I came into work yesterday morning and found a packet on my desk, wrapped in brown paper. Whisked it into my handbag so that the others shouldn’t see, and then excused myself to spend a penny so that I could open it in private. It was twenty Players, with a scribbled note: ‘I’m sorry’ signed Donald Bridges. It’s impossible to think of smoking them— they’d choke me. I should like to throw them away if it wasn’t so wasteful. I decided to give them to Mums as a ‘make up’ present. She’s been as infuriating as ever; seems to see bad in everyone, especially me.
She’s been going on and on about the Anderson shelter, insisting that if we stay in the house we’ll be buried alive, crushed, suffocated, decapitated and heaven knows what else. The awful thing is, I’ve imagined all these things myself, and hearing them spoken aloud does not make things any better. I tried to make her understand that she’s in the safest possible place, under the stairs, but it makes no difference. A couple of days ago I just snapped, and found myself shouting, ‘Oh, shut up, you get on my nerves!’ I apologised afterwards, but of course the damage was done.
But it wasn’t only that. Last night, she was awful to Dad. He’d come in with Mr Fenner, and they were in the kitchen, deep in questions of cricket and football, and Minnie and I were making supper. We thought it would be nice to ask Mr Fenner to stay, because he’s a widower and doesn’t get much chance of a home-cooked meal, and because it’s nice for Dad to have some male company. When I suggested it, Dad looked pleased as Punch, but then Mums rushed in, obviously furious about the amount of tea they’d consumed, and made it very clear to Mr Fenner that he wasn’t at all welcome. Dad was very quiet after that, but I was boiling inside—how dare she begrudge him a bit of fun? And as for speaking to Mr Fenner like that… I was angry with Dad, too, for sitting there and saying nothing, when it’s his house. I whirled about the kitchen, slamming things all over the place, ignoring Mums completely and not bothering to conceal my disgust for the whole thing. Quite by mistake I knocked into Minnie—she was carrying an egg and dropped it, and Mums instantly screeched, ‘Now look what you’ve done! Can’t you be more careful? You never think of anyone but yourself!’ Mayhem. Minnie started crying, although none of it was directed at her, and Mums and I made for the cloth at the same time, ‘For heaven’s sake, I’ll do it!’
‘No, let me, give it here, you’re all thumbs—’
‘I’ve said I’ll do it!’ I got a firm purchase on the cloth and tugged it away from her. During all this chaos, Dad sat looking down at the table and didn’t say a word, and I caught sight of his face, which looked so weary that I was instantly sorry and felt very ashamed of myself. It must be dreadful for him, being surrounded by this awful gaggle of women who are constantly at each other’s throats or in hysterics.
Supper was conducted in complete, but very loaded silence, apart from Minnie’s sniffing. The siren went halfway through and we took our plates and retreated: Mums and Minnie under the stairs; Dad and I under the table. My anger, apart from a niggling indignation that none of it was my fault, had left me, and I felt about an inch high and couldn’t bring myself to look at him or say anything. Couldn’t eat anything, either, but pushed the food around my plate, wondering how to get rid of it without anyone noticing.
I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that Dad had finished his meal and was looking at me.
‘Lucy?’
‘What?’ I could hear how ungracious this sounded, but couldn’t help it.
‘I know it’s not much fun for you youngsters, with all this, but try not to be too hard on your mother. She can’t help it. She worries about you, you know.’
‘But she’s impossible! What she said to Mr Fenner, when she could see you were having a perfectly nice time, and it wouldn’t have hurt to—’
‘I know, Lucy. But you’ve got to make allowances. She’s not herself these days.’
‘But that doesn’t give her the right to speak to people—’
‘It doesn’t give you the right, either. She was very upset last night…it won’t do.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Just don’t do it again, that’s all. Now…’ he pointed to my plate. ‘Are you going to eat that, young lady?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not very hungry.’
‘Well, hand it over. Can’t have it going to waste.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ He finished my supper, then said, ‘Now, you stay put here, and I’ll clear the dishes.’
I sat under the table watching his feet and legs move about, and had the odd thought that this is the view a dog would see all the time. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know that Mrs Grout reckons her dog can tell the difference between our planes and theirs?’
‘What, old Blackie? Perhaps he ought to join the ARP. Mind you, we’d have a job finding him a tin hat… Does that little accident mean we’re out of eggs?’
‘I’m afraid it does.’
‘Eggless in Gaza.’
‘Da-ad! That’s awful.’
‘Eggless in Clapham, then.’
‘That’s even worse.’
He stuck his head under the table and grinned at me. ‘I thought it was one of my better efforts. I’m just going to check on the stirrup pump. You’ll be all right here, won’t you? It’s pretty quiet.’
‘I’m fine, Dad. Honestly.’
‘Good.’ He reached awkwardly under the table and gave my shoulder a pat.
It suddenly occurred to me that when Dad was my age, he was in the trenches. That must have been terrible—I’ve never heard him talk about it, ever. The one time I asked him, all he said was, ‘Some things are best forgotten.’ I remember him sighing when we heard Chamberlain on the wireless, saying we were at war. I suppose it must have seemed that everything they’d been through then was for nothing. Mums was in the armchair opposite, crying and peeling potatoes at the same time, and afterwards, we all stood up, very self-conscious, staring down at the rug while they played the National Anthem, Mums still clutching her basin of spuds.
To be honest, I didn’t really know how to react to the announcement. I remember watching Dad to see how he was taking it. He seemed so weary and disappointed. I suppose I was…what? Afraid? Yes, a bit. Excited…yes…and curious about what would happen. That seems a lifetime ago, but it’s barely more than a year. Dad always looks worn out, nowadays, yet he’s so kind and forgiving. Like Minnie. It’s a shocking realisation that in this respect, at least, I am more like Mums—a horrible thought, but probably a true one. Perhaps that’s why Dad, without saying much, seems to understand me so well: he’s had a lot of practice, poor man. And I think he does love Mums. She doesn’t strike me as being the lovable type—perhaps I’m not, either. Or maybe Dad sees something else there, that we—or at least, I—don’t. In my room this morning, getting dressed, I took the green brooch from under the pillow and put it in my bag. Silly, perhaps, but it reassured me a little, and anything’s better than nothing.
I came downstairs in the morning to find that the water was off, again. Had to use the contents of Mums’s hot water bottle to make our tea. This won full marks for initiative from Dad, and pursed lips from Mums—through which she drank two cups. Decided it was time to present my peace offering of cigarettes, and did so, to be met with a suspicious look, and asked if I’d got them on the black market! I could feel Dad’s eyes boring into the back of my head, so bit back a sarcastic retort and exited, hurriedly, to work.
I spent four hours in the shelter today, at Miss Henderson’s insistence, and got very little done, but Mr Bridges didn’t seem to be about, thank goodness. In any case, when it comes to running errands upstairs, Vi and Phyll are only too happy to oblige, which lets me off the hook. I could feel Miss H’s eyes on me all the time, but no one else seemed to notice, so perhaps it is only imagination. Found myself looking at the brooch in my handbag several times for comfort. Came out later with a terrible
headache—it’s stuffy enough in there and people will insist on smoking, even though they aren’t supposed to.
I was exhausted by the end of the day, but didn’t want to go home. Two stations were closed and most of the streets around roped off and deserted. Precious few buses, and all bursting with people, with a lot more milling about, waiting. I felt very tired and gloomy, and started to wonder if perhaps I’ve got a cold coming. If so, I probably caught it from Miss Henderson sitting beside me in the shelter, because she’s got an absolute beast—nose bright red and streaming, and eyes smaller and more gimlet-like than ever.
The thought of another evening listening to Mums’s endless complaints was more than I could bear, and the sheer effort of getting home suddenly seemed too much. I did wonder, afterwards, if I’d already made the decision to go to Soho before I’d seen the transport situation. I’m not sure, but I can’t deny it might have been at the back of my mind. I found myself taking the brooch out of my handbag and holding it in my hand like a talisman, and then, after a while, I started to walk.
I had a strangely disembodied feeling, probably a consequence of having cut breakfast and picked at lunch. People were jostling to get home, all walking very fast with their heads down. I noticed how shabby it all looks—windows everywhere have been replaced with cardboard, and the whole place is grimier than ever. I saw peculiar reflections in broken panes— myself split into halves, or cracked down the middle, or flowing from side to side like a pantomime genie appearing from a bottle.
There were a lot of women standing on street corners and in doorways, and odd splashes of bright colour, dulling as the blackouts started to go up and the dusk greyed everything. The sharp edges of the buildings began to blur. It looked nicer like that, less harsh, as everything seemed to soften and settle. A woman bumped into me—‘Look where you’re going, dear!’—our eyes met, and, just for a moment, I thought I knew her, and then I remembered: it was the woman from the shelter. The prostitute. The one who looks like me. I had an odd, fleeting impulse to speak to her—I couldn’t think why, or what I would say if I did speak—but then she walked past me.
I remembered to check my bag and pockets, just in case, but everything was still there. I felt ashamed of myself for my suspicion, and turned to make sure she hadn’t looked back and seen me do it. That was when I caught sight of him, through the window of a café. Wearing his greatcoat over his uniform, head bowed, the smudgy, greasy window softening his hair, making it seem almost like a halo. A cup of tea stood on the table in front of him. I thought, stupidly, that angels don’t drink tea. Then the brooch seemed to jump against my palm and I heard Dad’s voice from very far away, ‘You youngsters don’t have much fun, nowadays…’
The moment—it must have been only a moment—seemed to last a long time, and then he looked up at me, and smiled. I put my hand on the window, feeling as if it would just melt away and I could step through it, like Alice did through the looking glass. My heart was thumping like mad, and I seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
I got a rude shock when a slovenly-looking girl with a broom appeared at the door. ‘We’re closing, Miss.’
‘Oh, I don’t want anything, I just… I’ve got something for this gentleman.’ I don’t know why I said that. It just popped into my head.
‘It’s like I said, Miss, we’re closing.’ She was blocking the doorway, greasy, moon-faced, one hand on her hip. I could just see my airman through the crook of her arm. He’d bowed his head again and was tracing a pattern with one finger on the table-top. He didn’t seem to be noticing either of us.
‘Please,’ I said, ‘just for a moment. It’s important. I won’t trouble you.’
‘Oh, please yourself.’ She stood aside, grudgingly, giving me just enough space to squeeze past.
A warden poked his head round the door, and when he took his helmet off, I recognised the man who’d helped me up and taken me to the shelter. He must have remembered me, too, because he said, ‘Good evening, miss. Nice to see you again. Just doing my rounds for the blackouts.’
The girl grunted. ‘I was just about to do them when she came in.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said the warden. He turned back to me. ‘You keeping well, miss?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Jolly good. Well, I shan’t keep you.’ He looked past me, towards my airman, who was still sitting at the table, and smiled. ‘I can see you’ll be well looked after, so I’ll bid you goodnight.’ He turned and left, and I could hear the wretched girl huffing and clattering behind me as I made my way across the room to the table. My airman hadn’t looked up, and I suddenly felt very awkward indeed, because I hadn’t thought what I might say to him—hadn’t thought of talking at all, just imagined the two of us together, somehow. Words hadn’t seemed important. I decided not to try to speak, but simply unclenched my fingers and put the brooch down, very gently, on the table. After a second, his head jerked up and he stared at me, blank and shocked at the same time, as if I’d just woken him from a dream.
‘Hello.’
He frowned at me. ‘Hello.’
‘I thought perhaps…the brooch. I thought you might want it back. My name’s Lucy.’ My voice didn’t sound like mine at all. He didn’t speak, just looked at me. ‘I thought you might not like to be without it.’
‘Oh… I don’t mind. I gave it to you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but…’ His face was even more handsome than I remembered it. I knew I was staring at him, but I couldn’t help it. ‘When I looked through the window…I knew it was you.’ I was aware of the girl watching us. She’d put up all the blackouts and was leaning against the wall, arms folded.
‘I want you to have it,’ he said. He pushed it across the table with his fingertips, and as I reached for it, our hands touched with a tiny electric shock. He drew back his hand quickly, and put it in his pocket.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘take it. I don’t want it.’ He slumped in his chair, free hand tapping on the table-top as if he was waiting for something. I should go, I thought. He doesn’t want me here. But I couldn’t leave. I felt paralysed. I was so aware of my nearness to him that it felt as if my skin was on fire, and I stood there holding the brooch, trying to think of something to say and feeling like some silly schoolgirl with a ‘pash’ on the games mistress.
Suddenly, he looked up. ‘She wants us to leave,’ he said, jerking his head at the waitress. He pulled some coins out of his pocket, tossed them on the table, and stood up. ‘Can I take you somewhere?’
‘I don’t know… I…’
‘I’m sure you need to get home. Before the raids.’
‘Oh. Yes. Well, thank you. The station. That would be very kind. I mean, I can manage on my own, if you’d rather…’
‘It’s not safe round here. Women have been murdered— strangled and cut up. You shouldn’t be wandering about by yourself; you don’t know what might happen.’
‘Oh…it’s very kind of you.’
‘One of them was attacked with a knife. Had her insides cut out.’ His eyes seemed to lock onto mine, and I didn’t know what to say.
‘Ooh…that’s horrible! Don’t tell me any more.’ I heard myself laugh, stupidly.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Well,’ I gave him my brightest smile to show I wasn’t afraid, ‘I certainly shan’t be frightened with you.’
‘Of course not. I’ll look after you. Where’s the nearest station?’
‘Leicester Square. It was closed, before, but perhaps—’
‘Let’s go.’
It was dark outside. He turned left instead of right. I followed him for a moment, afraid to touch him or stop him, then said, ‘Actually, it’s the other way. I mean, that’s quicker.’
‘Is it?’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know my way around. Not in the blackout, anyway. Haven’t been round here, much.’
‘You’re not from London?’
‘
Coventry. I went away to school, of course.’
‘Yes… Is it nice, Coventry?
‘All right, I suppose. Same as anywhere.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘Hornchurch.’
‘So you don’t get much chance to go back there. Back home, I mean.’
‘No. But I don’t miss it, much. Not now.’
‘Because of your mother?’
‘Mother?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…but you said, the brooch, you said it belonged to her, and I thought—’
‘Yes, it did. Belong to her. It would have gone to my sister.’
‘But surely—’
‘No. She died. Years ago. Car crash.’
‘That’s terrible… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Tom. Tom Matheson.’
‘My name’s Lucy.’
‘Lucy. Look, the raid hasn’t started yet, so…would you fancy a drink, or do you have to get home?’
‘Yes… I mean, yes, I’d like a drink.’
I wondered, briefly, if such behaviour could be viewed as delinquent, but pushed the thought quickly to the back of my mind: after all, we have met before, if only in a manner of speaking, and in any case, I was a whole lot safer with him than I would be on my own.
He took me to a quiet bar. Not many people, but they all seemed respectable types—no signs of drunkenness, at any rate. As soon as he saw the uniform, the waiter was straight over to serve us, and said the manager had told him the drinks were on the house! ‘Your money’s no good here, sir,’ and lots of admiring glances from the other customers. I felt disgusted with myself for revelling in this reflected glory, but all the same, it was rather nice. Tom, on the other hand, seemed slightly embarrassed by the man’s effusiveness, although it can’t be the first time it’s happened; after all, the pilots are our heroes. But it was a bit awkward after that, fumbling for conversation and avoiding each other’s eyes. I was very conscious that we were being watched, and wouldn’t have minded betting that every single woman in that bar was wishing she could be in my shoes.
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