The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  London: July 1958

  There was an empty bench outside the station and Betty crumpled onto it, her toes still throbbing from the kicking she’d given John, her lungs tight from running. She shut her eyes, memories shifting through her mind, montage after montage. Had he grabbed her as he fell, or when she ran past him? He had been alive, hopscotch over the body, terror thundering through, fast as a train, driving her on. A trolley bus trundled past, its engine silent, its poles sparking on the overhead wires. She stared at it, batting away the angry ghosts scrambling from the wastes of her past.

  She lifted her knees up against her chest, held them tight, sobbing. Anger began to billow, and with it a burning rage. She unravelled her arms, pushed them straight out, hands close together, two fingers stretched and pointing. Blood was on the floor, splattered on her shoes, a bloody handprint on her calf where he’d grabbed her.

  ‘Bets.’ A woman’s voice. ‘Betty. Is that you?’ Someone was shaking her shoulder and Betty looked up. ‘Bets, it is you. Are you all right?’

  Betty blinked, stared. ‘Dee?’ Behind the woman were two small boys in short grey trousers and white shirts, holding hands. ‘Dee?’ She shook her head, memories falling and reshaping like pick-up sticks. She put her feet back onto the ground, sniffed a dribble from her nose. This was London, summer 1958, not Berlin 1945. Pull yourself together.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘More to the point,’ Dee said, ‘what are you?’ She sat down next to her. ‘It’s been years, Bets.’

  ‘I was thinking only yesterday that I’d give your dad a ring, get your new address.’

  Dee brushed the hair from Betty’s face. ‘What’s happened? You look terrible.’

  A small, tender gesture. Betty leaned forward, tucked her head against Deirdre’s shoulder, felt Dee’s arms circle her and rock her gently. She pulled away, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. What could she say?

  ‘I’ve just been jilted,’ she said.

  ‘Thought you wanted to kill someone just now,’ Dee said. ‘From the look on your face, and the way you were pointing your fingers.’

  ‘I did,’ Betty said. ‘I really did.’ A Luger. He’d played dead, like a snake. ‘I kicked him so hard, my foot hurt.’

  Dee laughed. ‘Well, good for you, Bets. I hope you got him where it matters.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth, looking at the small boys standing in front of them, staring. ‘Whoops.’ She pulled a face. ‘Young ears flapping. What are you doing here?’

  The memories were slinking away, leaving footprints, debris. She sat, still, collecting herself. Picking up the broken bits, fitting them together, putting them in place. A jigsaw of her life. She’d just knocked her boyfriend for six. Half an hour ago, not half a lifetime. She was sitting outside King’s Cross station with trolley buses passing by and her oldest friend beside her.

  ‘I was on my way home,’ Betty said, breathing out, turning to Dee, smiling. ‘Where are you going?’ She hadn’t seen her for years but it was as if they had never parted. Fate, that’s what it was, Dee being here.

  ‘Taking the kids to see my dad,’ she said. ‘Duty visit. Are you still living in Hatfield?’

  Betty nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. You?’

  ‘No,’ Dee said. ‘Me and Kevin are buying a little house in Willesden. It’s only a semi, three bed, but it’s ours.’

  ‘Buy?’ Betty said. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

  ‘Everyone wrote us off, me and Kevin,’ she said. ‘But he’s a qualified electrician now. Earns good money, and once the kids went off to school, I trained as a nurse. You haven’t met my boys, have you? Here.’ She tugged at the biggest one’s sleeve. ‘Say hello. This is Auntie Betty. This is Graham, and this little tiger is Martin.’

  Betty smiled at them. ‘They’re lovely boys,’ she said. ‘You must be proud.’ Dee was the only friend she knew with children. Hearing herself being called ‘auntie’ was a shock.

  ‘Mmm,’ Dee said, her face stern for a moment, before she smiled and winked. ‘Sometimes. What train are you catching?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Betty said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, we’re heading for the 12:10,’ she said. ‘So why don’t we go together?’

  Dee was a proper adult, with a job and family and mortgage. She was taking charge and Betty knew that Dee would always take charge, that when the chips were down, Dee would know what to do. The nuns, her father, everyone, they’d all been so wrong about her at school. Dee was a stalwart, shoulders like Atlas.

  They had the carriage to themselves. The boys grabbed the window seats and Dee produced two comics, a bag of crisps and a bottle of Tizer.

  ‘Now I want you two to sit quietly while I talk to Auntie Betty,’ she said. ‘Because I haven’t seen her for years.’

  Betty and Dee sat on the corridor seats, side by side, thighs pressed against each other.

  ‘Tell me about the bastard.’

  Betty swallowed, memories close to the surface once more. Her eyes filled with tears and her hand trembled. She hadn’t thought about that other moment, not since she’d been in England. Locked away in the dungeon of her mind. She couldn’t tell that to Dee. Perhaps she had more in common with her father than she wished to acknowledge.

  ‘You don’t have to, of course,’ Dee went on. ‘But you know, a problem shared and all that.’ She groped for Betty’s hand, squeezed it again.

  ‘Did you sleep with him?’ she said. ‘Give yourself to him, as Sister Monica would have said?’ She took a breath, pinched her mouth, fumbled with an imaginary crucifix. ‘Well, girls, if a man tries it on, think of St Maria Goretti. Pray to her…’

  Betty laughed.

  ‘You were always brilliant at taking her off,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why she loathed me,’ Dee said. She grew serious. ‘And the pig got what he wanted and now he’s dumped you?’

  Betty groped in her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. Kev had married Dee, done the decent thing, stuck by her.

  ‘It didn’t feel like that, Dee,’ Betty said. ‘It really didn’t. Something suddenly happened and he—’ She broke off, added, ‘He went all funny, turned. Said it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘No.’ Added, ‘I’m pretty confident he isn’t.’ She shifted, looked at Dee, eye to eye. ‘And now I’ve got to face my father and I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach.’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ Dee said.

  ‘I don’t plan to tell him,’ Betty said. ‘It’s not that.’ She fiddled with the handkerchief, twisting the corner, spinning it between her thumb and finger. ‘We had a row and I stomped off. He’ll expect me to grovel but I’m damned if I will.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Oh, Dee.’ She sniffed hard, stifling tears. ‘I wish I could tell you.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I can’t. I…’ She leaned and grabbed Dee’s hands, turning them over, looking at the palms. ‘I don’t have the words.’ How would Dee understand? She’d only ever known Hatfield.

  She let go of Dee’s hands, fingered the hem of her skirt. ‘To be honest, I can’t take much more of him. We’ve never got on, but what can I do? I can’t move out. I can’t afford it on my wages. They wouldn’t even cover some sordid bedsit in Westbourne Grove.’

  Dee was silent for a moment. ‘Are you serious?’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Moving out? Only we were thinking about taking in a lodger but Kev said the room was too small. It’s only a little box room, really, above the hall. The estate agents called it a bedroom.’ She pulled a face. ‘But they would, wouldn’t they? There’s just about room for a single bed and a cupboard. A small chest of drawers. It’s not great, but if you’re interested…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Interested? Of course I am. Are you sure Kevin wouldn’t mind?�
�

  ‘Positive. He always liked you, Bets. I mean…’ Dee paused, pulled a face. ‘Honestly, the room’s no bigger than a cell. Couldn’t swing a cat. We wouldn’t charge much because it’s, well, it’s not really commercial, is it, between friends? Or being so small? Perhaps you could babysit for us instead, pay your bit of the bills, rates, that sort of thing. Perhaps a token rent. We’d have to share the kitchen, obviously, and the bathroom, if that’s all right.’

  ‘All right?’ Betty said. ‘It sounds perfect. When can I move in?’

  ‘As soon as you like. Why don’t you pack your things and I’ll meet you at the station? I’m getting the 5:20 back.’

  The train was slowing down, the fields giving way to suburban gardens, to red-brick buildings, to the station. Hatfield.

  ‘Right, boys,’ Dee said, ‘up you get.’ She turned to Betty. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be ready by then, Dee,’ Betty said. ‘I’ll try, but you know, if my father kicks up a fuss, it might take some time.’

  ‘Then just leave.’ She smiled. ‘Here.’ She delved into her bag, pulled out a diary and a pencil tucked in its spine, tore out a leaf and wrote something down. ‘My address. We don’t have a phone but my neighbour has, so if you ring this number…’ She pointed at the paper. ‘She’ll pass on a message. If you’re not here this afternoon, come whenever you can. Give me notice so I’ve time to make the bed.’

  ‘I’ll bring my own sheets,’ Betty said. ‘Towels. I won’t be any bother. Do my own washing.’

  ‘I should bloody hope so, Betty Fisher,’ Dee said. ‘I don’t have a housekeeper, I’ll have you know.’

  Dee used to tease Betty that she was rich, with a housekeeper and a garden and her father’s pre-war Daimler. They’d both lost their mothers, but Dee’s father mothered her, and Betty envied that.

  ‘No hanky-panky, either,’ she added, grabbing the boys by their hands. ‘There’s our bus. See you later.’

  Yesterday was so very long ago.

  §

  The house was quiet, stuffy in the summer heat, as if it had been closed all day. She walked into the kitchen, spotted a note on the table. Dear Betty. How dare you behave like that to me? She breathed in sharply. Until I receive an apology, I neither want to speak to you nor see you. I have never experienced such ingratitude… Breathed out. The effrontery of the man, the insensitivity, the sheer, bloody stuffed-up Prussian arrogance of the man. She screwed the note up, hurled it across the room, where it bounced against the side of the sink and tumbled to the floor. Well, he needn’t see her. The feeling was mutual.

  She stomped upstairs, yanked a couple of suitcases from the top of the cupboard in the box room and dragged them into her bedroom. She pulled the sheets off her bed, folded them roughly, placed them in a pile. She didn’t have many clothes, but she was damned if she was leaving them here. Shoes, nylons, underwear. Skirts, blouses, jumpers. Dresses, swimsuit, towels. Books. Her books. She laid them on top, shoving them in, wrenching the suitcases shut. She left the tutu with the sequined straps. He could have that, serve him right. Her lips twitched. The press of his thumb as he wiped the lipstick away.

  They were too heavy to carry so she bumped them down the stairs, chipping the wainscoting. Tough. Luck. She’d have to get a taxi. Her father kept a cash box in the kitchen cupboard. The bastard could pay. She took out a ten-shilling note, went into the hall, rang the taxi number. Eight minutes. Perfect.

  She supposed she should leave her father a message but not tell him where she was. The crumpled note was on the floor so she picked it up, smoothed it out. Mrs H has very kindly asked me over for dinner, he’d written, and to go on an outing with her tomorrow (Sunday). If you wish to say sorry, you know where I am. No, she wanted to write, I do not wish to say sorry. She grabbed the pen that he’d left on the table. I have moved out, so you never need to see or speak to me ever again until you apologise to me. He knew where she worked, so he could send his apology there. She underlined you and me so there was no mistake. The taxi sounded its horn. She should have added, I hope you and Mrs H are happy. You deserve each other, but there wasn’t time and she wasn’t sure her father would understand the irony.

  §

  Even with the pair of them dragging the cases, it had been a struggle to get up and down the stairs in the station, then the Underground, changing platforms and what have you.

  ‘Where are the porters when you need them?’ Dee had said. Graham and Martin tried to help but really, Betty thought, they made it worse. They piled into a taxi at Willesden Junction, the boys wide-eyed at the extravagance of it all.

  ‘I’m frightfully rich,’ Betty said, winking at them.

  ‘You’ll rue the day you said that,’ Dee said.

  Kevin was waiting for them, bear-hugged the boys, pecked Dee on the cheek, shook Betty’s hand then took her suitcases and carried them upstairs. The room was tiny, the cupboard too large, the chest of drawers old-fashioned.

  ‘You can paint it if you want,’ he said. ‘Make it your own.’ He put the cases on the floor, shook his hands. ‘What on earth do you have in them? They weigh a ton.’

  ‘Books,’ Betty said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, tea’s all ready,’ he said. ‘I’ve made enough for you too.’

  She wasn’t hungry but she was drained, relief rinsing over her in waves.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’ll unpack and call it a night.’ She crept up to her room, made her bed, tumbled into it. She’d need to buy hangers, lining paper for the drawers, odds and bobs. She’d forgotten her toothbrush. Little things.

  They’d agreed a rent and ground rules on the way home.

  ‘That way,’ Dee said, ‘we know where we are.’

  When had Dee become so wise and sensible?

  §

  Betty took after her father, built for sport, not ballet. She’d played netball at school, hockey at college. She had time now she lived closer to work. Perhaps she should join a team, take up a hobby, go to talks and lectures. Dance. Sing.

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ Dee said. ‘You could try the Hammersmith Palais.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ Betty said. ‘Let me get over John first.’ Trying to fathom what had happened, that was the hardest. If they’d not being getting along she could have understood it, even though seducing her and then abandoning her was unforgivable. But out of the blue? From heaven to hell in five seconds? Hadn’t even stopped and written her a letter.

  Both Dee and Kevin were members of the Labour Party, so Betty babysat on those nights, reading Tribune and Peace News, checking out the meetings close to work or close to home. There was a women’s campaign that made the front pages. Diane Collins, asking ‘What can women do?’ Join the campaign, wear a badge, write to MPs, make one new contact a week…

  Why is it always the women who have to pick up the pieces? Lieselotte had been fading from her memory but sometimes she sprang from nowhere, vibrant and vivid with her little dancer’s feet like Mutti and her thick chestnut hair that Betty loved to brush and plait, when Lieselotte let her.

  There was an advertisement for a journal called the Universities and Left Review and Betty bought a copy in Dillon’s, reading it on the Tube back to Willesden. Their offices were in Carlisle Street and she thought she could try her hand at writing for them. She could start with a letter, since they said that’s what they wanted. Discussion. She had time now, and one or two ideas, though they probably weren’t good enough as everyone who wrote for them seemed awfully clever. They were all men, too. But they were young and even though she hadn’t gone to Oxford, she did have a degree and she was a woman and, well, she wanted to write about that, about the women’s side of things, as no one considered that. Not about peace, not about how they’d just been left to pick up the pieces, like Lieselotte had said.

  Nobody answered the phone when she rang, so she thought she’d pay them a visit. It was a coffee bar. She checked the address. This was 7 Car
lisle Street. She was in the right place, but this was the Partisan Coffee House. Perhaps they’d moved. The new people might be able to tell her where. She pushed open the door. There were young men and women sitting around tables, chatting or reading. Someone had a portable typewriter and was working on it. It had the air of a club, though there’d been no bouncers at the door. The place was packed, the rumble of conversation punctuated by laughs and in the distance the sounds of a skiffle band rehearsing. It was nothing like the espresso bars around them, reminded her of the cafés in Berlin that she remembered from before the war, the ones Mutti had dragged her to when she went to meet her friends. It had the same buzz, the same hum of people spending time, and although the decorations were nothing like the ones there, Betty could see they were well designed, and tasteful and probably rather expensive. Nor, Betty thought, were the clientele remotely similar. This was as far from the Berlin bourgeoisie as it was possible to get. This lot were bohemian. Probably believed in free love and all that. In fact, on reflection, it was nothing like the Kranzler Café or the Bauer.

  She walked over to the counter. ‘Excuse me.’ The server was a young woman with a smiley face. ‘Do you know where the Universities and Left Review have moved to?’

  ‘U & LR? They haven’t moved,’ she said. ‘They’re on the top floor. But they’re all at a meeting now.’

  ‘When will it be over?’

  ‘Oh, you can go up,’ she said. ‘It’s the Direct Action Committee. All are welcome.’

  ‘Direct action?’

  ‘Ban the bomb and all that.’

  ‘I’d be interested,’ Betty said. ‘Where do I go?’

  The waitress pointed to the staircase and Betty threaded her way through the tables and up the wooden stairs to a large room on the floor above. Like the café, it was full of young men and women, the air thick with smoke, the table littered with coffee cups and papers, and there in the middle of the table was a model made from papier mâché of a homeosaurus, painted grass-green, the same colour as the front door her father had redecorated.