Beware This Boy

by Maureen Jennings

  He was doing everything he could to needle the youth, but Bolton had a lot of self-control and one of those dead faces that revealed little. Only his eyes seemed to grow darker.

  Cardiff grinned. Chopin hardly seemed to have heard or understood.

  Arnold fluttered his pale, fat hands. “Please, Comrade Hitchcock. This is quite unproductive. It is not relevant. We must await our orders.”

  “I need to know who my orders are coming from,” said Lev. “Why should I risk everything for an invisible man?”

  Comrade Bolton nodded. “You have a point, Yank. But don’t worry. Everything is in place for our little party. And it’s going to be bloody spectacular.”

  “When? Or is that too difficult a question for a mere lieutenant to answer?”

  “Let’s say you will be given warning.”

  “But I need to have some idea when these fireworks are going to happen. As well as everything else, I’m a legitimate filmmaker making a legitimate film. I have no desire to have my hard work go up in smoke. Besides, as our Welsh comrade says, I too want to live to fight another day. When are you and ‘the boss’ planning this, and what do you mean by spectacular?”

  Cardiff lit up one of his home-rolled fags, drew on it deeply, and picked a piece of tobacco from his lip. “If our American friend here is going to be in the clear, what about us two, Comrade Chopin and me? Will we have a job to do or is it better if we are absent that day?”

  Arnold did another flutter. “You will be receiving your instructions within the next day or two. You are part of the plan, an important part. Both of you.”

  “But not me?” Lev managed to make his voice sound sulky. A man who was being passed over in favour of inferiors.

  Comrade Bolton answered. “You’ll be needed afterwards.”

  Lev raised his eyebrows. “I get it. I’m to film the destruction part. Pan over dead bodies and that sort of thing. My secret other film to show the people what a lousy job their government is doing.”

  “That’s right. You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  “I thought we had agreed there would be no civilian casualties. You’re suggesting there will be, and a lot of them.”

  Comrade Bolton bared his teeth in a sort of smile. “Minimal, old chap. Fucking minimal.”

  Lev turned to the Welshman. “How do you feel about the civilian damage, comrade?”

  Cardiff hesitated. “Like we’ve said previous, you can’t win a war without spilling blood, and we’re in a war.”

  “But these are innocent young women we’re talking about,” said Lev.

  Cardiff dragged on his cigarette. “Let’s put it this way, comrade. The English have a long history of not giving a damn about the innocent when they want something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, comrade,” interrupted Bolton. “Tell us your own sad story. And then I can add mine and Chopin here can tell his. I bet he has a doozy. Except for Comrade Arnold, who grew up in the lap of luxury with a silver spoon in his arse. I bet we can all turn on the bloody spigot. Maybe even the Yank has got a sob story tucked away.”

  “Comrade Chopin,” Lev interjected. “How do you feel about what’s being planned? This so-called spectacular show.”

  The other man didn’t move. “We have to stop the sickness in the world.”

  Before Lev could press him as to what the hell he meant by that, Cardiff spoke up.

  “If you must know, my father, both of his brothers, and my oldest cousin all worked in the mines in Wales. What else is there to do for a living in that godforsaken place? They worked for a pittance. Most of them had too many children, most of them had black lung. Those men – my own flesh and blood, look you – all died in the mines. Typical happening. One of the shafts collapsed and twenty men died a slow and lingering death. They had no pensions, of course, except what the benevolent society could pay out. The English owners didn’t give a shite. Nobody came to the funerals and they docked the wages of the men who did attend. Nobody asked if something could be done to prevent accidents like that.”

  Cardiff’s voice was low. He was looking at the floor. “I was eleven years old when my pa died and I became the breadwinner for the family. Seven wee ones, me the oldest. One day I saw one of the owners drive by in his motor car with his wife in furs beside him. My mam didn’t have furs. She went without clothes and food so her kiddies could have something to stop the pain from the cold and the hunger. She died when she was forty. The doctor said the cause of death was pernicious anemia. I say she died because she was worn out.”

  His bitterness and white-hot rage were spilling into the room, so palpable they could burn the skin. “I’m sorry if civilians have to die, but if this is one more step on our journey to bring down the English and return the Welsh land to its rightful owners, I consider it necessary. No matter what the price.”

  “I gather that was a vote in favour,” said Lev.

  Cardiff flushed. “That’s right. And sorry I am for the long speech. Mind you, I’d like to know sooner rather than later when I might expect it all to happen.”

  Arnold was clearly so relieved to have Taffy’s support that he blurted out, “It’ll be before the week is out.” Realizing he had said too much, he stopped. “But that is for your information only.”

  Bolton looked at Lev. “Can we all trust you to keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, comrade?”

  “What do you take me for?” Lev answered irritably.

  “Good bloody question. Unless I read you wrong, you’re very interested in saving your own bloody skin. That, or you’ve got another reason for wanting to know when the party will happen.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Lev and he took a step forward. In the small parlour that meant he was almost nose to nose with the youth.

  Cardiff put out a hand between them. “Not a good time to fight among ourselves, comrades.”

  Lev could feel the strength of Cardiff’s forearm and he moved back.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. A pleasant, melodic sound that seemed to belong to a world of china teacups and freshly toasted crumpets, not this squalid, dingy room filled with murder.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Cardiff. “Comrade Hitchcock, do you have an answer to your questions?”

  Lev shrugged. “In a way. But I do want to go on record that I hate being kept in the dark like this.”

  “Objection noted,” said Arnold.

  The Welshman held out his hand to Lev. “In case I don’t have a chance to shake your hand at a later date, I wish you well, and here’s to the revolution.”

  They shook hands. Cardiff waved at the others. “I shall await my instructions, Comrade Arnold. Usual method of communication?”

  “Quite so.”

  He left and there was an uneasy silence for a few moments. Lev knew it would be impossible to get any more information. Nobody trusted him. The doors had closed. He wasn’t even sure who was in the know. Not Chopin, and presumably not Cardiff as yet. The little thug was, and obviously Arnold. For a moment he felt a wave of desperation. How the hell was he going to find out what they had planned? Even if he had them arrested he didn’t know who the leader at the plant was, and that was the man he wanted. Otherwise he would have simply lopped off one of the heads of the Hydra. More would grow.

  It was almost midnight and Eileen knew she should get to sleep, but she was too agitated to even try. She took out her Mass Observation diary.

  Lev Kaplan asked me to go to the pictures with him. He said I deserved it after what had happened this morning. I immediately said no, I couldn’t possibly, but he pressed me. “Why not? It’s no disrespect to Frankie and the other girls if we try to grasp at whatever pleasure we can while we can.” Words to that effect anyway, although he put it more elegantly. He has a way with words, does Mr. Kaplan. He’s right. At least I think he is. Francine is going to be all right, but she will have some disfigurement for the rest of her life. Poor girl. She was always so
proud of her lovely long hair.

  Eileen paused. What she wanted to write about she was reluctant to share with Mass Observation. She decided to continue anyway.

  I can hardly remember what the film was about. Michael Wilding doing something or other with Anna Neagle. The only seats left were in the back row and I felt some misgivings about sitting there. Lev seemed oblivious. Is this just an English custom – the back-row courtships? It was soon apparent nobody was there to see a film. I felt quite ridiculous. The man seated next to me was virtually moaning as he kissed his girlfriend. His hand was clearly in a very intimate place. I was trying to cut him out of my consciousness and concentrate on the film but it was almost impossible. Then Lev whispered in my ear, “If we can’t beat them, let’s join them.” He turned my chin and kissed me.

  Eileen stopped writing. What a sweet, long kiss it had been. His lips were soft. Had men’s lips always been that soft? There was more tenderness and exploration than passion in that kiss.

  I couldn’t shake off my self-consciousness. I’m over forty, for heaven’s sake, not fourteen. But the cinema was dark. I hoped nobody would see us. I wanted him to kiss me again, but he didn’t right away. He turned back to the film although he kept hold of my hand. He seemed comfortable in a way I wasn’t at all. He laughed at some antic on the screen. All I could think of was when he would kiss me again. He must have read my mind, because after a while he turned again. I could see his smile. “Are you okay?” he asked. I wanted to say, “No, I’m not. I want to go somewhere where we can lie naked together, where I can feel you inside me. I don’t care if we’ve only just met. We could be dead tomorrow and I would never have known the bliss of being made love to by a man like you.” But of course I couldn’t say that and simply nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. He did kiss me again, but it wasn’t like the first kiss. This time there was more intensity to it. I could hardly breathe. The man next to me must have had his orgasm, because his groans were stifled. His girlfriend was giggling and he was jerking. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be acting like a teenager. I suddenly felt cold and removed. I didn’t want to kiss anymore. The film wasn’t over yet but a couple a few rows in front of us got up and left. “Let’s take their seat,” I said to Lev. I didn’t give him much chance to answer and I stood up with my coat. I was almost afraid to go past the noisy couple on my left but they were both lighting cigarettes and didn’t seem to be aware of me at all. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, the boy hardly any older. We did go and sit in the other seats and it was better, although if my life depended on it, I don’t think I could recall the plot of the film. Lev had brought chocolates with him and I ate more than I should. I regretted it later.

  About seven thirty, just before the film ended, there was an air-raid warning. The second one today. The film was stopped and the little nervous manager came out to tell us we could leave for the shelter. They couldn’t give a refund as more than half of the film had been played. Those who wanted could stay at their own risk and watch the rest. Only a few people left, and after a brief consultation, Lev and I decided to stick it out. We didn’t hear any bombs dropping, so either it was a false alarm or the bombers were heading somewhere else, the way they did this morning. Bristol or Liverpool probably – surely Coventry can’t get hit again. Poor people. It was even more difficult to concentrate with half an ear on what was happening outside, but even though I couldn’t see anybody in the dark, I felt as if we were all connected by the invisible bonds of fear and defiance. At least it took me away from my agitation, so I’m thankful for that. The all-clear sounded half an hour later, almost at the same time that THE END flashed on the screen. We laughed at that. Then the lights went on and we filed out, smiling and chatting to each other like old friends as if we had cheated the Nazi war machine, which I suppose we had in a way.

  The night was so overcast we thought we were probably safe from another raid and we actually found a café open. I’d never been in it before and it looked decidedly seedy, but I didn’t want to go home yet and neither did he. And it was seedy, the air heavy with stale grease that clung to my clothes after. But the tea was all right and they had some scones left. They were rock-hard but we took them anyway. Lev said, “Eileen, forgive me for the back-row thing. They were the only seats left. I think I embarrassed you.” I didn’t want to lie, so I just said, “Well, we’re not teenagers, are we?” I wasn’t going to say how much I still felt that kiss. Then he leaned closer so nobody could hear us. “I would like to make love to you properly. Is there any possibility that could ever happen, dear Miss Abbott?”

  My God. What could I say? I made a feeble joke that it was all right to call me by my first name now that we’d kissed. The café was filled with men in uniform and their girls. All younger than us, of course. I seemed to be surrounded by love, or certainly a desperate lust.

  “I’d like that,” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I knew it.

  So that was more or less that. He said he’s going back to London soon. He has digs there. But he said that Mrs. Cooper goes to her daughter’s in the country every weekend. Perhaps we could work it out for me to come and stay. I agreed, although I don’t know how I’m going to do that. Not with the Brian situation hanging over us.

  Again Eileen stopped writing for a moment. The house was silent, everybody asleep except her.

  Things were very bad before I went out. Brian was desperate and couldn’t sit down for more than a minute. He’s upset that he can’t see Vanessa. I made him take a sedative to calm him down. I don’t know how she is going to deal with that pregnancy. Over tea, Brian told Dad and me what he’d already told Mum, that he might be able to get papers to get him to Ireland. It will cost money but we’re willing to pay if we have to. He says Jack can be the go-between and nobody questioned that. Later perhaps we will take our respective heads out of the sand where that boy is concerned.

  She closed the diary and replaced it at the back of the drawer. Her room was chilly but it was too late to build up the fire. A needless extravagance. Her thoughts leaped to being in bed with Lev. It had been such a long time since she had experienced sexual intimacy, and that last time hadn’t been particularly fulfilling. She had imagined herself in love with one of the office managers at Endicott’s. She knew he was married but he said he was separated. Not true, as it turned out. But they had gone to a hotel in the country for a weekend. The lovemaking had been rather perfunctory. Indeed, she had to say dull. He had spent most of the time complaining about his wife and kids, who were feckless. What she had seen in him she couldn’t imagine and she was glad when he moved away to Nottingham. And now there was Lev. And she had never in her life felt like this about anybody before.

  She turned out her bedside lamp, got out of bed, and went over to the window. She pulled back the blackout curtain. It was so dark outside she could hardly see past the end of the front garden, but she caught the tiny flash of a torch. The air-raid warden was making his rounds. She knew him – Reg Anderson from the next street. He was too old to be doing this but he insisted. Watching his slow progress, she felt absurdly weepy.

  She went back to her bed. How could she have been daydreaming about loving a strange man when all this life and death was on her doorstep? Another war within her lifetime. Another time when young, vital men lost their lives. Another time when women wept.

  Tyler was sitting with Alf Mason in the common room. They’d had a decent enough meal and were now into the cigar-and-brandy stage. “Like gents,” said Alf. “Drink up, it’s the last bottle.” There were three constables – one of them Eagleton – playing a spirited game of darts, and the wireless was broadcasting some BBC light music program. Tyler could actually feel himself relaxing.

  Eagleton hit a bull’s eye and let out a loud cheer. Considering he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, it was a quite a feat.

  Mason turned back to Tyler. “Do you remember when we used to hide our duty arm bands and pretend we were off-duty so
we could go into the pub? You were darts-mad in those days and you were always on the lookout for a match.”

  “Not to mention a pint,” added Tyler.

  “That too.”

  Tyler grinned. “We must have had wool for noggins. We could have got dismissed on the spot if we’d been found out.”

  “Might not have been such a bad thing. I would have bought my own pub and been a wealthy man by now instead of an underpaid copper.”

  “True.”

  They lapsed into the comfortable silence of old friends.

  Alf flicked off some cigar ash. “What’s your take, then, Tom? Are you chalking up this latest incident to another accident? More carelessness?”

  Tyler blew out some of the rich cigar smoke. “It is looking like that. I examined Francine’s lathe but those machines were built decades ago. The guard had come loose and slipped down between the wheels. Francine was also apparently in the habit of leaving some of her hair out of her turban. Thought the turban was ugly.”

  “Sounds like a contemporary morality play. The fruits of vanity.”

  It was Tyler who swished around his brandy this time. “They’re young girls, most of them. A bit of vanity is allowed, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re talking to somebody who has two daughters, Tom.”

  “The wheel should have stopped immediately when her hair got caught, but it didn’t,” continued Tyler. “Apparently there’s been more than one of these accidents. Nobody has been scalped before, thank God, but there have been badly bruised fingers.”

  “Endicott should have them replaced,” said Alf. “The lathes, I mean.”

  “I agree. The workers have been asking for new models since the factory was commandeered, but so far Endicott has been dragging his feet.”

  “He’s got a reputation of being a skinflint.”

  Tyler stabbed the air with his cigar. “I’m going to make it part of my recommendations. ‘Replace decrepit machines.’ ”