CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
London: July 1958
She packed a punch, he’d give her that. He deserved it, but even so he hadn’t expected that. He’d let her go. Hooked a fish and thrown her back in the sea. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Anatoly had blindsided him, made him see the world through trick lenses. He should have explained, told her who Anatoly was. Coded it in some way.
She was a fast runner, long out of sight. She’d be heading for King’s Cross. He had to talk to her. It wasn’t too late. He’d hail a cab. With a bit of luck he’d get there before she caught her train. He pushed himself up but his leg buckled and he fell back. He sat on the pavement, rubbing his thigh.
‘Quite some hiding she gave you, my friend.’ Anatoly was looming over him, blocking the sun, extending a hand. ‘Knock spots off a boxer, I can tell you. Let me help you up.’
‘No,’ John said. He spat the words. It was Anatoly’s bloody fault. ‘Get lost.’
‘That’s not very friendly.’
‘I’m not your friend.’ He rested on one hand, pushed himself up. His leg couldn’t take the weight so he hopped on his good one.
Anatoly grabbed his elbow. ‘Lean on me.’
John shook himself free, began to limp away, but Anatoly was by his side.
‘We need to talk,’ he said, taking John’s elbow and gripping it tight as he steered him towards Argyle Square, and an empty bench. John’s gut knotted and he began to sweat, moisture wetting his shirt and collar, palms tacky. He wanted to cry out, to call for help. He began to twist, yanked his arm, elbowed Anatoly.
‘Keep still, my friend,’ Anatoly said. ‘If you value Bette.’ He pronounced it Bette, the German way, and her name was as sharp and sinister as if he’d punctured him with a poison dart.
§
John had the address but no phone number. They sent each other Christmas cards, but John wasn’t one for saying much. What can you write in a card? There was so little space and he had no news. Still teaching at same school. Still living at this address. Still single. Arthur didn’t share stuff either. Just signed his Arthur. He hadn’t seen him for years. It had been unfair to embroil him, John recognised now. He wouldn’t want to be involved again, and John had to respect that. Still, he needed reassurance.
He opened the carriage window to let in more breeze and lit a cigarette. There were two other people with him, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and paint-splattered trousers, a tool bag at his feet. He was reading the Daily Sketch, and opposite him was an elderly woman who had got on at London Bridge and sat knitting, needles clacking faster than a loom. She looked up, smiled, as if she knew him.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re not related to Jimmy Braithwaite, are you? You look just like him. You could be his brother.’
‘No,’ John said. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted silence, space to think what he was going to say to Arthur.
‘Only he died in the war,’ she went on. ‘Tobruk. Shocking thing that. Only twenty-one. He was my neighbour’s nephew.’ She paused, counted her stitches, and John hoped that was the end of it. He nodded in sympathy. ‘She said her sister never got over it. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Were you in the war, son?’
John looked out of the window. He shouldn’t be rude, and the woman needed to talk.
‘No,’ he said, matter-of-fact, hoping it would put her off. ‘My call-up papers came after the war.’
‘Well, you were lucky,’ she said. ‘Lots weren’t. My husband fought in the last war. Well, the war before the last war, so he wasn’t needed again. He would have gone, but they said he was too old. We only had daughters, so that was all right, though one of them was a WRN. She did look lovely in her uniform. The WRNs’ uniform was lovely, don’t you think? Such a pretty blue, and so flattering. Where are we?’
‘Coming into Eltham,’ John said.
‘Goodness me, I get off here.’ She stuck the needles in the ball of wool, wrapped the half-knitted garment around them and shoved it all in her bag.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘I could have sworn you were Jimmy’s brother.’
The middle-aged man got up too, folding his paper, pulling out his pipe from his pocket as he stepped down. The carriage was empty. John leaned back in his seat, staring at the advertisements opposite. Magical Margate. Finest Sands in England. Frequent Fast Trains. He stood up and checked his appearance in the mirror. The welts on his face where she’d slapped him had faded now, but he’d nicked himself shaving this morning and there was a small scab on his chin. The bruise on his thigh wasn’t so tender, and had turned a lurid yellow. At least he wasn’t limping now. Arthur would see him as he’d last seen him, a little older, with lines around his mouth, faint creases on his forehead and one or two premature flecks of grey in his hair. He wondered how Arthur would look, what he was doing with his life now. He’d never said. He dropped the cigarette on the floor, stubbed it out with his heel.
The train drew into Bexleyheath. There was a map at the station and John memorised the way. He reckoned it was about a mile. A good stroll. He checked on his watch. Quarter past two. He’d be there about half past, just after. A decent time to arrive. He hoped Arthur was there, wasn’t on his summer holiday, or at work, even though it was a Saturday. This conversation had to be done man to man. He couldn’t write. Nor did he want it in writing. You never knew who might get hold of it.
He stepped out of the station, past a small parade of shops, stopping at a newsagent’s and buying some more cigarettes and a box of matches. The day was warm, that dusty heat of midsummer. The gardens looked dry and the trees had lost the freshness of spring, their leaves flat and dark. They weren’t yet showing the exhaustion of August, but it wouldn’t be long. Interwar houses lined the streets, rows of 1930s semis or bungalows, pebble-dashed in sandy stone, woodwork painted brown or green. Bay windows lined with net curtains. He shouldn’t be so sniffy, John thought. On a teacher’s salary, he’d be lucky to afford one of these. There weren’t many cars parked, and they were all pre-war, he noted, an old black Austin Seven, a deep red Morris Eight.
Only twenty years ago, this had been countryside, farms and lanes and woodland. Now there were hedges, saplings, lawns. Everyone must have arrived a stranger. Where had these people come from? Men like Arthur, home from war?
What if he had moved, and not given John his new address? Never got John’s cards, but sent his anyway? Gipsy Road. John counted out the numbers, odd one side, even the other. He could see the house now, like all the others, bay window and green paintwork, a privet hedge that needed cutting, a garden gate swinging on its hinges. The path was crazy-paved and moss grew in the cracks. Somehow, he’d imagined Arthur would be more house-proud. There was a small lawn in the front garden, but the grass was long. Perhaps they were away. He knocked anyway.
A dog barked inside and a woman’s voice could be heard. A door shut. The barking became muffled. Footsteps, then the front door opened. The woman had a crease in the centre of her forehead that made her look cross, worried. She wore an apron and was wiping her hands dry on it. The door behind her creaked. She turned.
‘Don’t let the dog out,’ she said. A black and white terrier rushed towards him, stumpy tail wagging. The woman grabbed his collar, turned to a young girl behind her.
‘Take him back in the kitchen.’
‘But who is it?’
‘Do as you’re told,’ the woman said. ‘Go inside. With the dog.’ It was a harsh voice and John remembered that she was an infant teacher, used to scolding and playground duty.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’
‘No need to apologise.’ John smiled, hoping to reassure her. ‘I’m looking for Arthur Gambol. Does he still live here?’
‘Who’s enquiring?’
The kitchen door opened a crack. John liked that little girl, not afraid to disobey. He saw the dog trying to push his way out and wanted to smile. He liked the dog, too.
‘My name’s John
Harris,’ he said. ‘I was in Germany with Arthur, at the end of the war.’
She leaned her head back, squinted at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He talked about you.’ Her voice was flat, disapproving even. She wasn’t going to give anything away.
He wondered what Arthur had said, sensed that his visit could be a waste of time. He should leave now, before Arthur saw him.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘He’s in the garden.’
The kitchen door was opened and the dog bounded out, jumping up at John.
‘Whisky, down.’
‘It’s all right,’ John said. ‘I like dogs. Here, boy.’
‘He’s called Whisky,’ the girl said. ‘Because he’s black and white.’
‘Black and white?’ John said, before he recognised the connection. ‘Very good.’
‘It was Daddy’s idea,’ she said. John laughed. Yes, it would be.
‘Go and tell your father there’s a man to see him,’ Arthur’s wife said, adding, ‘An old friend.’
She smiled then. She could be gracious. ‘Come on through.’
She led him into the back room. French windows opened to the garden and John spotted Arthur at the end, putting up a greenhouse with the help of a young lad. His daughter was running across the lawn towards him. He couldn’t hear the conversation but saw him nod, say something to the boy as his daughter took hold of his hand and ran back, pulling him across the lawn. John stepped through the door.
‘Good Lord, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘Good heavens.’ He wiped his hand down his trousers and held it out. ‘It’s a bit rough, I’m afraid. But what an unexpected pleasure.’
John grasped his hand, looking at his old friend. His auburn hair had lost some of its vibrancy, but his eyebrows were a rich ginger, his blue eyes unchanged.
‘Well,’ he was saying. ‘Well. I can’t believe this.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Go and tell Bobby to come here. Can I get you a cup of tea, sir? Or maybe this warrants something stronger?’
‘Please.’ John felt a weight lift away. ‘None of this “sir” business now. We’re not in the army. It’s John.’
The boy came into the room.
‘Shoes off,’ his mother said.
‘This is John Harris,’ Arthur said. ‘Bravest man I ever met. I told you the story of how he took that grenade and ran with it half a mile? Saved all our lives. Do you remember?’
John shook his head, laughing. ‘Your father’s exaggerating,’ he said. ‘Who are all of you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m too taken aback. Introductions, of course. This is my wife, Gladys.’
John smiled, took her hand. ‘So pleased to meet you.’
‘This is Robert.’ He pointed to the boy, as tall as his father but without his father’s colouring. ‘And this is Christine.’ She had her father’s complexion, his red hair and freckles and she grinned back at him, grown-up teeth too large for her child’s face.
‘Please,’ Arthur said. ‘Please, come and sit down. Make yourself at home.’
He pointed to two chairs by the fireplace, shielded by an embroidered screen.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Gladys said. ‘Christine, come and help me. Robert, finish outside. And take the dog with you.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Arthur said. ‘You finding me, you sitting here.’
‘Nice place you’ve got,’ John said, taking in the sideboard and the table, the Vernon Ward picture above the mantelpiece.
‘My wife moved here,’ Arthur said. ‘And now we’re buying it. A miracle.’
‘What line are you in now?’ John said.
‘Well.’ Arthur leaned back in his chair, grinning. ‘I trained to be a teacher. Never thought that would happen, eh? A boy like me, leaving school at fourteen. But they were short of them, and turned out I had the makings – ex-serviceman, full matriculation. I’m the geography master, Welling Secondary Modern.’ Arthur laughed. ‘Tickled pink, you coming here.’
Arthur insisted John stayed for tea, and it wasn’t until early evening that John was able to suggest – if Gladys didn’t mind – that he and Arthur went out for a pint. The Red Lion was on the way to the station and the landlord let them take their drinks into the garden at the back.
Arthur sat down at the table, took a sip of beer, froth sticking to his upper lip. ‘I’ve a feeling this isn’t just a social call,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d have done it years ago.’ His voice had a bitter edge and his mouth was firm.
John put his glass down on the table. ‘I had a visitor,’ he said. His hand had begun to shake and he slipped it into his lap. Hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed. ‘You remember that Russian?’
‘Which one?’
‘The spotty one.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur said. ‘I do.’
‘His name is Anatoly, so he tells me, works at the Soviet Embassy, though when I rang them they said no one of that name works there,’ John said. ‘That they would admit, at least.’
‘I hope you rang from a call box,’ Arthur said. It wouldn’t make any difference wherever he rang from, John thought. They had his number anyway.
He took a long drag of his beer, placed the glass carefully back in place. He felt better with a bit of alcohol inside him, though his hands were gummy and his stomach churned and his leg tremored out of control.
‘The thing is, Arthur,’ John said, ‘there’s been a new complication.’
‘Forget it, John,’ Arthur said. ‘I want nothing to do with this.’ He stood up, turning to go.
‘No,’ John said. ‘I don’t need your advice. I know what to do.’
Arthur raised his eyebrows.
‘I just had to talk to someone, get it off my chest,’ John said. ‘You’re the only person who knows. Please…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just listen.’
John saw Arthur’s face, that look of disdain and mockery and tolerance that he remembered so well. He thought of all the kindnesses Arthur had shown him, when Private Nash died, when he went against orders with the morphine, when he’d sought him out in Berlin. That’s what camaraderie was, being a comrade. Doing, not saying. John was an idiot, but he’d earned his spurs with Arthur. He watched as Arthur sat down again, lifted up his glass, gulped the beer so his Adam’s apple quivered.
‘Go on,’ he said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
London: August 1958
This was not what she wanted to do for the rest of her life, typing out patents and partners’ correspondence. Dear Sirs, Further to my communication of the 5th, inst. Her eyes had been opened, dazzled, as if her past life had been a chrysalis and now she was free to fly. The typing pool was a stupid use of her talents. She would like to write. Forget her dreams of travel, living among the aborigines. She could be a journalist. A serious writer. The U & LR had encouraged her, but she had nothing new to say that they’d be interested in. The bomb would blow them all up. There was nothing distinctive to write about that, not as a woman, except to point out that it was men who were the bellicose ones and women who picked up the pieces, and if women wanted to ban the bomb they should back up principles with action. What was original in that?
She wanted to write about Lieselotte, what had happened to her, what happened to women in war. Most of her new friends in the Partisan Coffee House had left the Communist Party after Hungary, but they still had a soft spot for Russia. No Soviet soldier would do that, comrade. Communism respects women as equals. Well, that wasn’t true, but they’d never believe her. Besides, she wanted to know if those husband-comrades helped around the house or whether the women went home from work and did the laundry and the cleaning and the mending. She doubted there was equality in revolution. Women were invisible.
She wanted to say more, that rape wasn’t just in Germany. It had happened to Russian women by German soldiers. Chinese women by Japanese. Rape had no borders, no ideology. Rape was a weapon, every bit as vicious as a bayonet or a pistol. But who would agree with her? They wanted to read about imperialism an
d the Third World, Stalinism and Communism. They wanted to read about the Cold War and proxy war, NATO and disarmament, culture and consumption, and even though they said to draw on personal experience, she wasn’t sure it meant her experience. Well, if they didn’t want it, then Peace News might be interested.
Still, she liked going to the Partisan, even if she was a bit in awe of everyone. There was always something happening, the New Left Club and the Direct Action Committee, music, talks, films, theatre. You name it. It was – she reached for the word – affirming. No, exciting. Banning the bomb wasn’t just about being against things. It was for things, for life, for living, for fun and gaiety, health and happiness. Being young and active, having a cause. It was a new kind of politics, of being together. It was exhilarating. Joyous. Life sparkled. It was for the day, for light, for the sun. It smothered the nightmares that plagued her, the firestorms, the peeling skin, the charred flesh. Berlin. Dresden. Hiroshima.
She used to wonder if John ever went there, and if she met him, what she’d do. She thought of him night and day, crowding into her dreaming time at night, her thinking time on the Tube, the slack moments at work. But she was bone-tired and her breasts were tender. She wanted to cry all the time. And always the swirling hurricane of a question. Why? What had she done wrong? She thought there’d been such good omens at first with the way they met, and what they had in common. She’d let herself go into free-fall, her mind in chaos, her body tender at the thought of him. And then, rupture, as if she had been flayed alive, skin on that side, flesh on the other. Raw and bloody, like those poor souls in Hiroshima. She put a brave face on it at work, and at home, playing with the boys, reading them stories, helping with the washing-up since her cooking wasn’t up to it, as Dee had said. She’d never paid attention in Domestic Science.
§
She sidled through the door and into the meeting, where a young man was holding up the model of the homeosaurus, exposing its underbelly.
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