it wasn’t what made her personally happy as a job. She said that life with my dad had been much better than with her first husband, because at least my dad laughed and talked, and mucked in readily with anything that needed doing.

  ‘My one regret is that by the time I married your father,’ she said, ‘it was too late to have children. I would have liked Bert’s babies. Your dad was a good man.’