The Past and Other Lies

by Maggie Joel

‘And if not, your father and I will go on our own. It’s been ages since we’ve eaten out. Or I could heat up a shepherd’s pie in the microwave.’

  She turned away to supervise Mr Milthorpe in the kitchen.

  Charlotte’s glass was empty and she picked up the bottle to refill it.

  ‘Anyway, I told Mum I invented the whole thing,’ said Jennifer after a moment. ‘That’s what she wanted me to say.’ She held out her glass for a refill. ‘And why would anyone believe it anyway? I mean, if something like that had happened, surely everyone would have known. It’s not something you can keep secret for twenty-odd years, is it?’

  They looked at each other for a moment and there seemed nothing further to say.

  I never thanked her, Charlotte realised. I never thanked her for saving my life.

  Bertha

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MAY 1926

  ON THE THIRD DAY of the strike an amazing thing had happened. A sign had appeared on the front gate of the bus garage calling for volunteer bus drivers—and they were taking women!

  Jemima had announced it that evening.

  She had returned, triumphant, from her first shift as a volunteer conductor, sweeping into the kitchen in Wells Lane, sporting her red armband and her conductor’s cap, full to bursting with her own self-importance, and Bertha, feeding Baby at the kitchen table, wanted to slap her.

  Naturally Mum and Cousin Janie and Aunt Nora had been agog and never mind they had all been dead against it the night before, and that Ronnie had forbidden it and as far as anyone knew wasn’t even talking to her, or that Bertha and Mum had had to look after Baby all day. And never mind that Jemima didn’t care two hoots for the Good of the Nation or the Rights of the Decent-Minded Citizen or any of that other claptrap the government was spouting. You’d think she was the first woman to volunteer in the whole of Acton, in the whole of London. You’d think a woman had never driven an ambulance in France or nursed soldiers at the front or marched on parliament with a placard demanding the vote. You’d think a woman had never even set foot on a bus before yesterday morning. You’d think Jemima had kept the very life-blood of the capital’s transport system flowing and had single-handedly prevented a bloody revolution to boot.

  And Matthew had arrived at Wells Lane with her, as breathless and as flushed as she, so that Bertha stared at them both and realised that she had never actually seen him breathless or flushed before, not even on their wedding night.

  Jemima, he had explained, had been conductor on his bus—imagine!

  She did imagine.

  ‘We ran the gauntlet!’ Matthew announced, standing in the middle of the kitchen with his chest puffed out and everyone congratulating him.

  And Mum said, ‘Aren’t you brave!’

  And Dad said, all gruff like, ‘Aye well, we all have to do our bit in a time of crisis.’

  And Janie said, ‘Was it frightening, Mr Lake? Were you set upon by gangs of strikers?’

  And even though he was her husband and she was proud of him—she really was—and she was pleased that everyone was so thrilled, still... Bertha found she was unable to say anything. Anything at all.

  Jemima flung her cap down on the kitchen table and herself in an empty chair and launched straight into a particularly hilarious incident that had occurred somewhere near Chiswick involving a rowdy band of strikers and an angry passenger with a carton of eggs.

  ‘Oh, it was too funny!’ she exclaimed. ‘Go on, Matthew, tell them!’

  Matthew, was it now? Yesterday she had called him Mr Lake, if she had spoken to him at all.

  On her lap, Baby made a sort of gurgling noise and Bertha stood up abruptly and pushed her way out to the hallway where she busied herself settling Baby in the large black perambulator.

  ‘Fellow must have been a sniper in the War,’ she could hear Matthew saying, just as though he had been in the trenches and had personal experience of such things. ‘He stood outside on the top deck and hurled eggs—with marksmanship accuracy, mind—at any of the ruffians who came within so much as five yards of the bus! You should have seen the mess!’

  And then Jemima said, ‘And what do you think, Mum? Now they are calling for women drivers too! I think I might try out for it.’

  Women drivers? In the hallway Bertha stopped settling Baby and listened. They wanted women drivers? And Jemima wanted to sign up for it! But it was she who had driven Uncle Alan’s old traction engine all those years ago, not Jem. It was she who should be a driver!

  She stood in the kitchen doorway, her heart pounding, looking from Dad to Aunt Nora to Janie, at Mum standing at the sink swirling the tea leaves around in the pot, at Jemima who sat in the centre of the room.

  It’s me, thought Bertha, this is my time. I must say something.

  But she knew if she did that they would say no. They would come up with a dozen reasons why she should not.

  She would say nothing.

  Then Matthew announced it was time to leave—Mother and Aunt Daisy would be awaiting their tea. And in the hallway Baby started up such a wailing and Jem marched out to the hallway and shook the perambulator but that only made Baby wail all the louder so she announced she would take the wretched thing home.

  Matthew said, It’s dark outside, and Lord knew what sort of persons might be roaming High Street and he would see to it that she and Baby got safely home.

  When they had gone, Dad said darkly, Her husband ought to be the one seeing her safely home, it wasn’t right. And Aunt Nora sighed and looked at Janie who was bouncing little Herbert on her knee and said, Ah well, things don’t always turn out like you expect, and Mum said, Who wants another cuppa, then?

  Bertha went into the lounge and stood at the window watching until Matthew and Jemima and the perambulator had turned the corner of Wells Lane and disappeared from sight. Did Matthew expect her to go home? Or would he come back for her? Mrs Lake and Aunt Daisy would be awaiting their tea. She grabbed her hat and gloves, called out her goodbyes and hurried from the house, but rather than head towards Oakton Way she turned instead in the direction of Uxbridge Road.

  If she didn’t go now, she might never go.

  It wasn’t really dark outside. The sun had barely sunk below the row of houses opposite and there was an orange glow over the rooftops and the chimneys of South Acton and Gunnersbury Park. There were lots of folk out on this balmy May evening and Bertha joined them, knowing that she had a role to play, that her part, finally, had been revealed to her.

  The bus company wanted volunteer drivers and they were taking women. A week ago it would have seemed absurd, laughable. Now it seemed...obvious. A gift from heaven.

  She crossed Horn Lane and passed the King’s Head then waited impatiently at the corner of Steyne Road for a horse-drawn coal cart and a slow-moving meat delivery van to pass. Ahead were the gates of the garage.

  Don’t pause, just walk in and sign up.

  The special constables guarding the gates tipped their hats at her and waved her through as though they had been expecting her, as though they knew she had important business within. She crossed the yard and made for a small superintendent’s office at the rear where the portly man with a creased uniform and a huge moustache appeared to be awaiting her arrival. Instead of scowling or laughing at her or inquiring what her business was, the superintendent merely nodded, touched his cap, called her ‘Miss’ and handed her a clipboard with a printed form on it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied calmly, taking the form as though she signed up as a volunteer bus driver every day of her life, and produced, with a flourish, a good fountain pen that she had placed in her bag for just this purpose.

  After asking the usual questions—her name and address and her husband’s name and occupation—the form asked, Had she ever operated machinery or driven a vehicle before? She proudly wrote, Yes, farm traction engine on uncle’s farm in Shropshire. Writing ‘Shropshire’ made it seem more plausible somehow—there weren’t many traction engines in Acton. Then she
wondered if she was right to have mentioned it was her uncle’s farm. Did that perhaps imply she had been childishly playing and hadn’t really driven it on her own? And then she had wondered if she ought to have mentioned Shropshire after all. Did the bus company really care where she had driven the vehicle? But in the end she left it there, as it seemed to add an air of authenticity. After all, anyone could claim to have driven a vehicle, couldn’t they? Then the form asked about her general health and she wrote Excellent in bold, healthy letters. And finally it asked if her husband had given his permission for her to sign up and Bertha chewed her lip and looked around but the superintendent had retired to his office and was engrossed in reigniting the large tea urn in the corner.

  It was true that Matthew had not exactly given his permission in so many words but he had applauded Jemima’s decision to sign up as a conductress—and her a mother!—and he had applauded the idea of women drivers, so it stood to reason he would have given his approval, had he been specifically asked. She wrote Yes in firm letters. Then she signed the form and handed it back and in return received a smart black cap, a red armband, a stack of route maps and an instruction to turn up promptly at six o’clock the following morning.

  And it was done, all in a matter of minutes. She was a bus driver.

  She must tell someone! Now, right this minute! She thought about the house in Oakton Way and Mrs Lake and Aunt Daisy sitting patiently awaiting their tea and her standing in the middle of the lounge telling them. No, she could as easily tell them she was leaving Matthew to live with a tribe of nomads in the desert for all they would understand. She set off back to Wells Lane, hoping everyone was still there.

  What if Ronnie was there? She experienced a qualm of unease suddenly, imagining Ronnie’s dismay, his disbelief. But Ronnie wasn’t her husband, what did it matter what he thought? Was it a betrayal? No; it would have been, once.

  At Wells Lane, there was—predictably—uproar.

  Mum and Dad were there and so too were Aunt Nora and Janie, Herbert lying asleep on Janie’s lap with his wet mouth open, a line of drool stretching from his chin to Janie’s knee. They were sipping tea in the lounge, eating a plate of Mum’s fish paste sandwiches. Bertha paused in the doorway and wondered if they had even noticed she had gone out? Apparently not.

  But it hardly mattered. She had signed up.

  ‘Pour yourself a cup, dear, there’s enough in the pot,’ said Mum, not looking up.

  But Bertha didn’t pour herself a cup. Instead she stood in the doorway and announced that she had gone down to the bus garage and signed up as a driver and she started tomorrow. At six o’clock sharp. And that Mum would have to look after Baby on her own as she would no longer be able to.

  There was a moment’s silence. It ought to have been thrilling, but somehow it wasn’t. Then uproar.

  Mum gasped in dismay and cried, ‘Bertha!’

  Janie gasped in awe and cried, ‘How exciting!’

  Aunt Nora put her hand on her heart and said, ‘Well I never did!’

  And Dad got slowly to his feet, took a deep breath and said, ‘So that’s how it is,’ with a deep frown as though he had been expecting something along these lines and, now that it had happened, his worst fears had been realised.

  ‘What does Matthew say?’ asked Mum, and Bertha sat down, busying herself with the teapot, putting down her new cap and armband.

  ‘Matthew’s in complete support of the government and all the people who are trying to keep the country running,’ she replied truthfully.

  ‘You’re never going to drive one of them big old Generals?’ Aunt Nora exclaimed.

  ‘How exciting, Bertha!’ Janie gasped a second time, her eyes wide with the thrill of it all. ‘Wish I could sign up...’ A glance at her mother quickly put paid to that idea.

  ‘It is a General, yes,’ Bertha confirmed. ‘I explained to the superintendent that I had driven before and they were very impressed. They signed me up on the spot. I receive my training at six o’clock and then I do my first shift at seven.’

  ‘Well, I never did!’ said Aunt Nora again.

  It was dark and quite late by the time she arrived home. Mrs Lake and Aunt Daisy had finished tea, washed up and put everything away, and were sitting in the lounge expectantly.

  ‘But where’s Matthew?’ Mrs Lake inquired, looking past Bertha as though she suspected her of leaving him out in the street at the mercy of itinerant robbers and bandits.

  ‘Escorting my sister home,’ Bertha replied tartly. ‘It was dark and she had the baby and there are so many people out on the streets...’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Mrs Lake, alarmed, and Aunt Daisy looked quite faint and asked did she think they were quite safe alone here in the house, especially during the day when Matthew was out?

  Bertha smiled wordlessly at Mrs Lake and fetched Aunt Daisy’s rug from upstairs and made them both another cup of tea, washed up the empty milk bottles and placed them outside on the doorstep.

  ‘Where can Matthew be?’ said Mrs Lake for the fifth time, peering at the clock on the mantelpiece as if it would provide some clue. The clock said it was half past nine.

  ‘Do you think something has happened?’ replied Aunt Daisy, but no one could answer her.

  At ten o’clock Aunt Daisy put away her knitting and Mrs Lake set out the breakfast things on the table for morning, then they said their goodnights. Where was Matthew? Could something have happened?

  Bertha waited till the quarter hour struck then she too climbed the narrow staircase to the bedroom at the front of the house that she and Matthew had shared for the last six months. She undressed and lay awake beneath the cold sheets.

  Footsteps in the street outside, the squeak of the gate and a key in the lock downstairs heralded Matthew’s return. The floorboards in the hallway creaked then a moment later she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, the bedroom door open and close. A smell of damp outside air, tweed and smoke filled the room. He undressed in the darkness, slowly, folding his clothes as he always did: trousers and braces over the back of the chair, shoes side by side beneath the bed, jacket on a hanger in the wardrobe, shirt carefully folded and placed on the chair...

  No. Shirt not folded. Bertha peered at him in the moonlight. Shirt screwed up and pushed hastily beneath the bed.

  Then he pulled on his nightshirt and climbed into bed. All in the dark, all in silence. He turned over, pulled the bedclothes over himself, and Bertha couldn’t tell whether he slept or not.

  She imagined him running the gauntlet through Chiswick, driving his bus through a throng of angry pickets. Fearless. A volunteer. She ought to be proud. Any decent wife would be. Was she proud? She didn’t know. She had said nothing. And she had intended to tell him she had signed up but had said nothing about that either. Now it was too late.

  Now his shirt lay screwed up beneath the bed. Out of the way. Out of sight.

  The old grandfather clock in the hallway struck eleven times and in six hours she would rise.

  She was up at five o’clock, indeed had hardly slept more than a few hours. It was light outside and she dressed silently and crept down the stairs. No one else was awake and she cut herself a slice of bread and butter and drank a mug of milk rather than risk the sound of the kettle waking them.

  Matthew hadn’t stirred though he would be up soon. The huge number of telegrams created by the strike was swamping the post office and he had been told to begin his shift early this morning. His shift on the bus would have to be allocated to another driver.

  To me? she wondered. Did you choose which route you did? No, of course not, it wasn’t a schoolyard game; this was Real Life.

  She let herself out of the front door, wincing as the door latch slid noisily back into place.

  Ought she to have told him?

  He would have stopped her. She knew it as surely as she knew anything. She would tell him, of course, but afterwards. When it was too late.

  Outside the sun was shining brightly and the daw
n chorus was loud in the sycamores. The blossom on the cherry trees glowed in the morning light and she was going off to drive a bus in the strike. Everything was perfect.

  She was early so she walked along Acton Lane and beneath the red-painted iron bridge over which the trains to Kew and Brentford rattled. She crossed Winchester Street, walked briskly along High Street and turned into Steyne Road. The early workers were already beginning their steady trek eastward on foot and the first delivery carts rattled in from the provinces heading towards the city and Bertha smiled and waved at every driver that caught her eye. Ahead was the bus garage and she was relieved to see there were no strikers outside yet.

  Turning in through the gates she saw five big red Generals lined up and waiting to go. Beside them, two young men in Oxford bags and college scarves and a stout middle-aged lady with her sleeves rolled up and a determined look on her face turned to stare at her.

  ‘Miss Flaxheed?’ called the lady.

  Bertha nodded. ‘Yes, I’m here to—’

  ‘I’m Miss Gordon. This is Mr Parks,’ she said, indicating the first young man, ‘and Mr...?’

  ‘Sutton,’ supplied the other young man, reaching out to shake Bertha’s hand.

  ‘Hello, I—’

  ‘Good, good. Now, you’ll soon pick it up. Step this way and we’ll do a bit of theory to get things rolling.’

  Bertha and the two young men, Parks and Sutton, followed at a respectful distance as Miss Gordon led them over to the first bus, flung open the engine cover and proceeded to give them a brief lecture on the mysteries of the internal combustion engine.

  Bertha listened and nodded and began to be alarmed. Would they be tested on this? She watched the two young men who leaned eagerly over the engine and nodded vigorously and made ‘Oh, right’ and ‘Yes, of course’ noises every so often. Bertha felt fairly certain neither one of them had ever looked inside an engine before in their lives.

  ‘Now, this is your standard S-Type omnibus,’ Miss Gordon was saying, closing the engine cover and standing back to indicate the massive vehicle with a flourish.