Simply Betty

Betty closed their row house door with a resounding thud and pivoted to check her parents’ progress. They’d walked as far as the street corner. She crouched and placed one foot on the doorstep, fiddling with an already tight shoelace before glancing up. Her parents had stopped just before rounding the corner.

“Come on, Bet. We don’t want to miss the bus.”

Her father beckoned her to follow. Worried they might turn back and want to walk together, her father’s shout warranted reassurance.

“Don’t wait for me. I’m just tying up my shoes. I’ll hurry and catch up soon.”

Arm-in-arm they turned and disappeared around the bend; Betty relaxed.

Good. The less scrutiny, the better. Most times, she was the first out and racing ahead. On visitation day to see her sister, her insides were a pot of boiling water ready to explode the lid. Today, conscious of her secret surprise, she had battled impatience in making sure she was the last to leave. If detected and caught out too soon, her parents’ disapproval would thwart her secret surprise.

Earlier had been a near miss. She’d been lucky to escape detection by Aunt Nomi. Seated on the sofa, holding a cuppa, her aunt’s perplexed expression when scanning the living room floor had caused Betty to scurry out the front door.

“Betty, where is…?”

Slamming the door cut off the rest of Aunt Nomi’s sentence.

Betty had taken a deep breath.

“That was close.”

The question pinned to her aunt’s face avoided; if she had searched for the answer, she would not have found it. Aunt Nomi was having one of her bad days, and Betty hoped her father’s earlier prompt to rest had distracted her.

As she trailed her parents to the bus stop, Betty further buttoned her winter coat against the cool March air. With mother-like care, she adjusted her neck scarf against the lingering chill and shifted the slight weight against her chest. The morning mist in Lewes, so often caught in the basin of their small southern town in England, had burned off towards midday, but it still felt damp.

Betty thought about Brook and their upcoming visit. There were not two full years between her ten and Brook’s eleven, but her sister seemed so much older. Maybe because she was bossier and braver than her.

Before Brook's sickness, she remembered their walks on the Downs surrounding their town. Her sister had often made her cry; teasing her by caterwauling near the cliff edge.

“Look at me, look at me. I’m going to fall right off.”

She had waved her arms and pretended to lose her balance. From far back, Betty had begged Brook.

“Stop! Stop right now and come away.”

The height had made her dizzy. She was terrified her sister might tip over the edge. Only when she burst into tears, did Brook ever relent.

“Oh, you are such a baby.”

But Brook had came away and then hugged her.

Today’s planned secret surprise was daring; it was something her sister might do. A glow of pride blossomed in her chest, imagining Brook’s reaction. Yes, it was a good plan to impress her sister. A peek into the breast cavity of her winter coat offered further reassurance. The downhill walk from their row house to the bus stop at the town basin had lulled the sleeping bundle. Betty smiled.

***

That morning the plan had almost fallen apart. Aunt Nomi had woken up ill. Her father would have stayed behind, but Aunt Nomi knew he was eager to visit his daughter and downplayed her ill feelings. A ragged bout of coughing had prompted him to suggest he stay home to keep her company. His anxious look had prompted Aunt Nomi to rush to assure him.

“Now, Ned, that’s unnecessary. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll not have you missing out by tending to me. I’m fine. You go visit our Brook. It’s been a month. When you get home, I want to hear everything she tells you all.”

Amazing. Aunt Nomi had got all that out while struggling to catch her breath, which convinced Betty how desperately she wanted news of Brook and to not spoil her brother-in-law’s visit.

Betty, too, had felt breathless watching the war of emotions play across her father’s face. She braced for the verdict on his decision, his concern clear. The pale hue of his sister-in-law’s complexion was troubling. If her father had stayed home, he might more readily have noticed the absence in the house and worried. She had needed him to come along to distract her mother from paying Betty too much attention. His typical playful banter was necessary to conceal her subterfuge. And she had not wanted her dad to skip his visit either. He missed Brook, as they all did. She suffered only a small twinge of guilt at disregarding her aunt’s health in wanting her dad to come with her and her mother.

“Aunt Nomi’s right, Daddy. You don’t want to miss your visit with Brook.”

Her father’s eye flicked up and then moved back to examine Aunt Nomi.

While sitting on the chintz sofa in the parlour with a handkerchief to her mouth, her aunt’s face had been wan but determined. Betty knew that look. Her dad knew it, too. Aunt Nomi’s bone-deep stubbornness often outweighed her frailness. Betty surmised her dad wouldn’t argue, considering his sister-in-law’s wheezing. He conceded, exhaling his concern.

“All right, love. But put your feet up for a bit. I will make you a cup of tea before we go.”

Making tea was her dad’s way of solving troubles and making things better.

Betty, too, had released a tense breath. For the last two years, the nearer they got to their monthly family visit to her sister, Betty’s excitement escalated until she couldn’t stand to be in her own skin. Her sister’s absence was a void she never quite filled by playing on the street with her friends or doing handstands in the Rec—the grassy play space at the dead end of their street—or playing with their dolls. She always made sure Brook’s doll received special treatment; always dressed in a pretty frock and included in her playtime with her own doll.

Brook and she had shared a bedroom and bed before Brook went by ambulance first to Shoreham hospital, twelve miles away from Lewes, and then many months later to rehabilitation at the Chailey Heritage Craft School. Betty had got used to the empty bed space and appreciated the extra hot water bottle to warm the sheets on chilly nights. But her sister’s absence felt like forever. She didn’t understand why they didn’t allow her to come home. Nobody told her anything, but sometimes she overheard her parents talking.

One sleepless evening not too long ago, she had been sitting in the enclosed bottom-floor stairwell leading up to the bedrooms, toying with her doll. Her aunt’s snores as she had crept downstairs had assured one less adult to order her back to bed. Unseen on the stairs with the door ajar, she could hear her parents’ voices in the living room.

The lilting sound soothed and Betty felt sleepy, but a sudden heightening in her mother’s tone startled her senses alert.

“It’s been two years, Ned.”

Her mother’s distress caught Betty by surprise. Mum was always steady. Whatever was upsetting her had to be serious.

“I don’t understand. Brook told us last time how she compares to the other girls. She’s the one running the races at rec time. Takes the spots of the other poor souls on crutches or in pushchairs. She gets about with no trouble.”

Her mother paused; Betty’s ears perked. She sensed more coming, imagining her mother as a thoughtful judge, pensive before delivering a verdict.

“We can look after her here. Just as well as they can. I know we can. Our girl should be at home with us.”

Although judge-like, her mother had sounded distraught.

Betty didn’t recall ever having heard her mother so near to tears, yet so resolute. With her own throat tightening and water welling in her eyes, she wanted to go to her mum and wrap her in a big hug. That is what her mother did when she was out of sorts. Her mum gave a wordless embrace, and she felt better. The world righted itself. She wanted the same for her mother. To right her world. But discovery meant not hearing the rest of the conversation. She was trying hard to understand what they were saying about Brook. Stifling her urge to comfort, Betty swallowed and dragged the sleeve of her nightgown across her eyes, soaking up the wetness with its cottony material.

Her dad’s soft, consoling voice broke the silence that had descended after her mother’s outpouring.

“Win, my love, I know you are upset, but they are doing the best they can for our girl. We must be patient.”

If Betty hadn’t been out of sight, she was sure she would have seen her dad take the hand of his wife as he delivered his words of solace. He so often did; reached for her hand.

It had a calming effect. Her mum’s voice sounded less distraught but hesitant in her response.

“I don’t know, Ned. It makes little sense.”

She blew her nose before gathering steam.

“Brook is not a cripple.”

Indignant and resolved on that point, she pushed further.

“And the benefactress, Mrs. Kimmins, walks around as if she’s in the army. Do you know she insists everyone calls her ‘Commandant’? I know she’s doing a lot of good. But maybe the good needs to go to a poor girl or boy who needs it. Not to our Brook.”

Betty heard her father tut-tutting, neither in agreement nor disagreement. Then the kettle shrilling obscured their voices. The sound of a door thudding shut and muting the kettle’s high-pitched scream for attention signaled that her parents had moved to the scullery. She wouldn’t find out more tonight. Betty crept back upstairs to bed.

She couldn’t make it out. Was it because of the war? Were the doctors too busy to reexamine Brook? She was just a little girl. Unimportant to them. But that nasty Hitler was in Germany. Far away. His army wasn’t in England, and not in Chailey, where they were soon going by bus to visit her sister. There were still doctors and nurses in Chailey, England. If they reexamined Brook and she was better, she could come home. It’s what her mother had suggested.

Her head was tired from thinking, and she climbed into bed, placing her doll next to Brooks’ doll. They lay propped together in the spot where her sister used to sleep. With a goodnight kiss to each, she sank into the depths of the goose-feather quilt that layered the bed. Her eyes closed, and she sighed in relief as sleep eased her mind into a simpler world.

***

As it was, they arrived at the bus depot early. Ned was glad to stop for a fag before getting on the coach. Win had wandered across the square shared by the coach service and train station to chat with a friend she recognized from the pub. He was even happier to find the coach driver lounging alongside his bus, ready to share a smoke and chat before the clock wound down to departure time. He learned that the driver lived with his family in Chailey, their destination for today, and shared their plans with the coach driver.

“That’s where we are heading. We’re off to Chailey to visit my oldest daughter.”

It occurred to Ned that unlike his daughter, Brook, who had lived at the Chailey Heritage Craft Rehabilitation School for over a year, Ned had lived nowhere but in Lewes, a small town nestled into the rolling Downs in southern England. Ned recalled especially liking the view of the town from the incline at Cliffe Lane. In the early days of their courtship, he and Win had sometimes walked to the top. Across the bridge, rising cliffs hemmed the northern edge of the town, with the lazy river Ouse twining at their base. From there, they would admire the view south, with lush green hills sloping up, completing a bowl-like effect with the town nestled at its base.

At the town centre was another rise, and the reason for Lewes Castle. From Cliffe Lane it was prominent, its tower once a sentry to guard against marauding invaders. On the rare occasion when he’d been up the castle keep; you could also see the panorama of rolling fields, waves of orchards and farmland meadows. He never grew tired of the sight. This was his town, his country.

And spotting Betty, who had caught up and was lingering by herself, he, too, never grew tired of the sight of his ruby-cheeked youngest daughter. He waved for her to join them.

“I don’t know what’s got into her. She’s slow as treacle today.”

As Betty shuffled their way, Ned smiled at the coach driver while rolling his eyes.

Ned noted an unusual reserve in her response. She seemed nervous as she offered a tight, close-lipped smile to the coach driver. Perhaps it was the unfortunate gap in her teeth. An unapologetic surgeon had knocked out her front tooth when she’d had her tonsils out a few years back. Most times when meeting people, Betty beamed at friends and strangers alike, fluttering a hand in front of her face when she remembered the gap. The coach driver didn’t seem to notice or not knowing her, dismissed the lack of a smile and her downcast eyes as shyness.

His eyes crinkled with delight.

“Hello, my dear. You have such lovely curls. Just like my daughter’s. She has a mass of curly hair, just like yours. I bet your name is just as lovely as you are.”

With an enormous smile, he asked, “What do your mum and dad call you?”

“My name is Betty.”

Odd, Ned thought. Betty looked relieved at the question.

“Oh, you mean Betty is your short name for Elizabeth.”

The coach driver winked at her but included Ned in his gentle teasing as he continued to smile.

“No, not Elizabeth.”

Betty sounded indignant; unamused, she now looked the coach driver in the eye.

Ned noted the return of his youngest daughter’s spark. Betty never understood why people insisted her name was not short for Elizabeth. It was his father-in-law who had declared Betty as her proper name and not as a shortened name.

Betty remembered little of her deceased grandfather, who passed when she was four. But locked in her memory was snuggling on his lap next to the fireplace at home and how he would tell her stories of a princess called Betty, a kind and generous girl who went on exciting adventures. No one called her Princess Elizabeth; his father-in-law had declared. Everybody knew her simply as Princess Betty.

Ned smiled to himself at his daughter’s stout response to the coach driver who, with a raised eyebrow, seemed surprised by her sudden assertiveness.

This time her flushed cheeks weren’t because of the cold. It was the flaring of an internal and resolute flame. Ned’s eyes sparked with pride as his daughter lifted her chin to deliver a final verdict on her true name.

“No, my name is not Elizabeth. My name is Betty…simply, Betty.”

***

Betty ascended the coach stairs, following her parents. Earlier, when her dad had waved her over to the coach driver, she had expected to be caught out, challenged and denied passage on the bus. She had almost fainted in relief when, instead, the coach driver had noticed her hair. But as much as being relieved at the kindness of his compliment, as her curly hair reminded him of his daughter’s, his teasing was confusing.

“Daddy?”

Betty spoke from the bench behind her parents.

“Why did the coach driver not believe me when I told him my name was Betty and not Elizabeth?”

Ned turned to face his daughter; the twinkle in his eye and humour in his response belied the seriousness of his expression.

“Well, lovey, perhaps he couldn’t believe a curly-haired girl like you doesn’t share the same name as our dear Princess Elizabeth at Buckingham Palace…how could someone as rosy-cheeked and beautiful as you be ‘simply Betty’? But what the coach driver doesn’t know, is our Princess Betty isn’t at all posh like Princess Elizabeth, because our Betty slurps her soup at the dinner table and doesn’t lift her pinky finger when sipping tea…What a cat’s meow that is!”

“Daddy!”

Betty turned red and choked on a giggle, delighted at her dad’s ribbing but uncertain whether he had guessed her secret cargo.

She glanced at her mother to see if she had picked up on her father’s veiled insinuation. Thankfully, her mother’s gaze was fixed out the bus window on the passing countryside. She was not listening to their conversation. Mum wouldn’t like that Betty had brought along Smutty. Betty stifled her laughter so as not to agitate the sleeping kitten. She’d been lucky shielding him from the coach driver.

Although pleased with her father’s teasing compliments and recognizing the coach driver’s kindness, she lifted her chin when following her mother’s gaze out the coach window. She didn’t need to be like Princess Elizabeth ˗ posh or beautiful or proper, and not slurping her soup at dinner or raising her pinky at tea time. She didn’t need any other name. Simply Betty was simply good enough.

***

Brook fiddled with a jigsaw puzzle. To keep busy the girls who had come from the school ward to the Jubilee Block, the ward nurse’s setup boards. This helped to contain the build in nervous energy as the girls gathered for their visitors. The convalescent ward was bigger than the other buildings in the Chailey School colony; more modern. With room to add extra tables and chairs, it made sense to host visitor’s day there. This is where Brook sat now.

She had been trying to stay busy, to keep occupied and not get too excited lest Nurse Pritchard fretted and put restrictions on her visit. She moved the puzzle pieces with little interest while her right leg jostled up and down, keeping time with her internal angst. Some days she missed her family so much. Her heart squeezed tight to the point she thought it might stop beating.

Several visitors had already arrived, and the hum of conversation grew. On visitor’s day, for the girls who lived in the convalescence ward, the nurses rolled their beds in from the outside. They spent their days and nights outside, unless it was raining. Today, their beds lined each side of the long, rectangular room.

She didn’t like that visitor’s day took place in the convalescence ward. When living on the ward, she had liked little. Confined to bed for eight months and not allowed to get up had driven her crazy. She would have gone mad except for books, which became her favourite escape. With most of her time spent on the outdoor veranda, sunny days were her favorite. An open book with the sun’s rays bathing face and body was a singular consolation.

The memory of getting lost in a book on a sunny day reminded her of her pre-illness adventures when exploring the Downs in the summer with her sister and their friends, Den and Bill. They wandered the rolling hills, climbed farmer’s fences and apple trees; picking berries as they went. The unspoken destination was often Cowslip Hill, a perfect flowering slope to lie down and soak up the sun’s rays. Magical, until one day a restless Den thrust a captured garter snake into the faces of his dozing companions. Even the resolute and sturdy Bill had screamed; exploding their quiet and sunny sojourn as he, too, had bolted from Den’s teasing. It hadn’t felt funny when it happened, but they had giggled all the way home.

Brook smiled; daydreaming and remembering made the waiting bearable. She glanced again at the visitor’s entrance. Still no sign of her parents. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Tired of waiting, she jumped up from her seat to look out the window. If she saw Betty on the sidewalk next to the building, it meant her parents had arrived. They would already be on their way up to the second-floor. Bouncing on her toes, she braced for disappointment but jolted with excitement when she saw her sister standing on the walkway. Betty’s hands, crossed on her chest as if in prayer, seemed odd. But the sudden entry of her parents into the ward displaced this thought.

She sprang forward, intending to run to her mother and father, when one of Nurse Pritchard’s many cautions echoed in her head.

“Slow down, Brook. Walk, don’t run.”

Nurse Pritchard was always telling her to stop or slow her pace. She was full of rules. Brook didn’t understand why. She was much stronger than the other girls, yet no one noticed.