When Mums isn’t calling out for Dad, she’s fussing over the Anderson shelter. ‘We should have had it the first time when they offered. I told you, Billy, I said this would happen…’ I’m positive she didn’t say anything of the sort, but of course that’s all changed now the bombing’s started and the builder’s saying he can’t do anything for six weeks because the military have taken all the materials and he can only get a pound’s worth each month. Or something. Mums goes on and on, and I’ve got so fed up with it that I don’t listen any more.
She’s been bad since it started, but recently… I went to Bourne & Hollingsworth last week, at lunchtime, and bought a sweater. When I showed her, she said, ‘What did you buy that for? It’s bad luck.’ She meant, because it’s green. To be honest, it was more than I could afford, but I thought, if I live it’ll be a bargain, and if I die, I’ll die broke, won’t I? When I said this to Minnie she put her hand up to her mouth, and said, ‘Oh, don’t.’ I told Mums I was going upstairs to put it on, and when I came back she said, ‘Anyhow, it doesn’t suit you.’ Charming! Anyway, I don’t think the house is more likely to be hit because I’m wearing a green sweater. The Germans don’t know that, do they? I pointed this out, but it didn’t make any difference. She’s always been one for finding fault. Minnie doesn’t seem to come in for it so much, but I’ve never been able to do anything right: if I’m talking, I’m either fibbing or showing off; if I’m quiet, I must be sulking, and so on and so on… But then I have always preferred Dad to her. He’s much easier to talk to, and doesn’t criticise all the time. I try not to make it plain, but I suppose it must be—she certainly thinks that Minnie loves her much more than I do, I know that. In any case, I’m trying not to mind it too much, because we’re all tired, and that makes everyone irritable. But it’s all right for Mums—Dad’s a full-time warden now, and Minnie and I have to go off to work in the morning. She can stop in bed and have a nap, if she likes.
I’ve been thinking about Frank today, a lot. I do enjoy our time together, and I like talking to him, even though he makes me feel an awful idiot sometimes. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just that he knows so much about politics and everything, and I don’t. And I don’t mind if he kisses me, or… I suppose that’s the problem—I don’t want him to kiss me, particularly, I just don’t mind when he does. When we had our picnic on Sunday, I was wearing a short-sleeved dress and he remarked on my freckles. We were side by side on the grass, lying on our stomachs, and I said, ‘Oh, they come out in the sun,’ and he said, ‘Perhaps if I look hard enough I’ll catch one in the act,’ then pounced on my arm and pretended he had, and laughed a lot.
It was nice, but I didn’t feel…oh, I don’t know. Just that I was laughing right along with him, but I didn’t feel part of it, somehow. It wasn’t like that, more as if he were my brother—or at least how I suppose it would be if I had a brother. He said to me afterwards, ‘You don’t respond much.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ and he said, ‘Well, you don’t wriggle about much.’ He meant when he kisses me and all that. I thought, I don’t get the urge to wriggle, that’s the problem. Perhaps it’s because he’s too familiar, somehow. I don’t mean in the sense that he’s not a gentleman, because he is, but because he’s always been there. His family used to live in Albion Avenue, which is only a few streets away. We went to different schools; he was at Larkhall—the Larkhall Lunatics, we used to call them—but he’s always been around the place, at the tennis club, and… I don’t know. Everywhere. His parents moved to Gloucester a few years ago, but his mother still writes to Mums, and there’s a sort of cosiness about the whole thing that makes me feel as if I’m being pushed into a convenient little box before I’ve had a chance at life.
I ought to worry about Frank joining the army, but the fact is, I don’t. I’d mind if he was killed—I’d mind if anyone was killed—but I don’t think I’d be heartbroken. At least, I would for his family, but not for myself. The fact that I can even think this shows I can’t be in love with him, but I know that, anyway. It’s horrible of me to lie here thinking about it in such a cold way, but I don’t see what else I can do. I’m certain he’s going to propose to me before he leaves, and I’m dreading it. I know it would please Mums no end if I said yes, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be honest, or right.
When I look at some of the older women at work, who’ve spent all their days toiling away in offices, typing and tea-making, thinking of spending my entire life like that is almost enough to make me want to fly straight into Frank’s arms. I can hardly pretend that working for a company that makes stationery, as I do, is a noble calling, or even very exciting, but then you see some poor woman with five kids and the drudgery of endless housework, and you think, what a terrible thing. It seems unfair if that’s all you can expect, but then it’s a man’s world, isn’t it?
Perhaps I’d feel differently about all this if I lost my virginity. I don’t mean with Frank, because I’m sure he wouldn’t—at least, not unless we were married, because he’s so decent and that’s one of the reasons Mums likes him so much—I mean with somebody else. I can’t deny that I’m curious, but honestly! I can’t imagine Minnie ever having a thought like that, and as for Mums… perhaps there’s something wrong with me.
It’s like the thing that happened a couple of years ago. That’s how I think of it, ‘the thing’—when I let myself think of it, that is. I can never recall exactly how it happened, which is odd, and makes me wonder if it did happen at all, even though I’m pretty sure I didn’t dream it. It was at a picnic with lots of people, and we must have been playing hide-and-seek, or something childish like that, just larking around, really. I dashed off behind one of the trees, and one of the boys was following me, and then I must have tripped over, because I suddenly found myself on the grass, and he fell on top of me and pinned me down and kissed me. I don’t remember his name, if I ever knew it, and I suppose it was all pretty innocent, really, but what’s stayed with me is the sensation: fear and thrill at the same time, and how much I liked it. And it was all the better, somehow, because I hadn’t courted it, it just happened. It’s all rather hard to explain, really, and even thinking about it makes me want to hide my face, even though it’s dark and I’m on my own.
Dear, oh dear… Poor old Frank. But one can’t think about the future at all, really. It seems so incredible that these airraids are happening and quite impossible to believe they’ll ever stop. Even that sense of excitement you get, almost pleasure, of being right in the middle of it—I don’t mean when it’s happening, but after—like when I was running an errand for Miss Henderson at work the morning after Holborn got it: heaps of broken bricks and plaster where the buildings had been, and glass and twisted pipes, demolition workers everywhere with picks, or sawing at beams, and some smoking, even though there was a powerful smell of gas. It made me feel exhilarated to see these men at work, and all the Londoners going about their business and carrying on, and just as I was thinking this one of the rescue men said, ‘You’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?’ which made me feel dreadful, because there I was indulging in a purple patch when people were dead or wounded. And of course the other thing, which is natural, I suppose, is that although you’d never rejoice if a bomb brought down death or destruction on someone else, you can’t help feeling jolly glad to have escaped it yourself.
Actually, that isn’t quite true, it isn’t just afterwards—I do mean while it’s happening, because it is exciting. The fires, anyway. Those first weeks, when it was the docks and nowhere near us, Dad and I went out to watch, and there was something extraordinary about it. It was terrible for all the people, of course, but the whole sky was a fiery orange with the roofs against it like silhouettes and not real houses at all, like the reddest, most violent sunset you ever saw, except in the east and not in the west, and then there was a great mushroom of smoke. I could feel the excitement welling inside me, and I think Dad must have felt it, too, because he put his arm round me—unusual enough, because he does
n’t go in for all that—and I could feel him shaking, but only a little, and his voice was very firm and clear.
‘All right, Smiler?’ he said.
I found it hard to speak, but I managed to whisper that I thought so.
He said, ‘I never thought it would come, but now it has, we mustn’t worry. It’ll take them a hell of a time to knock it all down.’
‘Mums doesn’t like you to say hell.’
He said, ‘You wash your mouth out, young lady.’
I said, ‘Well, you said it first,’ and he gave my shoulder a squeeze.
We went inside after that, because we knew Mums would be worried, and I sat and thought about all those poor little houses and the people inside, and I felt ashamed.
I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder who it is that’s staring back, but it must be me because there’s no one else there. I suppose it looks like me: twenty-one, pale skin, wavy brown hair, blue eyes—and it doesn’t look half bad. Minnie looks like it, too. We’re both tall and slim, but other than that we both favour Mums’s side of the family, not Dad’s—he’s lanky and beaky, like Frank. Dad’s always saying it’s a good job we don’t take after him, because of his big nose. I think it’s a lovely nose, but I’ve got to admit it would look pretty funny on a girl. But it’s strange, looking at your own face and not feeling any connection with it at all. Maybe it’s from not having enough sleep—three whole weeks of interrupted nights is enough to give anyone the jitters. Even if the warning doesn’t go, you’re waiting for it. You see people all over the place with that strained, listening expression, flinching even if it’s just a bus or a car in the next street. Either that, or they’re yawning.
I know I’m not the only one: when Vi came into the office this morning she was admiring my swagger coat—a blue wool— saying it was very smart and then, quite suddenly, she began to sob, and couldn’t stop. Miss Henderson came in and told her to go home for the day, which was kind, and then she asked me was I all right, and I said yes, but I know exactly how Vi felt. Last week I was walking down the corridor with some papers and I suddenly thought, I may be killed tonight, and it was as if everything around me had just dissolved and the walls weren’t there any more and I was standing on thin air. I made a dash for the WC and went into a cubicle and just sat there. I put my hands on the walls either side so that both my palms were against the tiles, and then I took my shoes off so I could feel the floor under my stocking feet, and that made me feel a bit better because it was solid. I must have been in there quite a while because Miss H came banging on the door—‘Miss Armitage! Are you in there?’—and I pulled the chain so she’d think I’d just been spending a penny, but I’m sure she knew. She didn’t ask, though, and I was glad because I’m determined I shan’t make a fool of myself.
The sirens went at five o’clock, just as we were about to leave—very annoying. Some people had already started for home and had to come back and go into the shelter, which is horribly stuffy. The raid lasted an hour, me sitting on a hard bench because I hadn’t remembered my cushion, and I spent most of it occupied with my knitting. The new people from the accounts department came down. One of them, Mr Bridges—he’s about thirty, I suppose—looks like Gary Cooper. No wonder all the girls have been talking about him. Kept finding myself looking at him—hope nobody noticed. Once or twice I caught him looking in my direction, though I don’t suppose that means anything. But he is so handsome—one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen!
The All-Clear came just after six, then a long walk round to the station because most of the Strand was roped off—a time bomb, I think—yellow Diversion signs everywhere, and of course there was a great crowd waiting for the train and long delays. Dozens of bodies on the platform, as usual—I almost stepped in someone’s dinner—and the smell of so much humanity is vile. They don’t look especially dirty, but perhaps they only wash the bits that show. And then in the morning they have to go straight off to work in the same clothes, poor things.
By the time I got home, eight o’clock, I had the most terrible headache, but just as I’d got into the bath, off went Moaning Minnie—the siren, not my sister, who never seems to complain about anything—so that was that. It would be so nice to enjoy a leisurely bath instead of having to hurry over it. I’ve heard of one woman who was bombed and sent flying through the window, bath and all! Imagine… But it always seems to happen at the most inconvenient times; mostly during dinner and tea. Dad says it’s Hitler trying to put us off our grub, but he won’t succeed—not at our house, anyway.
Woke at quarter past two from a kind of stupor and suddenly felt as if I was suffocating. There was a lull, so I tiptoed out into the garden and stood looking up at the sky. Full moon—not beautiful any more, just a worry, because it means that they can see us all the better. I wondered what would happen if all the gas was blown up and the water mains and sewers, and everyone got ill. How on earth would we manage? The thought terrified me, so I tried to keep the jitters at bay by thinking of Frank—not terribly successful, unfortunately. He said on Sunday that men like wars because they are naturally fighting animals, and I suppose there is some truth in that (found myself wondering what kind of fighting animal Frank would be, which was not at all in the spirit of the conversation, and decided on a stork because of his beaky nose and long legs). Then, suddenly and quite unaccountably, I found myself thinking of Mr Bridges, which improved matters. Or at least it did until a loud explosion sent me scuttling back inside. I tried to sleep under the table without much success, woke up again at four o’clock feeling miserable and shivery, and crawled upstairs to sleep in my own bed. I heard planes again at around five, but was far too tired to do anything about it.
Half past seven now. I feel irritable and exhausted, but the prospect of seeing him when I get to work cheers me up no end…
Monday 16th September
Soho, London
Rene
Nice to take the weight off my feet. I hate these public shelters, but they won’t let me use the basement where I live, so I came here to Soho Square, which is better than nothing, specially now they’ve put the light in and given us somewhere to sit. I’d go down one of the tube stations, but if anything happened you’d be buried alive, and it’s full of germs, not to mention the snores echoing all up and down the tunnels, and the smell. But it’s all a bit too close for comfort, tonight. With the guns, though, you feel they’re doing something, at least. More bloody racket, but it makes you feel safer. And I’ve done well this week. We was worried at first, all us girls, when the raids started, that the men wouldn’t come, but it seems to have picked up. And the blackout doesn’t matter—just flash your torch on your face and they know you’re there. ‘Course, it’s all short-time now, with the bombing, but it’s good business, so I’m not complaining.
I got three pairs of kippers for sixpence in the market today—threepence less than the shops, so that’s good. Took them round to my sister Dora’s for safekeeping. Can’t go to work with a handbag full of kippers, can I? Put the men right off, that would. No cigarettes, though—well, nothing decent. Some strange brands he’s got. Brazilian, I think they are. Like smoking a bit of old flannel. Still, it’s better than nothing, and he knows me, so if he gets anything decent, he’ll put it by.
Mr Mitten, his name is. Shop in Dean Street. He’s a funny old chap—got this contraption he wears over his face, with a false nose. Some sort of metal stuck on to a pair of glasses, but there’s no glass in them, it’s just to hold this nose thing in place. I was told he’d lost his real nose through disease—syphilis—but of course you don’t ask. Tommy says it was bitten off by a dog, but that’s just kiddies’ talk.
You can’t help wondering what’s underneath, though. It’s not the best fit but you can’t see anything down the side, just black. It must be all rotted away underneath. I suppose he takes the metal nose off when he goes to bed… It’s not really something you like to think about, is it? Can’t imagine what his missus makes of it.
She’s a decent-looking woman, as well. I’ve often wondered if he lost his nose before they were married, or after. Imagine being courted by a man with a tin nose! No kiddies, though. Not that that means anything, of course. Still, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it? He’s a nice old boy, in spite of it.
Now then, let’s see… I had two at a pound and ten shillings each—those I take back to my flat, along the way in Frith Street. That reminds me, I’ve got a dirty mark on the wallpaper near the fireplace. Quite a big one; can’t think how it could have got there. I’m always noticing things like that—it’s a way of occupying yourself while they’re busy doing what they’ve paid for—and I keep a piece of paper by the bed so I can write down anything that needs seeing to, because I’m as houseproud as the next person. Besides, if you’re going to have men friends, it’s best to keep the place looking decent, even if it is only two rooms with the kitchenette behind the curtain.
Where were we? Oh, yes. I had another at ten shillings—he just wanted me to use my hands so I said seven shillings if he was quick because it was in the churchyard—St Anne’s, that backs onto Wardour Street—and it was getting a bit too lively to be outside. Didn’t half take his time, but he gave me another three shillings after, so that was nice. You get a few girls round here that’ll do everything outside, but they’re not what you’d call the refined sort. Fair enough, some of them haven’t a place to go, but with others, they don’t want to make the effort, with undressing and the rest of it. But then you can charge a bit more, can’t you, if you do that? And if you go in a doorway, it’s dirty. Besides, I don’t want to be starting with varicose veins, not at my age.
There’s quite a few in this shelter, tonight. Mrs McIver, with her crosswords. Brings her alarm clock to time herself—beats me how she can see to read in this light, never mind writing down the answers. A couple of dozen knitting and that. Faces I know, not the names. Lot of them wouldn’t talk to me. Oop, a man coming in…he’s looking round. Obvious what he’s after. Not with me, though. No hat—that’s a non-payer, for sure. Talking to Edie and Lily, now—Edie’s stood up to go with him. She can’t have done much business tonight. Wants to smarten herself up a bit, if you ask me. You’ve got to dress up or it’s not worth the candle. Stockings and high-heeled shoes, that’s what they like. And I’ve got my new coat—blue wool, very smart. Five guineas, it cost me. Edie looks like the dog’s dinner. Scrawny thing—I’ve seen more meat on a hat-pin. Lily’s no better. Seedy, she looks, and that’s not like her at all. She’s quite a handsome woman: dark hair, like me, and she’s got what you’d call a strong face, but it’s pleasant, not mannish or anything.
Lover Page 3
