The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  A man cycled by and a lone taxi drove past, London’s early birds. Or late birds. Worshippers off to matins at St George’s. Revellers home from a night on the town. A man rounded the corner of Great Russell Street, sauntered into Bury Place. He wore a cap so his face was in the shade, but the walk was unmistakable. He stopped opposite, looked up. John stepped back from the window, heart racing. His hands grew clammy and the tumbler slipped from his grasp, hitting the lino with a thud, water spilling. John glanced down at the glass, then up and out of the window. The man had gone. John squeezed the curtain back, leaned to one side to see better. The man was nowhere to be seen. Neither right nor left nor straight ahead. How could he vanish into thin air?

  He picked up the tumbler, fetched the floor cloth. He hadn’t slept well. That’s all it was. This time, he was imagining it. Besides, he hadn’t seen the man’s face. It could have been anyone. He imagined too much. Hallucinated. Flashbacks, the doctor called them. He threw the cloth onto the spill, watched as the heavy cotton absorbed the water, changing tone, texture. The man could have crossed the road. Of course. That would explain why he couldn’t be seen. He hadn’t disappeared at all. John couldn’t see anyone on his side of the street unless he hung out of the window.

  Footsteps. The laboured thud as someone climbed the stairs. He froze. Had he closed the door? Or was it still on the latch, as he’d left it when he went to the lavatory? He ran towards it. It was shut, but he pulled the bolt across, just to be sure. Ear against the wood. Bob must have left the street door open again. The footsteps had stopped. Were they on his landing? Was the man outside? Was he listening, waiting, ready to break in? Surprise gave the greatest advantage. Ambush at dawn. John’s stomach griped. He looked towards the kitchen. Four strides, he’d be there, grab a knife, ready.

  The lavatory chain, the rush of water, the tread of a foot on the steps, fainter and fainter, Bob’s door shutting. Of course. He breathed in hard, let his shoulders droop. His mind was overactive. It always was when he was tired. He startled too easily. He should sleep some more. That’s what the doctor said. Don’t overtax yourself. Make sure you get your rest.

  He went back to the puddle on the floor, picked up the floor cloth and wrung it out. Coincidence. That man was just coincidence. Who would be up this early in the morning? Anatoly had no business with him. He put the cloth in the bucket under the sink and tiptoed back to bed. Betty had turned over in his absence. He felt at ease, her presence an unexpected comfort. He crept in beside her, cradling her like a spoon, nuzzling his face into her hair. She must have washed it yesterday. It smelled clean, perfumed.

  He’d never felt like this before. Not even for her. He could never let anything happen to Betty. He would protect her, care for her. Cherish her. His feelings for her had a depth and roundness, a certainty, despite their difference in age. He’d been six when she was born, twelve when the war started. He was just into long trousers, a young man, his father had said.

  ‘Let’s hope the war’s over before you reach eighteen.’

  The war was in its death throes when he was conscripted, but it had still had a final kick in it.

  Was that why he felt protective of her? Was it love? Or fear? Was he frightened for her? For what could saunter round the corner and slash her life forever? He propped himself on his elbow, gazing at her sleeping form, the slenderness of her neck and the contours of her body, the grace of her hand on his pillow. He smelled her skin, the lingering of yesterday’s soap, the sweet snap of her sweat. It was the smell of happiness. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. It wasn’t Anatoly snooping at dawn. How could it be? Most likely a market porter coming home from a night on the razzle. Silly that something innocent could still pluck at John’s guilt and needle his grief.

  He lay back down and shut his eyes, letting his body relax, soothed by her warmth, the softness of her skin, lulled by the rhythms of her breath, the quiet putt-putt of contentment. He woke when she stirred, lifting her arm behind her, fingering his head. She turned, buried her face in his neck, her hair tickling his chin. She was wriggling down, kissing him, her hands reaching out and stroking him.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed her palm. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. No.

  ‘Do you know what time it is, sleepyhead?’ He reached over to his alarm clock. ‘Nine o’clock.’ He had fallen asleep again. She sat up, swung her legs over the side.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I should get back.’

  He couldn’t bear to let her go, let her out of his sight. He wanted her scent to trail his, their two shadows as one. ‘Half an hour’s not going to make any difference. Let me get you breakfast.’

  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ she said. ‘But I am hungry. That Scotch egg didn’t do much yesterday.’

  ‘You’re in luck.’ He ran his finger down her spine, pulled her towards him, nuzzling her back. ‘I always treat myself to bacon and eggs on a Sunday. I don’t go to church anymore, but Sunday wouldn’t be Sunday without a fried breakfast. Do you want a bath?’

  ‘That would be nice. I can’t go home smelling of you, after all.’ She laughed, pressed her finger against his nose.

  He pushed himself off the bed and pulled out a towel from his cupboard.

  ‘It’s a bit old, I’m afraid,’ he said, passing it to her. ‘You can borrow my dressing gown.’

  He lifted it off the hook and draped it over her. It trailed on the floor. She rolled up the sleeves. ‘Back in a mo.’ She unbolted the door. ‘Leave it on the latch.’

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take the key.’

  ‘It’s perfectly safe, isn’t it?’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes Bob forgets to lock the street door. You never know.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you come and stand guard?’

  ‘You’re fine.’ He pressed his lips to hers. ‘There’s a lock on the bathroom door and you have a bird’s eye view of the hallway when you come out.’ He smiled. ‘If there’s a strange man there, scream your head off.’

  She laughed, but it wasn’t funny and he wished he hadn’t said that because now, he thought, the street door could be open and the man hiding under the stairs, biding his time. He waited until she was in the bathroom, then ran down to the ground floor. The street door was shut. This, he thought, is ridiculous. His grandmother kept checking locks, the first sign of her dementia.

  He returned to the flat and pulled out the bacon from the back of the food safe. At least the crow hadn’t pecked at the foods. He unwrapped the wax paper, took the eggs out of their box, spooned out some dripping. The frying pan was heavy and old, black with age. He lit the gas, watched the fat melt and sizzle, laid out the rashers, poked them with a spoon. Breakfast for two. They could cook while he laid the table, put the kettle on, sliced some bread. He’d fry that up, too. He wondered if she liked pickled onions, or whether it was only him who ate them with his bacon and eggs. Her key turned in the lock.

  ‘Smells good. I’ll be back in a second.’ She shut the bedroom door. He wanted to watch her dress. How strange to be modest, now. She emerged a few minutes later. She’d rolled her hair into a French twist, and her skin glowed. She was, he thought, even more beautiful than he dared imagine.

  And even more fragile.

  ‘Do you like pickled onions?’ he said.

  ‘At breakfast? No thanks.’

  He served the food in the kitchen, carried it through to the sitting room.

  ‘I only have tea, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I don’t even own a coffee percolator, and I can’t stand the instant stuff.’ He wondered whether that’s what they served in the Partisan.

  ‘Tea’s fine.’

  She cut a slice of bacon, dipped it in the yolk, swallowed it down. He knew so little about her. How could he love someone he knew nothing about?

  ‘You’re not eating?’ she said. ‘This is delicious.’

  He smiled. He was yearning for her already, missing her with a pain too sharp to bear.

  ‘You’re very q
uiet,’ she said. ‘Eat up. It’s getting cold.’

  He lifted the bacon onto the bread, placed the egg on top, the way he always ate his breakfast, had done since he was a child. He stared at his plate, at the fat congealing round the edge, at the rind he’d left on the bacon by mistake.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  If it was Anatoly he’d seen, then he had to protect her.

  ‘Miles away,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He cut into his breakfast, forked it into his mouth, dribbling egg yolk. He reached over to the drawer of the sideboard and fished out two napkins, giving one to Betty, wiping his mouth with the other.

  ‘Forgot the refinements,’ he said, adding, ‘Must you go?’

  ‘My father will be worried,’ she said. ‘We didn’t leave on the best of terms yesterday, so he probably thinks I’ve stomped off in a huff.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me. London wasn’t so spur-of-the-moment after all.’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m glad you did. What was the row about?’

  She avoided his eyes, looked down at her plate.

  ‘Nothing, really,’ she said. ‘Father-daughter stuff.’

  He’d have to tread carefully with him, he realised. Some fathers could be very protective.

  ‘You’re looking worried, though.’

  ‘Am I?’ he said. ‘Sorry again.’ He thought fast. ‘It’s just that I’m a bit behind with my marking. I was thinking how I’ll have to work twice as hard today.’

  ‘It’s July. Hasn’t term ended?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘There were some resits. Plus the “S” level boys. I’ll be tutoring them through the holidays. Oxbridge entrance and all that.’

  ‘Ah.’ She smiled, wiped her mouth on the napkin and stood up.

  ‘I’ll take you to the station,’ he said. ‘If you’ve time, we can walk. Have a proper coffee, in Clerkenwell. Leave the dishes,’ he added. ‘I’ll do them later.’

  He took her hand as they meandered through the side streets.

  ‘A long way round to St Pancras, I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s one of my favourite parts of London.’ He wanted to share this with her, linger with her longer. So many corners of London, so many memories and possibilities.

  ‘Scuola Guida,’ she said, reading the signs. ‘Portelli Ltd. Organ builders.’

  ‘Little Italy.’ He pointed to a delicatessen. ‘Come. Proper coffee, not the ersatz stuff they serve in these so-called coffee bars in Soho.’

  He took her into the shop, watched as she marvelled at the cut meats and fancy cheeses, the cannoli and bombolone. He ordered two espressos, and they stood at the counter, pouring in the sugar from the paper packets, stirring.

  ‘I had no idea about the Italians,’ she said. ‘Were they refugees?’

  ‘Some of the new ones maybe,’ John said. ‘But most have been here for decades. They were rounded up in the war. Enemy aliens. Even though half of them were born here.’

  Her face became serious and her voice when she spoke was soft. ‘Yes.’

  She stirred her coffee with an extravagant intensity.

  ‘My turn to ask now,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone very quiet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘I was just thinking how awful it must have been. Did you ever see Stromboli?’

  ‘The film?’ he said. ‘That was a few years ago.’

  ‘I know. They showed it again when I was at college. That poor woman, the Ingrid Bergman one. What she must have been through. Those DP camps were dreadful.’

  He smiled. He loved her tenderness, her understanding, as if she’d been there too. He leaned towards her, took her hand, turning it over, tracing the lines in her palm. A man behind him was ordering a coffee. The timbre of his voice made John turn. The man had taken off his cap, tucked it in his pocket.

  ‘Let’s go,’ John said. He placed his cup crooked on its saucer so it rattled and tipped to one side. ‘You’ll miss your train.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished—’

  He grabbed her hand, leading the way, out of the shop, walking fast. It had been Anatoly, loitering, spying. He had followed them.

  ‘Slow down a bit,’ she said. ‘I’m getting a stitch.’ He gripped her hand. Never let her go. ‘It doesn’t matter what train I get. What’s the hurry? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  He had to let her fly, to safety, to freedom. He couldn’t keep her, didn’t deserve her. And Anatoly would not have her. He’d destroyed once before. It wouldn’t happen again. Whatever Anatoly wanted of him now, he’d make sure he kept Betty out of it. He strode on, mulling over the words. She’d think him a cad, and she’d be right. One day, perhaps, they might meet again, and he could explain. I had to let you go, and this is why. He could feel his teeth grind against each other, the muscles in his jaw flexing and tightening.

  ‘John, what’s the matter?’

  He didn’t answer, turned into King’s Cross Road. Looked behind him. They hadn’t been followed, not here.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. Except…’ He shut his eyes. He hadn’t rehearsed this moment, didn’t have the words, the easy patter of the bounder. ‘Look, Betty…’ He bit his lip, felt the perspiration on his neck. He loosened his tie, undid the button on his shirt. ‘The thing is, it won’t work.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He could see the hurt in her eyes. She wasn’t making this easy. Did she need him to spell it out?

  ‘You and me. We can’t. It…’ He wiped his forehead. ‘I can’t see you again. I’m sorry. This has to end.’

  Her mouth made a zero and the tears sprang to her eyes. Her lips began to quiver and he thought she was going to cry. Please, Betty, no.

  ‘Is it me?’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Is it something I did?’

  ‘No.’ He wanted to pull her towards him, hold her tight, wipe her eyes, it’ll be all right.

  ‘Tell me. I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again. I—’ She broke off and he saw her struggling for words, her face furrowing. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s just me. I’m not a very good person.’ He put his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see them shake, so he wouldn’t give in and touch her. ‘It’s difficult for me. Maybe it’s because of the war or something. I can’t.’

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ she said. ‘If it’s the war, I understand. Honestly. What people went through, it affected them.’

  He shook his head, looking away. He couldn’t hold her gaze.

  ‘You can trust me, John. I’ll understand, really.’ He knew she was searching his face for clues. ‘Please, John. Please, talk to me.’

  He couldn’t tell her even though her pain sliced through him and left him lame and crippled.

  ‘I don’t want it to end.’ Desperation caught her voice, choking it. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  He wanted to say, Nor can I, to pull back his words, but they were already out, reverberating like bullets in a firing range.

  ‘I love you, John. Please.’

  He was shaking his head. He couldn’t bear this. He’d never wanted to do this, never planned it, never wanted to make her plead or beg. He looked up, but she was staring at him, her eyes narrowing with fury.

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ she said. ‘I thought we had a future, you know? That’s why I let you—’

  He hoped his eyes were saying, Forgive me, this won’t be forever, didn’t see her arm swing up, her hand flatten, but he felt its sting as she slapped his face with such force he fell backwards.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said, words whistling through her teeth. ‘You utter bloody bastard.’

  She kicked him hard in the thigh, turned and ran. Round the corner, out of sight. He rubbed his hand against his cheek, feeling the welts bubble up. There was dust on his trousers where her sandal had landed. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, wanting his world to go
away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Berlin: May 1945

  ‘Those stairs,’ Frau Weber said, rushing into the apartment, fanning herself with her hand. ‘They’ll be the death of me.’ She paused, taking in a lungful of air, turning to Mutti. ‘The thing is. Turns out he killed himself.’ She shaped her hand into a pistol and held it against her temple. ‘The Führer. Did himself in. Pow! Bang! Peng!’

  Greta and Waltraud followed her into the apartment. Bette stood in the entrance to the sitting room, one hand on the edge of the door.

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘And the Goebbels. All those beautiful children. Poison. The whole lot of them.’ Frau Weber sniffed, pulled out a rag from her sleeve, blew her nose, rolled her eyes.

  ‘For all of this we thank the Führer,’ Mutti said, but there was something about her voice that mocked the familiar mantra.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Bette said. ‘That wouldn’t happen.’

  She stomped into the sitting room, slamming the door behind her. It caught the draught from the empty window sockets, shut with a force that made the handles shake. She rushed to the sofa, hid behind it. She hadn’t meant to bang the door, nor to be rude to Frau Weber. She’d be in trouble now. She’d say sorry the moment Mutti came in. The Führer could not have killed himself. He died a hero.

  Chairs were dragged in the kitchen and muffled voices filtered into the room. She could hear her mother cough. The door handle clicked, and Greta sidled through.

  ‘Bette?’

  ‘Behind the sofa,’ Bette said softly, as Greta crawled towards her. ‘Is Mutti cross with me?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Greta said.

  ‘What are they talking about?’

  ‘I’ve been sent to find you and stay with you,’ Greta said. ‘But I know what it’s about. It’s about…’ She leaned forward, cupped her hand over Bette’s ear, whispered, ‘Poison.’