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by Michelle Magorian

  On Sunday, when her mother had returned to Beatie’s, she had immediately started tinkering around with the Bomb. As soon as it had fired into life, she had driven them for miles along the narrow Devon lanes, and in the evening they had bought fish and chips and had driven out to a beach, where they had eaten them sitting on the running-board of the car, facing the sea.

  On the way back, her mother had caught a red fox in her headlights. She slowed down so that it could escape, but it was mesmerized by the lights. Eventually she stopped the car and switched them off.

  ‘Go on, foxy,’ Rusty whispered. ‘Go find yourself a nice safe hole somewhere. Say, why am I whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied her mother. ‘I suppose it’s because it’s dark.’

  She turned the lights on again. The fox had gone. The Bomb gave a loud bang and started to rumble.

  ‘The dark doesn’t make her whisper,’ laughed Rusty.

  They lurched forward.

  Rusty sat back. The dials on the wooden dashboard lit up and blinked, making the car strangely cosy.

  ‘You really like this “bomb”, don’t you?’ said Rusty.

  ‘Love her.’

  ‘But she’s so old!’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in being old.’

  ‘But how can you…?’ She stopped.

  ‘You’re wondering why I love her so much?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, this is the first thing that I’ve ever paid for out of my own money, and also / made her work. So she’s a sort of symbol, do you understand?’

  ‘I think so. You mean, when you see her, it reminds you of what you achieved, that you didn’t just dream it all up.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean. Me and Skeet helped Uncle Bruno build a rowboat last summer. When we put it into the water, I was so excited I could hardly hold the oars.’

  ‘Yes, I felt something similar when I first drove this old girl,’ said Peggy. ‘A sort of butterfly-feeling inside.’

  That morning, after their good time together the previous day, Rusty felt mean about sneaking the tools into her grip. She had tied an old pair of her mother’s navy overalls firmly around them so that they wouldn’t rattle, placed the bundle at the bottom of the grip, and packed the rest of her clothing on top.

  Now the bundle was hidden at the bottom of her bedroom wardrobe. All she had to do was to persuade her mother to let her take an early train to Benwood House so that she could hide it before school started.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ she heard her mother saying. ‘You’re always complaining that you find young children a bit of a strain. Charlie and Virginia can spend their summers there.’

  ‘When’s summer?’ came her brother’s high-pitched voice. ‘Is it tomorrow?’

  Rusty returned to her room.

  Lying on the bed were four letters: one from Uncle Bruno and Aunt Hannah, one from Kathryn, one from Skeet and one from Janey.

  She picked up the snapshots beside them and sat on the bed, her back resting against the high wooden rail. Most of them were of Kathryn with the summer stock company, looking calm and happy, but the snapshot she had looked at over and over again was the one of Uncle Bruno and Skeet standing barefoot, a huge fish dangling between them. There was Uncle Bruno, like a big bear, with his dark summer beard, his old floppy hat, check shirt, and pants cut to the knees. And beside him stood Skeet, all blond crewcut and freckles, his jeans rolled up, his white T-shirt filthy, and his eyes screwed up from looking at the sun. They were both grinning and pointing madly at the fish.

  ‘Next summer,’ she whispered, ‘I won’t be in some leaky house in Devon – I’m gonna be with you.’

  The letters worried her, though. Uncle Bruno had mentioned that he and Aunt Hannah had sent on a trunk of hers to England with the help of a Navy friend of theirs three months ago and had she gotten it yet? Rusty didn’t want them sending any of her stuff over; she wanted them to keep it all for when she came back.

  Kathryn talked of rehearsals for a Christmas show at high school. She was taking real voice classes now in her spare time. Rusty remembered her saying in that quiet manner of hers, ‘You know, you ought to work in the theatre. Maybe be a scene painter, or stage carpenter, or even a set designer.’ It would never have occurred to Kathryn not to try for something you really wanted to do. Uncle Bruno was always telling them that if you were lucky enough to have a dream, you ought to go for it hell for leather, and even if you didn’t succeed or you changed your mind, you’d still have had some interesting experiences on the way.

  But it was Skeet’s and Janey’s letters that worried her most of all. She felt that they were both growing away from her. Janey had been asked out to a football game by one of the boys in the high school. He was the son of a doctor. Janey’s mom had bought her a camel coat to wear.

  And her date had bought her a corsage, a huge single chrysanthemum, to wear on the coat. Rusty knew they cost at least fifty cents, sometimes even a dollar. He must really like Janey. It sounded serious. And Skeet mentioned that he had gone to a roller-skating party, and he’d lent Rusty’s skates to a girl in his class. He hoped Rusty didn’t mind.

  ‘Virginia?’

  Rusty hopped off the bed and opened the door.

  Her mother was standing in the hall, holding Charlie in her arms; he was still attached to his teddy bear like a Siamese twin.

  ‘I want you to keep your grandmother company.’

  ‘You mean, I have to be alone with her?’

  ‘You can tell her about your holiday. I’m going to give Charlie a bath and put him to bed. Then the three of us can have supper together.’

  Rusty gave a resigned sigh and opened the door into the drawing room.

  Her grandmother was sitting in her winged armchair. ‘I suppose,’ she said, after an awkward silence, ‘you had better be seated.’

  Rusty threw herself into the hard stuffed armchair opposite and gazed at the dark, ticking clock on the mantelpiece.

  Her grandmother stared at Rusty’s feet, which were tucked up underneath her. Rusty pulled them out and swung them to the ground.

  ‘Well, Virginia,’ her grandmother said sweetly. ‘And how was your stay in Devon?’

  ‘It was O.K.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘Well, Mother and I went out in the Bomb for a ride yesterday, and then –’

  ‘The Bomb?’

  ‘It’s her car.’

  ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘And where exactly did you go?’

  ‘Oh, all over the place. Mother showed me where she and lots of other W.V.S. ladies had to evacuate hundreds of people so that the Americans could get ready for D-Day, and then we –’

  ‘The Americans weren’t the only ones fighting in the War, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t say they were,’ said Rusty, bristling. ‘Anyways, we bought some fish and chips and put vinegar and salt on it and ate it out by one of the beaches. It was –’

  ‘You ate fish and chips?’ said her grandmother slowly.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On the beach?’

  ‘Uh-huh. We sat on the running-board and –’

  ‘You ate them out in the open?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Out of newspapers. With our fingers.’

  Mrs Dickinson Senior sat back and pursed her lips. ‘I see.’

  Thank goodness for that, thought Rusty. She didn’t want to have to repeat the whole thing all over again.

  Suddenly there was a loud knock at the front door.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said her grandmother, flustered. ‘It’s Mrs Grace’s day off.’

  ‘It’s O.K.,’ said Rusty, springing to her feet. ‘I’ll go answer it.’

  As she walked through the hallway, she could hear splashing sounds coming from the bathroom and Charlie giggling.

  She opened the door.

  Outside stood a tall thin man in his forties, wearing the uniform of an army major. He was deeply br
onzed, and his cropped hair and moustache were bleached almost white. Over his arm was a khaki raincoat. A large leather attache case stood by his feet.

  ‘Hi,’ said Rusty. ‘May I help you?’

  He frowned for an instant and took a long hard look at her, from her brown-and-white saddle shoes, bobby socks and jeans that had been folded up to calf length, to her sloppy blue sweater, her cascade of long, flame-coloured hair, and the piercing green eyes.

  ‘Virginia?’ he said.

  Rusty was startled. ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Don’t you recognize me?’ he said quietly.

  She shook her, head.

  He looked so tired and bewildered that she felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’m your father,’ he said.

  25

  If it had been in the movies, her mother would have swept down the stairs in a beautiful gown, her hair waved, her face glowing; her father would have thrust Rusty aside and cried, ‘Peggy!’ and she would have replied ‘Roger!’; they would have rushed into each other’s arms and embraced against a background of violin music. Instead, Rusty gaped stupefied at the man, repeating, ‘Father?’

  Her grandmother rediscovered the use of her legs and came running into the hall, and her father gave his mother a polite peck on the cheek, while she clasped him to her bosom.

  After recovering from the shock, Rusty ran up the stairs, yelling. Minutes later, her mother appeared on the landing, her face shining from the steam of the bathroom, her short hair damp and tousled. Charlie was in her arms, wrapped up in a towel, his hair sticking up wildly.

  And no one moved.

  Her father glanced quickly at her mother’s trousers while she gazed down at him, stunned.

  Eventually she walked down the stairs.

  ‘I had no idea,’ she began weakly. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

  ‘I tried to,’ he said. ‘But the phone always seemed to be engaged.’

  Mrs Dickinson Senior looked a little guilty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand that thing ringing, so I sometimes just take it off the hook.’

  Rusty noticed a flicker of anger pass across her mother’s face and then it was gone.

  ‘So,’ he said abruptly. ‘This is Charles.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smoothed his hair down. ‘Charlie,’ she murmured, ‘this is your daddy.’

  Charlie put his arms round Peggy’s neck and buried his face in it.

  Mr Dickinson placed his hands awkwardly behind his back.

  ‘I’ll put him to bed,’ said Peggy. ‘He’ll catch cold in this towel.’

  He gave a nod.

  ‘And perhaps you could change into something a little more respectable,’ said Mrs Dickinson Senior, lightly.

  Peggy blushed. ‘We’ve only just returned from Devon,’ she explained. ‘It was Virginia’s half-term.’

  ‘Roger,’ gushed Rusty’s grandmother suddenly, ‘for goodness’ sake, let me take your coat and cap, and come and sit in the drawing room. You’ll find it just as you left it.’

  Rusty followed on behind him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said on entering. ‘It is.’ He looked puzzled. ‘I thought this was requisitioned.’

  ‘It was, but I had everything put in storage, and luckily it survived the bombs. I managed to have it all moved back and arranged before Margaret and Virginia and Charles’came back. Margaret didn’t do a thing. I mean, she didn’t have to do a thing. Sit down.’

  As Rusty sat down in one of the armchairs, she heard her grandmother whisper, ‘You’ve come back just in time, my dear. Your son needs a father’s hand.’ She leaned back and took a long hard look at him. ‘You’ve changed so much,’ she remarked.

  ‘I expect we’ve all changed a little,’ he said, and he glanced at Rusty. ‘I hardly recognized Virginia.’

  ‘Oh, you can call me Rusty. Everyone back home does.’

  ‘My dear,’ said her grandmother stiffly. ‘You are back home.’

  ‘I mean,’ Rusty stammered, ‘back in Connecticut.’

  ‘Rusty?’ he repeated.

  ‘On account of my hair. Uncle Bruno said it reminded him of leaves in the fall.’

  ‘That’s Mr Omsk,’ explained her grandmother.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I shall continue to call you Virginia. After all, that is what we christened you.’

  ‘O.K.’ She leaned forward. ‘I guess we’re a little bit the same, really. I mean, we were both sent away from England. The tea’s the worst thing here. I still haven’t gotten used to it yet.’

  ‘Well, actually, I wouldn’t mind a cup right now.’

  ‘Oh, Roger,’ said his mother, ‘how foolish of me. I’m afraid it’s Mrs Grace’s day off. I’ll go and make a nice pot for us all.’

  As she left the room, Rusty and her father stared awkwardly at each other.

  ‘And how was your half-term?’ he said.

  ‘O.K. We went to Beatie’s place.’

  He nodded. ‘And how is she? Your mother has told me quite a lot about her in her letters.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rusty quietly. ‘She died. We had to go hear the will read on Saturday.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry about that. Your mother sounded very fond of her.’

  ‘Beatie was the tops.’ Some instinct told her to steer clear of the subject of the will. ‘I go back to school tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘But maybe they’d let me have a Week off-1 mean, with you coming back and all.’

  ‘If everyone did that, there’d be chaos.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Rusty, disappointed. He could at least have put up a fight, though. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘I’ll see you on Friday night.’

  ‘Oh? What’s happening on Friday?’

  ‘I come back here for the weekend.’

  ‘You come back here for the weekends?’ he said slowly.

  Just then her mother walked in. Her father sprang to his feet. Rusty knew that her mother was wearing her better clothes, but she suspected that her father did not. Above an old tweed skirt she wore a simple cream blouse and a grey cardigan that had been darned at the elbows and cuffs. She drew out a packet of cigarettes from her cardigan pocket and took one out.

  ‘Do you have a light?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’m afraid not.’ He sat down again.

  She walked over to the fire. There was a spill of rolled newspaper by the grate. She pushed it into the fire, lit the cigarette, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked, Margaret.’ He tapped his fingers on his knee.

  She nodded. ‘Someone handed me one during a raid in Plymouth.’

  The W. V.S. had helped collect half a street of mutilated bodies that night, and then one by one they had accompanied the surviving relatives and friends to the mortuary to comfort them as they identified what remained.

  ‘I was as sick as a dog at first,’ she said quickly, ‘but after that I suppose I got used to it.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had cut your hair either,’ he said.

  ‘Well, yes. It was far more convenient.’

  They heard the clatter of the tea-trolley in the hall. Peggy hastily placed her cigarette on the mantelpiece so that the lit end jutted out over the edge. ‘Sit down, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring it in.’

  ‘Thank you. I was beginning to think I’d been forgotten.’ And she gave a short laugh.

  To Rusty’s surprise, her grandmother sat down beside her father, almost as if she was a chaperone.

  Peggy drew out two low tables and laid the cups and saucers out.

  ‘I’ll be mother,’ said Mrs Dickinson Senior.

  At first Rusty didn’t understand, but then she realized that ‘being mother’ meant that you were the one who poured out the tea.

  Peggy picked up her cigarette from the mantelpiece and sat on the edge of the winged armchair, opposite Rusty. Rusty stared at her father. He looked so uncomfortable and out of place sitting on a sofa in his uniform. He sat, bolt upright, as st
iff as if he had a poker up his back. If there were grades for good carriage, Jar ey would have given him an A.

  ‘I hear,’ he said, turning to Peggy, ‘that the woman whose house you were billeted in has just died.’

  She turned swiftly. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘And what about the other woman who lived there?’

  ‘She’s moved into rented accommodation in Southampton with Susan. She married a G.I. She’s waiting there to be posted out to America.’ She drew on the cigarette. ‘Actually, I’ve had some good news this weekend. She’s expecting a baby.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s hardly the thing to talk about over tea,’ said Mrs Dickinson Senior, casting a swift glance in Rusty’s direction.

  Peggy ignored her. ‘I’m glad for her. She’s had enough unhappiness. Captain Flannagan is a kind man. Susan adores him.’

  ‘We’ve all had to suffer unhappiness,’ said Rusty’s grandmother lightly, ‘but we don’t all run off with G.I.s to cure it.’

  Rusty again saw the flicker of anger in her mother’s eyes.

  ‘You see,’ Peggy explained, ‘soon after she received a telegram informing her that her husband was Missing Believed Dead, her younger child was killed in an air-raid on Plymouth.’

  ‘Yes,’ went on Mrs Dickinson Senior relentlessly, ‘I lost my husband in the First War, but I wouldn’t have dreamt of remarrying.’

  No one’d have you, thought Rusty.

  ‘By the way, Roger,’ said her grandmother, ‘I saw Mr Bartholomew, and he told me to remind you that your old post is waiting for you and that you can take it up any time you like.’

  ‘There’s no rush, is there?’ said Peggy. ‘After all, Roger might want to start something fresh.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Dickinson Senior. ‘Jobs are hard to find.’

  ‘Mother does have a point,’ he said, putting his cup clumsily back on the saucer.

  And then Rusty’s grandmother said something so staggering that Rusty almost fell out of the armchair.

  ‘And we’ve just had some delightful news. This friend of Margaret’s has left her the house in Devon. We can sell it and do some repairs on this house.’

  Rusty and Peggy stared at her, absolutely speechless.

  ‘Is this true?’ said Rusty’s father.