Page 35

But the well-dressed people strolling past her in the sunshine, looking relaxed and untroubled, were not representative of Bristol as a whole.

Beth knew that the poor people both here and in the East End of London, in Liverpool, Birmingham and other cities, were struggling to survive.

Many of them had seen their homes and all their belongings destroyed in the almost nightly bombing during the Blitz.

Rose said many people were living in the woods around Bristol, not in a real tent even, but a makeshift shelter.

In other towns they huddled into derelict houses.

So many hundreds killed, even more wounded, and unlike the well-to-do here in Clifton, they wouldn’t have any savings, no cushion against disaster.

She knew from her own experience what hunger was like, to wear second-hand clothes and shoes with holes in them, to make friends with another child in the park, only to have their mother drag their child away from her, as if poverty was catching.

She had money now and good clothes thanks to Elizabeth Manning. Those things opened doors which would otherwise be closed. Yet she still felt she was on the outside looking in, always an imposter. Daily she wondered if that would ever change.

As Beth got closer to Lamb Lane, she shook herself out of those negative thoughts.

She had fallen on her feet. Cooking, cleaning and laundry were pleasant to her.

To stop for elevenses and decide what to have for lunch and what else needed doing was something she’d never experienced at the Bradleys.

During the afternoons, whether they went out or sat in the garden, Rose would talk about her late husband or her son as a boy. Sometimes she reminisced about her childhood with her two older sisters, living in the New Forest.

‘But enough about me,’ Rose said one afternoon. ‘I want to know about you as a child.’

Beth had been expecting a question like that ever since she arrived here. She couldn’t bring herself to make things up, not to this kind, open-hearted woman.

‘I don’t remember much,’ she said. ‘After the whack on the head in the bombing raid, my memory seems to have failed. The things I can remember are all a bit grey, like old photos. I remember Mum washing clothes with a scrubbing board, and getting me to wind the handle on the wringer. But not a lot more. We were poor ’cos my father was killed in the First War, so we didn’t go anywhere. ’

‘Did you go to church?’

‘I think so. Maybe Sunday School. I do have a vague memory of being in a church hall. Do you think memories will come back?’

She was aware Rose was looking at her intently. ‘I do believe we suppress bad memories,’ she said at length. ‘Maybe one day you’ll be able to share them with me.’

That sounded to Beth as if Rose didn’t believe the bang-on-the-head story, and hoped that one day she’d reveal whatever she was hiding.

The weeks flew by. Beth loved everything about being here with Rose: the lovely house, the close proximity to shops and other amenities, and a feeling of safety, something she’d never experienced before. Even in Ireland she always had a feeling her security could end suddenly.

Whether she and Rose turned on the wireless to laugh at Tommy Handley, their evenings were always jolly.

They made rag rugs, cutting old clothes and leftover fabric into strips and then forcing them with a hook through the canvas.

They tried to make their offerings attractive by choosing toning fabrics.

Unpicking jumpers to reuse the wool was another thing.

It could be knitted into hats, scarves or even new jumpers.

Sometimes they played cards or draughts, and when there was dance music on the wireless, Rose coached her on the quick step.

‘You really need a man to practise with,’ Rose said. ‘Shall I go out in the street and find one for you?’

Beth laughed at the thought of some passer-by being stopped by an old lady to come into her house and dance. It was a lovely image, but of course Rose was only joking. She often made ridiculous statements with a poker face. Another one of her lovable traits.

One day, as Beth was about to cross at the Pembroke Road junction and was checking there wasn’t a cart or cyclist coming, she spotted a familiar-looking man coming up St Paul’s Road.

Her heart almost stopped, as she thought it was Ronnie, and a cold sweat broke out all over her.

‘It can’t be him,’ she said to herself, and went behind a thick tree trunk to get a better look.

She had last seen him when she was fourteen, fifteen years ago.

Back then he had looked fit, muscular and straight-backed, and kept himself very neat, clean-shaven and wearing good clothes.

But this man was hunched over, almost bald, and his clothes were very shabby.

Yet she was sure it was him– something about the rather graceful way he walked, a reminder he came from a circus background and had been a trapeze artist.

She watched, still hidden behind the big tree, until he had crossed the road and gone towards Clifton Village. Only then did she come out from behind the tree and run to Lamb Lane and safety.