Lover

by Wilson, Laura

  That reminds me: there’s a letter from home in my pocket. It came yesterday, but I forgot about it. I almost threw it away— it’ll only be news of Maisie. Mother wouldn’t write for any other reason, unless it was for money. Either way, I shan’t read it. I’m just surprised she could be bothered at all. One of the first things I can remember her saying to me was, ‘Oh, you won’t have any success in your life.’ Even when I joined the RAF, it just made her angry—she’d said I’d never amount to anything, and I’d proved her wrong. She said it was irresponsible. I might ‘get myself killed’, as she put it, and then who’d look after Maisie when she was gone?

  Anyone else would have put her away years ago. I asked Dad once, why they didn’t, and to hear him talk you’d think Mother was some sort of saint. He said it was her life’s work. Not that she ever had any time for him, either.

  Maisie can’t even recognise her, that’s the stupid thing. She can’t do anything, except eat. Everything goes in her mouth. Mother was always telling me I was lucky to be so healthy with Maisie like she was. It was just as well. I was always having to do without so she could have some extra treat. Dad didn’t have an overcoat for fifteen years, because of her. Probably what did for him. He should have told her. Letting her walk all over him, her and that great lump, feeding her face, gnawing her knuckles if there wasn’t anything else, and everything her, her, her.

  ‘We must make sacrifices.’ She liked making sacrifices. Liked being pushed to the side of her own life—made a fetish out of it, and she wanted us the same. She liked going round with her clothes all threadbare, saving money on groceries, cheapest cuts of meat, and always talking about it, drawing attention to it. There was nothing decent in the house. I was ashamed to bring anyone home; school was bad enough. Rushton’s sister’s a loony, that’s what they used to say. And she was always saying, ‘It’s not Maisie’s fault’, as if it was my fault.

  One year we had a wasps’ nest at the top of the house. Maisie got stung, and from the way Mother carried on, you’d think she’d been killed. I went up to look at it the next day, and I got stung too, but of course that was my fault and nothing was made of it. Then I heard her tell one of her friends I’d been making up stories and I’d never been stung at all—as if I wasn’t entitled to have anything happen to me, not even a wasp sting.

  It was always like that. They never wanted to know anything about me, either of them. Don’t think I’d have existed if it hadn’t been for Maisie. All Mother wanted was someone to help look after her. Even Dad drew the line at that. She was disappointed I wasn’t a girl—that would have been easier. But Dad never stood up for me. Never. ‘You’d better do as she says.’ We should have put it on his headstone.

  I used to put flour on Maisie’s face, for powder. Rub it on all over, except round her mouth where she kept licking it off. She’d try to grab the bag and cram all the flour into her mouth but I wouldn’t let her. Then she’d start to scream. Everything in her face would bulge, straining underneath the coating of flour, and the noise… I wanted to stick my compass in her.

  Mother always expected me to fetch and carry for her, clean up after her. Great stupid lump. All those years, the dullness of it. It was as if I was standing in a corner, facing the wall, unable to turn round, and the world was a tiny, narrow space, with no interest, no proper life. But when I learned to fly it was as if I was suddenly facing the other way, looking out.

  I don’t expect that I shall live long, and the reality is, I don’t want to. I know there won’t be anything for me when this is all over, just a world in which I am always out of step. I’m not going to read this letter. Why should I? I’m throwing it away. I’ll look at the paper, instead. It’s yesterday’s but it’ll do. RAF bag 46 in 5 attacks… Boy, 12, Saved Dog, Will Get Medal… The Bomb Squad That Saved St Paul’s… Cathedral Gives Thanks for 5 Heroes… Don’t put that schoolgirl complexion away ‘for the duration’—Palmolive soap still costs only 31/2d a tablet… Soho Girl Strangled—What’s this? Police surgeons have established that the blonde Soho dance hostess, Edith Parker, was strangled. Miss Parker, 26, was found murdered in her flat in Gresse Street, London, on Saturday. The killer committed further injuries with a poker.

  I must have read it through three times before I realised. Strangled…injuries from a poker. Bit of a jolt, seeing it in the paper like that. It must have been…what? Thursday that it happened, but already it seems like a dream I had and can barely remember. Took a while to get reported in the paper— perhaps they didn’t find her straight off. It’s funny, because I can recall the place, but not her. It’s the room that’s in focus, the old-fashioned mantelpiece, dark wood, standing in front of it—dust on it—small table beside the bed, the feel of the little mirror in my hand. It all seems more real than she does. And there was an eiderdown—blue—with marks and spots, as if someone had spilt tea or soup or something. I threw it over the bed before I left. Edith Parker. Odd to think of her having a name. It seems far away now, not important. It says here she was blonde. Strange to see it reduced to this, like a combat report: all the intensity of it, the sensation, gone, and it’s just words on paper. Funny how you can do something that you can’t explain or describe. I don’t feel a connection with it, much. As if it happened to someone else. Funny altogether. But I’ll keep it, all the same.

  Nothing much else in here. Mathy’s still sounding off about that bloody car. Nice day today, blitzy weather. I ought to empty my bladder before we get called again…

  Edie’s a blonde, dilly, dilly; My true love was red; But when it gets dark, dilly, dally; She’ll do instead…

  That’s better. Too much tea this morning. I don’t want to get caught short.

  Don’t see many redheads. It ought to be a brunette next time, really. For balance. But soon, because there’s not much time left.

  Thursday 26th September

  Rene

  I haven’t felt much like going out to work these last few days, to be honest. Lily and I agreed to meet in The Black Horse before we started this evening, to buck ourselves up a bit. All the old girls go in the Ladies’ bar, but they don’t like us in there, so we go to the public room instead. There’s a barman there, Walt. Poor chap had some operation on his face as a nipper and one of the nerves got cut by mistake, and he’s got one cheek paralysed, with a droopy eye and his mouth screwed up so he only talks with half of it, but he’s nice enough, and he’s been sweet on Lily for ever so long. It’s a bit pathetic, really, because he never says much, but whenever she comes in his face lights up—well, the part that works does—and he stops whatever he’s doing and runs over to serve her. Every time she speaks to him, even if it’s just to say ‘thank you’, he looks that pleased, and he’s always got some little present that he pushes over the bar, quick, so no one can see. I did ask Lily once, if she’d ever gone with him—you know, when she’s working—and she said he’d never asked, so I suppose he likes to keep it a bit romantic. It’s sad, really, but you haven’t got a lot of chance with girls if you look like he does.

  This time he’d got Lily some artificial flowers to pin on her frock. He said he’d heard about Edie and he was sorry, and then he went and cleared a table for us in the corner so we could sit down. I was joshing Lily about him, trying to cheer us both up because I wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of going out to work, and I knew she wasn’t, either, when she suddenly opened her bag and pulled out a scrap of newspaper. ‘You seen this? It was in Tuesday’s paper.’

  ‘Let’s have a look. Police are hunting the killer of Edith Parker, a twenty-six-year-old former dance hostess, who was found strangled in her Soho flat yesterday. Doesn’t say anything about the other business. Perhaps Bridget was making it up.’

  Lily shook her head. ‘Who’d make up a thing like that? Anyway, they’ve got it all wrong. Edie was only twenty-three, not twenty-six, and she didn’t live in Soho, either. Oh, Rene, it’s horrible. I told Ted I didn’t want to come out, and he was ever so nice about it, but then he
went out and I thought I’d better come. I mean, there’s the rent, and…you know.’

  ‘Come on, Lily. You know how Edie was. Weak in the head—you said it yourself. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but it’s her own fault if she got into trouble. Look at the way she went off with that chap from the shelter.’

  ‘He offered her three pounds. I heard him.’

  ‘There you are, then. Double the money—you know what that means.’

  ‘No French letter.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have gone with him, would you?’

  Lily shook her head.

  ‘There you are, then. You’ve got to know how to handle them, that’s all.’ She still looked doubtful, so I said, ‘Come on, Lil, it’s all right. We’ll look out for each other, won’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so. But Rene—’

  She never got any further, because some idiot, stinking like a distillery, plonks himself down at our table. I was about to say, ‘Do you mind?’ but he cut straight in with, ‘How’s Henry?’

  I said, ‘I don’t know anyone called Henry.’

  ‘Well you should, he’s your husband.’

  ‘Not me, dear, I don’t have a husband.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ He thumped the table. ‘Henry.’

  ‘No, dear. You’re thinking of somebody else.’

  ‘Have you divorced him?’

  ‘How could I divorce him when I never had him in the first place?’

  ‘Poor Henry, fancy getting divorced…’

  This was beginning to get on my nerves, and I was about to tell him so when Lily jumped up, saying, ‘Oh, I can’t bear it! Bloody men, all the time. Why can’t we have some peace and quiet?’

  He turned to her and said, ‘Are you going to marry him, then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Henry! You couldn’t do better. Straight as a die, he is. Don’t know what’s the matter with her,’ jerking his head at me, ‘divorcing him like that.’

  Lily said, ‘Oh, get out of my way,’ and made to push past him.

  He put out a hand to stop her and I thought, here we go again, when I heard someone say, ‘This gentleman giving you trouble?’

  I thought, I know that voice, and sure enough when I turned round there was the warden, Harry Nolan. He took the man by his arm and said, ‘Time to go, mate.’ Lily and I got behind the table pretty sharpish at that, expecting trouble, because he was a little runt of a man, and with Harry being so big, well, that’s when they’re usually spoiling for a fight, wanting to prove themselves, but he didn’t say a word. Just left, quiet as a lamb. We thanked Harry, then Lily said she ought to be going—despite what she’d said, I reckon she was worried in case Ted came in and saw she wasn’t working. I was about to go with her, when Harry asked if he could buy me a drink. I thought, oh, why not? I could do with a bit of Dutch courage, and besides, it’s not often I meet a man I actually want to pass the time of day with, free and gratis, so I might as well enjoy a bit of decent company for a change. I told Lily I’d catch up with her, and sat back down again.

  ‘You feeling a bit better now, Rene?’

  ‘I’m not so bad.’

  He said, ‘I’m glad. That was a bad business, all round.’

  I felt a bit awkward, talking about it. I mean, I know he knows, and he knows I know he knows, but all the same. And it was hard to make him out, because there wasn’t any sort of… suggestiveness, if you see what I mean. And he could be married with five kids, for all I know, although I have to say he hasn’t got a look of that. There were a lot of people in the pub, and we could hear Ale Mary in the passage outside, singing away over all the racket. To change the subject, I said, ‘Bit early for her, isn’t it?’

  ‘Be thankful for small mercies. At least it’s not the Old Testament.’

  ‘Not unless there’s a Book of Marie Lloyd.’

  Harry laughed. ‘I’ll bet she hasn’t enjoyed herself so much in years.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same. It’s enough to make anyone go off their head, all this.’

  ‘Oh, cheer up, it’s not so bad. I heard a good story yesterday. One of the chaps in our ARP is a dentist. He had a man come in for a new set of teeth, and do you know what he’d done? He was a bit quiet about it, but they got it out of him in the end: he’s with the AFS and he’s on the hose for the first time, the fire’s nearly out and he hasn’t been home in three days so he thinks it’s a good chance to clean his teeth. He takes them out and holds them up in the water, but of course he hadn’t reckoned on the pressure, and they shoot out of his hand and go sailing through the air, straight into the fire!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Honestly. Flying right through the air, snapping away like anything.’

  ‘They never.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Snapping?’ It was such a funny picture, I couldn’t stop laughing.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if that was strictly true, but it makes a good story, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Priceless…’

  ‘It’s nice to see you laugh, Rene.’

  ‘Snapping…oh, dear, you’ve really cheered me up.’

  ‘You look lovely when you smile.’

  There was a bit of a pause after that, with neither of us knowing quite what to say, so I stood up. ‘I’d best be going.’

  Harry stood, too. ‘Yes. I’m glad you’re feeling a bit brighter.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got you to thank for that, haven’t I?’

  ‘All part of the service. Take care of yourself, Rene.’

  It was just about dark outside. All the way to my patch I kept thinking of Harry saying I look lovely when I smile, then telling myself not to be soft. Being in this business can take you two ways: one where you don’t trust men because you see all the bad side, and the other where it makes you want a bit of romance more than ever, to have the contrast with the other thing. That’s why so many have ponces, but it’s no use if you have to pay a man to stay with you. Except of course that they’re your own sort because they understand the life.

  But with Harry… Well, I don’t know, because you do get these types, every so often; they’ll give you money and help you out and not want anything for it, but it’s all done to make them feel a better person, so even if they don’t get the physical satisfaction, they get another sort. There’s a lot of men have a fascination with women like us, but with this particular type of person, it takes them in a different way from the usual. I’m not saying there’s wrong in it, and I wouldn’t refuse the money, why should I? But Harry hasn’t offered me anything more than you would an ordinary woman, so I can’t make it out. But I like him. Yes, I do. But I’m not getting my hopes up, because even if a man thinks he can forget you’ve been a tart, I don’t reckon that’s true—it’ll always come back later. First quarrel, and he’ll throw it right back in your face how he’s picked you up out of the gutter. But then I said to myself, I’m not going to think about Harry any more tonight, because I’m working.

  I had an appointment with one of my regulars at my flat— Raymond the Barber, I call him, because he always wants to comb my hair. Puts a towel across my shoulders and calls me ‘Madam’ and all the rest of it. He comes to see me about once a month. I charge him two pounds for it, being a bit out of the ordinary. Mind you, I have to pretend to tip him. First thing he does, he gives me a couple of shillings and I have to put them in my handbag so I can bring them out after and give him, and he says, ‘Oh, thank you, Madam.’ You get a fair bit of that sort of thing. I’ve got my button-boot man, too, who comes to see me, he’s another one. He’s got these boots he brings with him and he likes me to walk up and down in front of him wearing nothing but. They don’t half pinch! Still, it makes a change from the usual.

  I had a fair bit of business after that, and then I’d just come back out onto the street when a man comes shooting past and nearly knocks me flying. I thought, what’s this, I’m being robbed, and I shouted out. Not that he’d get much, mind you, because I
keep my money in my shoe, not my handbag, and he’d have a job finding that. Anyway, he wasn’t a thief, just a young fellow in a hurry—uniform of some sort, all apologetic, nice manners and the rest of it. Said he was looking for a pal who’d given him the slip. I said, ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a pal to me.’

  ‘Well, he’s not, really, he’s a funny chap. But you haven’t seen anyone, have you?’

  ‘I’ve only just got here, dear. I can ask my friend round the corner, if you like.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘Well you wouldn’t, would you, the way you were going?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, I—’

  ‘Never mind. I meant the other corner. Where you were heading. Let’s have a look, shall we?’

  I shone my torch across the pavement, but Lily wasn’t there. ‘She’s busy, dear. I’d give it up, if I were you.’

  ‘Yes…’ he sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I say…are you, I mean, do you…could…that is, could I buy you a drink?’

  Here we go, I thought. ‘Oh, you don’t have to do that, dear. It’ll be two pounds unless you’re after something special.’ I said two pounds because I had him down for a novice and I thought I might as well take ten shillings more for the extra bother—I’m not a bloody nursemaid, after all.

  ‘Special? Heavens, no…’ He laughed nervously. ‘What do, I mean, where…?’

  ‘Come along with me.’

  When we got back to my flat I saw he was RAF. Nineteen or twenty, I suppose, with a sort of baby look to him—big dark eyes with long lashes and lovely wavy hair—but as if the face hadn’t taken on its proper shape yet, if you know what I mean. Blushing like fury, of course. He said, ‘Look here, I don’t know the form… Name’s Gervase.’