Free Gifts of War by Mackenzie Ford Page A

to go there, to deliver and pick up work, twice a week, and on one visit she met one of the customers. She was pretty, my mother, and this customer—his name was Mortimer Stannard,
Sir
Mortimer Stannard—was very taken with her. He started inviting her out for dinner, to the theater, even one time to the races. She made her own clothes and of course looked lovely.”
    She paused. “You can probably guess what comes next.”
    When I shook my head, she added, “Why don’t we continue this by the river? We’re missing the best part of the day and you are not getting the share of fresh air your parents would want.”
    She was teasing me but she was right about it being the best of the day, so we skipped pudding and coffee, I paid the bill, and within twenty minutes we were strolling by the Avon. The river at Stratford is wide, the banks are flat, making the river seem wider still, and at that time of year the water meadows were choked with dandelions, like a vast spread of butter.
    Because it was Saturday, the river itself was quite busy. Men and boys sat fishing, punts and rowboats chased ducks off the water, and there were even one or two hardy souls swimming. Compared with the Severn Bore it was all very tame.
    After a few hundred yards, however, the fishermen began to thin out, the punters and rowers had all turned back, and, for the most part, and not counting the wildlife, we had the Avon to ourselves.
    “That’s Luddington in the distance,” said Sam, pointing to a church spire showing above some lush trees.
    “No,” I said, stopping for a moment and putting my hand on her arm. “I can’t guess what’s coming next.”
    We resumed walking.
    “Our father found us,” she said. “He knew where Mother’s sister lived and threatened her with violence if she didn’t reveal where we had all gone. He arrived, drunk as usual, in a foul temper, and set about my eldest sister because our mother wasn’t at home.”
    Sam stopped again. “See that?”
    I looked. On the river was a swan with two small, dirty browncygnets. We had chanced upon them and we were, in fact, a little too close for the mother swan’s comfort. Her long neck was lowered and she was hissing in our direction.
    We eased away and the swan relaxed. Hadn’t Wilhelm said something about the swans at Stratford?
    “People are no different from other animals,” Sam whispered, as if her full voice might disturb the swan all over again. “My sister, for instance. Ruth is not my mother. She is—or used to be—the tomboy I told you about. Anyway, when my father set about her she set about him back—with a kitchen knife. She cut him in the arm, that enraged him still further, he lunged at her and, being drunk already, clumsily stumbled on something—and fell onto the knife Ruth was holding. None of us knew what to do, and he bled to death on the kitchen floor.”
    She stopped, bent down, and tugged at some long grass.
    I didn’t know what to say. I could see why she thought I’d had an idyllic upbringing.
    “My sister was never charged with anything. When Mortimer Stannard found out what had happened, from my mother, he was marvelous. He employed a lawyer, who took a statement from my mother’s sister, which confirmed that our father was belligerently drunk that day, had threatened my aunt with violence, and we sisters all testified that he had hit Ruth first and had fallen onto the knife.”
    I wondered whether that part was true.
    Sam threw the clump of grass she was holding into the air and the breeze took it away. “Anyway, our father’s death left our mother free to marry Sir Mortimer. She did, but not immediately and even then quite quietly, on a ship, and after he had paid for the three younger girls to be sent to boarding school, and from where I won a scholarship to teacher training college.”
    “I’m relieved the story has a happy ending.”
    She looked at me without blinking. I noticed that her eyes were watering. “My mother and