Lily liked hearing Fred called Mr. Barrett, it sounded sort of safe.
“Thank you, Mrs. Townsend. I must go now, Dad’s on his own.”
Hurrying through the darkness, she had time to think about Fred again. It seemed ages since they’d stood by the gate in Pilferer’s Lane.
She felt warm and excited because he would be at home when she got there.
She slipped in by the side door and combed her hair through before going into the bars. John Cobb flashed a questioning glance at her as she came in and she nodded a reassuring reply. He was busy on the public bar side. Madge, who was the new help, seemed to be coping with the saloon bar. It wasn’t too crowded.
She saw Fred sitting at one end of the counter drinking a mild. She went across and said:
“Isn’t Dick here?”
“No, your dad hasn’t seen him this evening. Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing, I hope. He and Elsie had a bit of a bust-up this afternoon and he went off. Her pains started after that. Poor Else.”
“D’you want me to go and look for him, Lil?”
“Yes. . . . No, not yet. Let’s wait for a bit, he might turn up.”
“Silly mucker. But he can’t help it. You know that, Lil?” He looked uncomfortable. He was fond of Dick Cobb, but he was in love with Lily.
“I know, Fred, and so do Mum and Dad. It’s just Elsie who can’t understand. Maybe she will when she’s had the baby. Fred, have you spoken to Dad?”
“About us? No, not yet.”
She felt a shiver of disappointment. It was terribly important that Fred should tell her father; She didn’t know why, but the fact that he hadn’t, brought back the familiar sensations of insecurity. She served a couple of whiskies to a man and a girl whom she hadn’t seen in the pub before and then wandered back to Fred’s corner.
“Don’t look like that, Lil,” he said. “Your dad hasn’t even noticed me yet. He’s been up to his ears with the orders.”
She said:
“I must talk to him about Dick. I’ll be back in a moment, Fred.”
John Cobb had been watching his daughter as he methodically drew beer from the engines and banged at the cash register. She was clear eyed and flushed and he had seen her talking to Fred Barrett.
She came across to him now and he noticed that even her walk seemed different, buoyant and positive, in a way he remembered it before the war. She said:
“Mum’s staying with Else, and I’ve told Mrs. Mitchell and Dr. Townsend. But Dick’s gone off. Else and he had words ’cos he’s chucked up his job at Little Copse, and he went off about five o’clock.”
“Silly young b. . ., what’s he playing at?” John Cobb was upset. He hadn’t reckoned for that sort of trouble.
“He can’t help it, Dad.”
“Can’t help it? He’s got to help it. I won’t have a son of mine treating Else like that when she’s having her kid. It’s time someone told him where he got off. There’s been too much of this ‘he can’t help it’ going the rounds of this house. Chucking his job up at a time like this. What’s he think he’s going to do next?”
Lily was surprised at his reaction; Dad was ever so calm about things as a rule; why had he got his rag out all of a sudden? She said:
“Well, we’d better find him first, hadn’t we, Dad?”
“Find him? I’ll find him all right and when I do he’s going to come into this house and learn the trade. Else will be a grand governor’s missus when Mum and I are gone. Lil, go and see what old Tom’s grumbling about. I’ve told him there’s no more bottled beer.”
Lily went to pacify Tom Cowley and her heart was light and surprised. She’d always known she and Dad didn’t have to say much to understand one another, but she’d never seen him the way he was tonight. As if he already knew about her and Fred, when he talked about Else and Dick. With her and Tommy gone, there’d be room for Dick and his family here if they gave over Grandma’s room too. Maybe that’s how things would plan out. If only someone could find Dick tonight.
She went back to her father.
“Dad, Fred over there says he’ll go and look for Dick, but he’d like to have a word with you first.” She felt nervous as she spoke.
John Cobb said:
“What’s he think I am? A gentleman of leisure? Can’t he see the bar’s full? Oh, all right, Lil, but mind you keep your eyes skinned. Just because I’m about to produce another grandchild doesn’t mean the business can go to pot.” He was smiling and somehow the ends of his moustache looked spry like they did on Sundays. Someone was tapping on the counter with a coin. She went over to deal with the orders.
Fred Barrett said to John Cobb:
“Lil and I are going to get married.” He said it defiantly.
“I’m very fond of my daughter, young fellow. Maybe there’s more to it than what you say,” John replied slowly. Fred met his glance and suddenly he no longer felt aggressive.
“I’ve got a job waiting for me in Halifax. Furnishing business. We can make a home with my old man till we find a place of our own,” he said.
John Cobb looked round his house; it was quieter and both the bars were under control. He said:
“What’s yours?”
“Mild, thank you.”
He drew the drinks slowly, wondering all the time what Maggie was going to say about this. Fred Barrett was a good enough chap but being a prisoner all those years didn’t make for steadiness. Then he thought of Lil’s eyes when she’d come home tonight.
“Cheers,” he said and raised his glass.
“We’d be living outside the town,” Fred said awkwardly, and took a gulp of his beer, “that’ll be all right for Tommy. There’s nothing like a bit of Yorkshire air for kids.”
“There’s nothing wrong with London, come to that. I was born and bred there.” John Cobb said gruffly, suddenly self-conscious about this young man with his red hair and blue eyes. He looked good. You couldn’t tell about some people, but Fred Barrett shone like Maggie’s brasses over the kitchen mantel. John went on, “Still, country air’s always good for kids. Well, son, it’s all right with me so long as you make it all right with the missus. She’s busy tonight.”
“I’ll be moving along then. Lil wants me to have a look for Dick.” Fred rose from the bar and stretched his hand out to John Cobb. “Dick’s being a silly mucker, but he’ll be all right when he knows about Elsie. Silly mucker, he is.”
John Cobb agreed.
“I’ll tell Lil you’re going,” he said, “she’ll want to see you out.”
Lil hurried from the bars to the coolness of the night. Fred held her tightly.
“I’ll find him, Lil. Don’t worry. I know the haunts and he’s sure to be with the lads. Your dad was all right. Lil, we’re going to be married next month. Lil, I love you—honest I do, like mad.”
It seemed as if she couldn’t let him leave her on this night when so much was happening.
* * * *
“Every bloody thing’s got to happen at the same time,” Angela Worthing muttered and thrust her breakfast cup of tea aside.
Two letters by this morning’s post. The first from the B.B.C. She’d got the job of Talks Assistant. It didn’t sound much but she’d put in for it because, mentally, it was right up her street. It hadn’t been too difficult either—an interview, getting on the short list and then another interview. The confirmation now nestled against the teapot. That meant giving notice to the Little Copse Training Centre and moving back to the London flat.
The second letter raised different problems. It was from Jim Cardew. She picked it up and re-read part of the last paragraph.
“. . . I’m sorry I haven’t written to you sooner about all this, but I’ve been pretty busy lately and Molly has been ill. She needs a bit of South of France sun, but unfortunately the damn Frogs still don’t seem to cater for us there. Personally I’ve nothing against your Peter Gurney, but he simply wasn’t up to the sort of job I’d intended. We parted on the best
of terms and I feel sure his particular qualifications lie in a more creative channel. He seemed to be of the same opinion when we said good-bye last month. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I still think this Government’s going to stick its head in a noose and we shall then be able to get back to normal again. Molly says . . .”
Angela stubbed her cigarette out viciously. There were times when she would willingly have knitted to the rhythm of falling Cardew heads. But, at this moment, she’d got other things to do.
She rang up the office to tell them she had to go to town on urgent business and might not be back this week. She also mentioned her resignation from the Training Centre. They knew she was mad anyhow. Any woman who worked for her living because she wanted to, and not because she’d got to—and then bothered about getting a better job—must be mad.
It was a slow train, stopping at every lamp-post like old Mr. Watson’s dog. But it gave her time to think. She’d spent two week-ends ago in the flat with Peter and he’d not said a word about losing his job. It had been a good week-end and there’d been no repetition of the Brian-Serena night. Why hadn’t he told her then, and what the hell was he living on now?
When she got to the flat it was untidy, but no more so than she remembered it since Peter’s arrival. He was sitting in the kitchen in his dressing gown and eating sardines out of a tin.
“Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Have a sardine. There’s some bread in the bin.”
He looked awful, but then he always did before he shaved. The puffiness under his eyes had a mottled look.
“Got a day off from the office?” she asked.
“Oh, that. I’ve chucked in the job. Too much Gestapo work attached to it. Always snooping on other people. Not my cup of tea. I wish you’d have a sardine, Angie; you must be starving.”
“Thanks, I would like one.” She watched him fumbling with a knife and fork. “What are you doing now, Peter?”
“Playing bridge. Not doing too badly either—touch wood. At the Nelson Club. Best players in London there, and they admit women. My God, they’re hot stuff. At bridge I mean. But I’m lucky, I’ve cleared two fifty pounds up to the present.”
“What stakes do you play for?”
“Pound a hundred—sometimes two. I used to play a lot before the war and somehow I know their game. When we’re partners we win and when they’re against me they don’t. Anyhow it’s keeping me off the drink.”
““Why?” She helped herself to margarine and made a sandwich of the sardines. She was suddenly hungry.
“I can’t take more than two or three whiskies if I’m going to concentrate. I need those to steady me, but more gets me mixed up. So I don’t take ’em. Bit of a strain, one way and another.”
“I suppose it is.” She noticed that his hands were shaking when he lit a cigarette, but he was more buoyant than she remembered him. In fact, he seemed pleased with himself. She said: “And supposing you’d lost two fifty pounds instead of winning it?”
“But I haven’t. I tell you I’m good at the game, Angela. I don’t know—I seem to have a thing about it, I just know what to do and when to do it and my partners play well with me and keep their mistakes for when we’re opponents.”
“I see. So now you’re going to settle down to earning a living at bridge.”
“Well, no, not exactly.” He began to look sheepish and nibbled his thumb nail. “But it’s all right as a side line and it’s silly to stop when your luck’s in.”
“Oh, so there is luck in the game, not just skill?”
“Come off it, Angie.” He lit another cigarette from the stub he was smoking. She noticed the stained fingers on his left hand.
“I’m not putting on an act,” she replied. “I’m just interested, that’s all.” She powdered her nose and put on her hat.
“Where are you going?” he asked, and there was less confidence in his voice.
“Shopping. I don’t suppose you’ve got a store of provisions in, have you?” She opened the kitchen cupboard and noted a smear of margarine in a saucer, a half emptied bottle of sour milk and some be-whiskered cheese. “Where’s your ration book, Peter?”
“In the sitting room, I think. I’ll get it.” She followed him. The sitting room was full of old newspapers and covered in dust and ash.
“Here it is. But listen, Angie, what about going out on a party tonight. I’ve got plenty of cash.”
“No thanks, Peter. I shall cook a meal here and after that I’m going to scrub the place out. You might tidy it up when you’re dressed, it’ll make the spring cleaning simpler.” She collected a shopping bag from the hall and then stood by the door of the sitting room. Peter had sunk into an arm chair and was glancing at a copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard.
“I wish you’d told me, when I was last up, that you’d lost the job at Jim Cardew’s,” she said, slowly.
“I didn’t want to worry you. We had a grand week-end, didn’t we?” He grinned at her suddenly. “In any case I’ve got another job I can go to.”
“Really? What?”
“Chap I used to know in the Navy. He’s something to do with youth clubs, national association of something or the other. He says they like ex-service people to run their boys’ clubs and things.”
“What sort of salary?”
“Oh, we didn’t go into that. But I told him I’d come along and help on the sports side if he liked. It would be fun to get one’s hands on a cricket bat again. I might go down a couple of times a week to start with. Voluntary, of course. One can’t take money for a thing like that.”
“I see.” She looked round the room again. “As a matter of fact I’ve got a new job too.”
“Have you—what?” He seemed interested.
“B.B.C. I shall be moving back into this flat on the first of the month. That’s why I want to get the place cleaned out. I suppose Mrs. White has given notice again? She used to do it on me in the old days, about twice a year.”
“No. As a matter of fact I told her to take a month off; her son’s back from Burma.”
She thought, ‘Why does he bother to lie to me? Of course he hasn’t paid Mrs. White and, quite rightly, she’s given up the job.’ But she said no more as she went towards the front door. Peter called after her:
“Does that mean you want me to clear out by the first?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea—yet.” She closed the door quietly behind her and then leaned back against it, exhausted. It had needed all her control not to slam it shut.
Outside, London was bubbling with the atmosphere of spring. The lilac bushes in Brunswick Square showed bright green buds against their sooty branches and against the sycamore trees the sky was flat blue like a summer sea except for some lamb’s-wool clouds rollicking in a high wind above.
Why had she so nearly lost her temper with Peter? What made him able to get under her skin in this way? And why should she, of all people, feel so responsible for him?
She walked round by Lansdowne Place where, since May 1941, they’d been patching up the blitzed corner. She noticed, with methodical satisfaction, that yet another gleaming yellow brick building was nearing completion. You could date the devastation and the rate of repair from the lighter brick walls down to the grey black of the house on the Guilford Street corner.
Yes, spring was certainly here. The ladies of Guilford Street had discarded their utility furs for brighter and shorter jackets. Pale sunshine gleamed on the darkening partings of bleached heads. They are feeling the draught, poor dears, Angela thought, and noted the complete absence of American uniforms from the street scene. That was the big transformation—apart from spring and scaffolding—there were no Americans.
Poor Americans. Angela almost regretted their departure. They’d been good time fellows and the good time girls in London had taken them up in a big way, gum and all. Individually, Angela had liked them. In herds, they’d been a little overpowering. They’d had too much money and they looke
d so dreadful in those uniforms—all bottom somehow. She remembered someone in a pub who’d once told her that the trouble with American men was that their own women treated them like dirt, which was why they ended by behaving like dirt. It made you think. She thought about Peter.
The blitz scars of Guilford Street were healed with fresh green weeds. In a few months’ time they would be carpeted with the yellow of dandelions and speared with the tall bright pinkness of fireweed. She turned into Lamb’s Conduit Street to do her shopping. The tradesmen’s sons were beginning to filter back from the services. They were easier to buy from than their fathers and mothers, less fractious and exhausted by five years of rationing and form-filling.
She bought chops on Peter’s book and then groceries, preserves, biscuits and kitchen soap. She went off the ration for tinned soup, potted meat, toilet paper and Vim. There was also an egg allocation. She cosseted the egg gently on top of her other purchases. What a tiny amount of everything you got on one ration book. She was used to the communal existence of the Little Copse Training Centre where you handed in your book and somehow ate adequately, if dully, for the rest of the week. You could starve with decency on one ration book. She noticed that Peter hadn’t bought his rations last week and felt furious: it was too late now to cash in on the coupons.
She went to the greengrocers across the road and found a queue. There was an orange allocation which accounted for the afternoon crowd. Not that she minded; she rather enjoyed queues when she had time for them. She settled down to shuffle.
The woman in front was talking to her neighbour about a soldier back from Burma.
“Ever such a sad case,” she muttered; “his wife’s had two illegibles whilst he’s been abroad and he didn’t know nothing about it.”
“Too bad,” replied her neighbour; “reminds me of a case in our street, only hers died. But even that didn’t learn her and she went off to Manchester with one of them Class ‘B’ releases—a bricklayer, he was—just one week before her bloke got back from Italy. I never saw a chap so drunk in my life before; they turned him out of three pubs that night, and him with all his ribbons up and the dirt of foreign suns still on him.”
Wine of Honour Page 15
