The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘John?’

  He placed his cup back on its saucer, his hand trembling so the tea slopped and the clink of the china sang out like fallen keys.

  ‘John?’ She reached over and dabbed his saucer dry with her napkin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

  She knew she’d touched a nerve, and wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps he needed to be alone. She tapped her lips with the napkin. ‘Thank you for tea. I must go.’

  ‘So soon? May I see you home?’ he said.

  ‘I can make my own way,’ she said, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up. He stood too. He was average height, slender. She had thought he was taller when she’d seen him in the lamplight. Shadows did that. Distorted perspective.

  ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going on the Easter march?’

  ‘Possibly. But that’s weeks away. Perhaps I could take you out? The pictures?’

  ‘Maybe. I must dash.’

  She pulled her hat from her bag and tugged it on.

  ‘I work at Barstow’s,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’

  She put on her coat, walked towards the door. A man stood up as she passed him, tipping over the chair in his haste. She caught a glimpse of him. He looked like someone she once knew but when she checked again, he’d gone. She was imagining things. She stepped out of the door, and waved at John as she ran past the window. It had begun to sleet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  London: February 1958

  John let himself into the building, checked the table for post, and climbed the staircase to the rooms he rented on the top floor. He kicked off his outdoor shoes and padded into the bedroom, fishing under the bed for his slippers. He had a stack of marking to do and the flat was chilly. He’d have to light the fire, warm himself up, fill his pen with red ink and coax it into action. It was sluggish in cold weather.

  He padded across the linoleum into the sitting room and switched on the wireless. He was used to living on his own, but coming in tonight the silence of his rooms was overwhelming. That young woman, in a way he couldn’t fathom, had made him lonely. He hadn’t had that feeling for a long time. If ever, really. The dirty plate and frying pan from supper were piled in the sink in his kitchenette, and his upturned cup and saucer were balanced on the draining board. Bachelor.

  He laid the fire and fished for the matches on the mantelpiece, watching as the flame caught and the coals began to glow. A gentle heat radiated out. The feeling began to return to his fingers and his cheeks started to tingle and sting, and he remembered how the cold outside and the warmth of the hall had flushed her face so it glowed, ripe and lush. Peaches and cream, was that what they called it? A peaches-and-cream complexion, her hair berry-brown, curled like a pageboy’s at the back of her head. A nut-brown maiden. Percy’s words rang through his mind: Shall never be said the nut-brown maid / was to her love unkind. Her eyes, he’d noted, were grey.

  Barstow’s. He had no idea who they were, but he could look them up in the telephone book and send her a letter, or if it was close, deliver it by hand. It needn’t be long, but it would be polite. I apologise if I appeared a bit forward. She’d bolted when he suggested meeting again, so he must have moved too fast. He’d made a fool of himself too, when he told her what he taught. Why did he have to get the shakes then? Maybe that’s why she left in a hurry. She sensed his instability. Thank you for your company at tea. He didn’t know her surname but was sure it would arrive, especially if he put ‘typing pool’. There couldn’t be that many Bettys in a typing pool. There is a meeting of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in St Pancras next week which I plan to attend. I’ll send off a postal order too, as they need the money. She’d been brittle, non-committal, even strict with him, but when he’d trembled and spilt his tea she’d seemed sensitive, understanding. He’d put ten bob on her writing poetry. I enjoyed our talk and hope we meet again, perhaps at Aldermaston.

  He leaned back in his chair and laughed. He’d never send the letter. He was far too shy. Was it shyness? Or nervousness? Most men his age were married. He found it hard to make the first move and his job took up most of his time, so where would he ever meet anyone? That’s what his mother kept saying, Why don’t you find a nice girl and settle down?

  Would that it were that simple. It wasn’t just reticence, or time, he knew. It ran far deeper than that. He stared into the flames, his mind wandering back to Berlin. Enough. He opened his briefcase and took out the exercise books, resting them in a pile by the fireplace, glancing at the mantel clock on the shelf. Ten thirty. He’d work for an hour, then go to bed. Do what he could, and polish off the rest in his lunch break. The clock was as silent as the room, no brash tick-tock or tinsel chimes. It sat on its chrome base, reminding him, pain etched in its round glass face, a kind of penance.

  He shut his eyes and tried to think of Betty sitting in front of him, cradling her cup in her slender, white fingers, but it was another woman’s face he saw, another’s hands with broken nails clutching a chipped enamel jug, picking through the rubble of the Adlon, where dusty buddleia and grass were colonising the ruins and where he’d spotted a rabbit the day before. Her hair was a rich golden brown, like Betty’s, but streaked with dust. Her eyes were gold.

  He picked up the first book from the pile, slammed it back down again.

  Betty was serious, intense. Was she just another bluestocking, too unsure of herself to let go? Or was there a deeper reason? She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking, and mysterious. Though, if he was honest, most women were to him.

  No matter he didn’t have her surname. ‘Miss Betty c/o Barstow’s’ would find her. If he was keen, that is. Otherwise, forget her. On second thoughts, he could play for time by trying to find out her real name. It was juvenile to write ‘Miss Betty c/o Barstow’s’, the sort of thing one of his love-struck sixth-formers would do. He’d write to the boss, or Personnel if it was a big enough company, get her proper name. He didn’t need to contact her today, after all. And if he wrote on the school notepaper, then whoever read it would see he wasn’t some crank but a respectable citizen. He’d ask the secretary if he could borrow her typewriter. A typed letter would make it more official.

  §

  The reply came a week later. Miss Bette Fisher. Bette? They must have made a typing mistake. She was Betty, a common-or-garden diminutive Elizabeth.

  He found it hard to concentrate these days at the best of times. Found himself setting translations and comprehension tests more than was strictly necessary while he sauntered over to the classroom window and gazed up at the clouds squatting over the city, the tips of the chestnut trees around the playground beginning to glow green with the promise of spring. She worked in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. On Monday it would be five weeks since he’d met her, and he’d made no move to contact her even though he thought about her all the time.

  A letter had come by second post and was waiting in his pigeonhole. It was marked Personal. He slit the envelope along the top with his finger, and pulled out the contents. It was folded over, written on a small sheet of blue Basildon Bond paper, the brand he used to write his letters. Dear John. He skimmed to the bottom of the letter. Yours sincerely, Betty.

  The writing danced and bowed. She had made the first move, beaten him to it. The secretary was staring at him across the teapot. She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

  John could feel the smile climb along his lips and into his cheeks and finally settle around his eyes.

  ‘Have I?’ he said. She signed herself Betty. He put the letter in his pocket to read later. He’d relish the moment, like saving the cherry for last. It was double French for the sixth-formers and he let them hold a debate on France and the crisis in Algeria. There was a staff meeting at the end of the day, so it was past six o’clock before he got to his rooms in Bury Street. He could do with a beer, enjoy its bitter yeasty tang while he read the l
etter. He parked his bike and chained it to the railings, and went into the local opposite.

  ‘Evening, John,’ the landlord said as he entered. ‘Your usual?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He paid, and took it over to a small table by the window and pulled out the letter.

  Dear John,

  It took me some time, but I finally tracked you down. The secretary at your school was very reluctant to give me your surname. I have no idea why. I had to lie like mad for my reasons for wanting it! If you don’t want to hear from me, then please read no further. We met at the rally in Central Hall, you remember, and then had tea afterwards. I’m sorry I had to rush off, but I had a train to catch and was cutting it a bit fine!

  I hope you are well and if I am not being too forward, I would like to take you up on your offer to meet again. If you’ve changed your mind, then please ignore this letter. If not, my address is at the top. It’s a work address, I’m afraid, but it’s the easiest way to contact me. Write, please, don’t ring. We’re not allowed to take personal calls.

  Yours sincerely,

  Betty Fisher

  He smiled to himself. If he posted his reply tonight, it would get to her tomorrow second post, or Friday at the latest. That would give her time to reply. Saturday. Or Sunday. He’d collect her from wherever she lived. Or the station. She said she had to catch a train. They could go to the zoo. Animals were a good icebreaker. Elephants, big cats, creepy-crawlies. Monkeys. It was years since he’d been there. Or perhaps she’d prefer the pictures? They’d saunter afterwards to the Corner House in Marble Arch. Maison Lyons, no less. Have a slap-up tea in one of the restaurants there or, if he had enough money, go to the grill. He finished his beer, folded the letter, waved goodbye to the barman, and crossed the road to his buildings.

  CHAPTER THREE

  London: April 1958

  Betty had never seen anything so posh. It wasn’t a polite word, posh, but sometimes no other word would do. John sat opposite her, his napkin tucked into his collar like a schoolboy. She wondered if she shouldn’t do the same with hers. It would be awful to spill gravy or worse down her best day frock. It had taken her a while to decide what to wear before she settled on her choice. Smart, but not flashy, bluestocking-ish with a hint of bohemian. It was red, after all, albeit a rusty red rather than a brash pillar-box. A stain would be too embarrassing. She picked up the napkin, and tucked it in.

  She had suggested they meet at the restaurant.

  ‘I’m in town anyway,’ she’d said. This wasn’t quite true. She’d come in especially to meet him.

  They’d shaken hands, and his palms were dry and soft. She’d confessed right away that she hadn’t walked all the way to Aldermaston, only to Chiswick really, which wasn’t far, but her father had wanted her home at Easter. Had demanded her presence, but she didn’t tell John that.

  ‘Just as well, though, given the weather on Easter Saturday. Chucked it down.’

  ‘That’s further than I went,’ he said. ‘And for much the same reasons.’

  She wondered whether he was a mummy’s boy, tied up with apron strings. Was that why he was so anxious and unsure?

  ‘Your work misspelled your name,’ he said, after they’d sat down and ordered. ‘They put an “e” at the end of Betty, not a “y”.’

  She looked across the table at him. He seemed nervy, fiddling with his fork, turning it over and over. She took a deep breath, even though she had said it often enough.

  ‘No they didn’t,’ she said. ‘That is my name.’

  She smiled. Fib, she’d done it often enough, put him at his ease. ‘My parents called me after some Hollywood star or other.’ She looked up, straight at him. ‘I hate it. Betty’s much nicer.’

  ‘Bette Davis?’ he said. ‘She’s very glamorous.’ Betty felt the coarse grip of a blush colouring her face.

  ‘I rather like the name Bette,’ he went on. ‘It’s more unusual. Betty with a y seems very Home Counties. Godalming. Gymkhanas and all that.’

  He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Am I right? His eyes teased and a smiled edged his mouth.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Hatfield.’ He looked disappointed, as if his judgement was wrong, so she added, ‘At least, that’s where we ended up after the war.’ And wished she hadn’t said anything.

  John thought for a moment, his forehead furrowed. ‘Everyone was on the move after the war.’

  He spoke softly, as if recalling a particular moment. Of course, she thought, he’d probably been there, in Europe. He’d know. She was twisting one corner of the napkin, rolling it in her fingers. The last thing she wanted to talk about was the war. She looked away, spotted the waitress bearing a tray.

  ‘I think our soup is here,’ she said, leaning back so the waitress could put the bowl in place. Tomato soup. Betty could tell from the smell it came from a tin, but no matter. It was her favourite. He swirled the soup and made a vortex and she wanted to say, Be careful, you’ll spill it.

  ‘Where were you before?’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before you moved to Hatfield.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well.’ She hadn’t told anyone that. ‘Well, everywhere, really. We moved around.’ That was the truth. She stirred her soup, took a sip.

  He leaned back, dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

  ‘Was your father in the army then? Moving around?’

  She looked up, her soup lumping in her throat. ‘Everyone was in the army,’ she said, feeling her cheeks redden. Well, it was half true. She shrugged, added, ‘I was only a child.’

  ‘What does he do now?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said. ‘He works with de Havilland, something to do with aeroplanes. It’s all very dull and suburban. Shall we change the subject?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to give you the third degree.’

  Betty shrugged, her shoulders tense. ‘That’s all right.’ She scraped the last of the soup from her bowl. ‘I just don’t terribly want to talk about it, that’s all.’

  The waitress removed their plates, brought their main course. Chicken. Mashed potatoes. She wondered whether they were powdered, like the ones in the canteen at work. Carrots. Tinned.

  ‘Your turn now,’ she said. ‘For the third degree.’

  She picked up her knife and fork. She was, she realised, hungry.

  ‘I was brought up in Surrey,’ he said. ‘Purley. Ghastly place. Couldn’t wait to leave.’

  He sat, chicken and potato poised on his fork. ‘Minor public school.’ He pushed the food in his mouth, added, ‘Very minor. Then I was called up. I was eighteen, never really left home except for a few months when the school was evacuated to Somerset. Straight into the army. They gave me a few tests, said I was officer material. I mean…’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What did I know about leadership?’ He pushed some carrot onto his fork, popped it in his mouth, turned to cut at the chicken leg with his knife. It slipped, splashing gravy onto the tablecloth.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer to use fingers, but…’ He looked around him, leaned forward. ‘It wouldn’t be very U.’

  Betty laughed. He was an awkward man, intense, but he made her smile. Perhaps, she thought, he’s just shy.

  ‘Where did they send you?’

  ‘Germany.’ He looked down at his plate, picked at the chicken leg with his fork. It was a while before he lifted his eyes and Betty thought for a moment that they were glassy. He sniffed. ‘Enough of this. Listen. Are you free this afternoon?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘That depends.’

  ‘Have you been to the British Museum lately?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m ashamed to say.’

  ‘Then you’re in for a treat. There’s a whole section on recent discoveries in Ife.’

  ‘Ife?’

  ‘Nigeria.’ He held up his two forefingers. ‘You’ll be interested, as a would-be anthropologist. It includes the Ife head. You must have heard of that? Bronze. Fourteenth cen
tury. Phenomenal. They’ve got other bronzes too. And terracotta. You’ll love it.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the Benin bronzes, of course I have, but I’ve never seen them, not in real life. Only pictures.’

  ‘Then gobble up your chicken,’ he said. ‘We can stop somewhere for an ice cream on the way. Call it pudding.’

  ‘I’d like that too,’ Betty said.

  The years don’t matter, she thought, when you like someone.

  ‘Well,’ she said. They were standing outside the museum. The sky had been cloudless earlier, the sun warm and welcoming. Showers had been forecast and now the sky was fat with rain clouds. ‘Goodbye then. And thank you.’ She shifted her weight, switched her bag from one hand to the other. ‘I had a lovely time.’

  She saw him fiddle with the lip of his jacket pocket.

  ‘Goodbye.’ He took a breath, and she watched as a blush swirled round his neck, rushed up his cheeks. Held out his hand and took hers. It was surprisingly large and she felt like a bird in his palm, a robin or canary, with frail limbs and honey plumage.

  ‘Actually, Betty,’ he said, ‘may I see you again?’ She was standing on a magic carpet, holding on to air. ‘If you’re agreeable, that is.’

  She frowned.

  ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘I quite understand if you say no. In fact, I probably look a bit of a fool, asking you like this. There’d be no hard feelings. So, just say if—’

  ‘I’d like that, John.’

  Betty saw his blush return, circling his forehead and nose.

  ‘I can’t give you my phone number,’ she went on. ‘My father’s a bit funny about…’ She pursed her lips and twisted her head. ‘About people calling and stuff. But I can ring you, if you have a phone.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London: June 1958

  The memory of that touch lingered. That she wanted to see him again was a miracle. She would be his healer, he knew, turn his brittle soul into a soft, malleable thing that could fly to a heaven of their choosing.