Yesterday, I caught them canoodling—that’s the only word for it—in the store room. I pretended I hadn’t noticed what they were doing, which isn’t easy when two people are standing quite so close and one of them is scarlet with blushes. I said, ‘Good morning,’ very politely, and disappeared back upstairs as fast as I could. When Miss H asked me why I hadn’t got the fresh carbons, I told her I’d forgotten to take the key with me. She wasn’t pleased, but honestly, I couldn’t have stayed down there a moment longer. Phyll came into our office about ten minutes later on some pretext, wearing a look on her face that I can only describe as defiant triumph. She hovered about my desk, obviously hoping that I’d make some remark, but I’m afraid she was disappointed, because I bent over my typewriter and affected not to notice her at all.
I found myself wondering, on the train home, if Phyll has conveniently forgotten, as I did, that Mr Bridges is married. She certainly knows it, because she was there when Miss H told us. I’ve been wondering if I should warn her about him, but she’d probably think it was jealousy. I don’t know what, if anything, Mr Bridges has said about me, but obviously she knows we didn’t ‘click’. I wonder if he’s fed her that line about his wife being a chronic invalid and all the rest of it. But then the truth is, I might have swallowed all that myself, if it hadn’t been for that awful business in the restaurant, and what happened after…
I feel rather sorry for Phyll, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t listen to me if I did say anything. But then, if I hadn’t met Tom, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to see the difference between something real and meaningful and a sordid little intrigue, either. What she’s up to seems so tawdry by comparison, and I simply can’t believe Mr Bridges could ever be capable of the kind of raw honesty of the conversation I had with Tom, which really was a meeting of minds. All Mr Bridges’ talk about virginity and so on is simply a veneer of sophistication, done with an intent to shock, and would only impress somebody who didn’t know better—as I didn’t, not then.
It sounds as if I think I know everything. I don’t, it’s just a matter of seeing things from a different viewpoint. But I don’t think it’s something which can be learned—not without experience, anyway.
I should like to put some of this in my letter to Tom, but it’s jolly difficult, and I’d hate to give him the impression that I’m foolish, or weak. I’ve spent the last few nights under the kitchen table, trying to write something, but I keep tearing it up in disgust. I found one of my school exercise books which wasn’t used up and took pages out of the back of that to scribble on. I’d decided that using up our whole stock of notepaper would make me even less popular with Mums than I am already.
I thought that perhaps I ought to write a nice, gossipy letter about Mums and Dad and Minnie, and what happens at the office, but it seems so inadequate, after our conversation. Tom would be bound to despise it, and rightly so! But I mustn’t descend into purple patchiness, either. I suppose that’s why there are poets who can say these things for the rest of us, and then we can point to this or that verse and say, that’s how I feel, or, that’s what I think. But this seems rather lazy, and in any case, I don’t know any poems, apart from the ones I had to learn at school, and verses like The boy stood on the burning deck and How Horatius kept the bridge don’t fit the bill at all. I asked Minnie on Sunday evening if she could think of any poetry, and she immediately screwed up her face and recited, like a child doing a party piece: Glad days, sad days; Are all the brighter made; In the happy knowledge; That our friendship will never fade. This made us both giggle, because it’s painted on a hideous plate that Aunt Norma sent Mums from Eastbourne. It’s probably the only poem in our entire house, and it’s awful.
When we’d stopped laughing, Minnie asked if I was writing to Frank, and I said yes, and immediately felt bad for lying about it.
She said, ‘You haven’t written to him since he went, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to make it up with him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I know you had a quarrel, that’s all. Before he left. I’m sorry, I wasn’t spying or anything, but I saw you at the gate, and he didn’t come in to say goodbye. You didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so…’ She made a face. ‘Well, anyway, it’s none of my business.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it isn’t.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Lucy. Look, I’ll leave you in peace. I ought to see how Mums is doing, anyway.’ Part of me wanted to call Minnie back and to say that I was the one who ought to be sorry, and explain everything, because we have always talked about things. But I just couldn’t. Minnie’d be upset—she did like Frank a great deal—and also, I suppose I was rather ashamed of how I’d behaved, and no one likes to say things that reflect badly on them. And if I’m honest, there is a certain guilty pleasure about all this secrecy. That ‘special’ feeling, inside… I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying it.
I came home on Wednesday determined to complete my letter to Tom. The house was empty except for Minnie, who was making supper. When I asked her where Mums was, she said, ‘She’s with Mrs Dorn.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s expecting a baby. Mums has been going out to sit with her.’
‘Oh, yes. Her husband’s away, isn’t he?’
Minnie nodded.
I said, ‘Well, good for Mums.’
‘It’s been a few days now, she’s done it. The baby’s supposed to come any time.’
‘I didn’t know. Mums must be feeling much better if she’s doing that.’
‘Yes, she is… I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. But then, you’ve had other things on your mind, haven’t you?’
That surprised me, because Minnie isn’t usually catty like that, but I felt I’d deserved it for being selfishly interested in my own affairs and not noticing what was happening at home. I said, ‘Do you think one of us ought to go round there?’
Minnie shook her head. ‘Mums said not to. She said she had a feeling that the baby might come tonight and she wants to stay put in case the midwife can’t get there.’
‘Heavens…’
Dad was at the post, so it was just the two of us at dinner. For the first time in my life, I felt uncomfortable being alone with Minnie. I couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t prompt a question about Frank, and I could see she was burning to ask me. We ate and washed up the plates in silence, and finally, she said, ‘You ought to tell Frank.’
‘Tell Frank what?’
‘If there’s someone else. It isn’t fair, Lucy.’
I felt my face burning, and heard myself say, ‘It isn’t like that.’
‘It’s still leading him up the garden path, isn’t it?’
I couldn’t look her in the face. ‘Look, Minnie, I don’t want to talk about it. You wouldn’t understand.’
She threw down her tea-towel. ‘I’m not a complete baby, you know!’
‘I know that, but it’s just…complicated, that’s all.’
‘Complicated. I see. Look, there’s no earthly reason why you should tell me, but it’s not fair on Frank, that’s all.’
There wasn’t any answer to that, at least, not without admitting everything, and I couldn’t bear to do that. I hate, hate, hate this feeling of separation between us, but it’s my own fault, I suppose, so I’ll just have to put up with it.
Nothing more was said. Minnie retreated under the stairs with a detective story. I stayed in the kitchen, trying to write my letter, but I couldn’t settle down to it, and in the end I gave up. I could hear the drone of planes, but not near us, thank God, so I crawled out from under the table and found Mums’s newspaper to take my mind off everything. Another wretched woman found murdered in the West End. I vaguely remembered Tom saying something about it, and realised, when I looked at the date, that the paper was several days old.
The planes got louder at about eleven, and I began to worry about Mums. The bangs and crashes got nearer and nearer
, and by half past I was starting to panic, and was just about to go and find Minnie when she crawled in under the table and said, ‘I know Mums said not to, but don’t you think we ought to go to Mrs Dorn’s and make sure they’re all right?’
‘Definitely. I was just about to come and say the same to you.’
Just as I said that, there was a very loud crash—couldn’t have been more than a couple of roads away—that made the house shake. Minnie and I exchanged glances, then she shot out from under the table and started rummaging in one of the cupboards. I scrambled after her. ‘What are you doing?’
She turned round, and I saw she had a big saucepan in each hand. ‘Tin hats,’ she said. ‘Come on!’
We got ready in double-quick time, because the bangs seemed to be getting louder by the minute, then she clapped her saucepan over her head, and I did the same, and we rushed out of the house and groped our way into the street. It was almost pitch dark—just a couple of hooded lampposts with a circle of weak light at their bases—and we could hear planes and the whine and swoosh of shells, and—further off, thank goodness—the most terrific explosions. Every now and then the sky would flare up in light, and then go dark again, so that an orange afterglow seemed to imprint itself on my vision for several minutes afterwards.
We stumbled along holding the saucepans on our heads with one hand and our torches in the other, then Minnie fell into someone’s hedge, and I had to pull her out and banged my knee rather badly—thank heavens for slacks—and by the time we got to the corner of Mrs Dorn’s road, we were panting like anything. I said, ‘Do you know what number it is?’
‘Oh…twelve, I think.’
I said, ‘Well, they’re going to get a shock if it isn’t.’
We found the number on the gate, but when we knocked, nobody answered. After a minute or so, Minnie said, ‘Of course, they’ll be in the Anderson,’ and made her way around the side of the house with me following. I’m ashamed to say that it flashed through my mind, most uncharitably, that the Anderson shelter might be the real reason for Mums’s attendance on Mrs Dorn.
The garden was even darker than the street. I would have bashed my brains out tripping over the mangle if it hadn’t been for the saucepan, and Mums must have heard the clang it made against the side of the house because we heard her calling out, ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s us, Mums!’
I thought she’d shriek, but she just shouted out, ‘Good! We could do with a bit of help!’
We climbed down into the shelter. It wasn’t too bad in there, quite cheerful with the lantern, but the floor was wet and very slippery. Mums said, ‘The midwife’s not arrived yet, and the baby’s well on the way, but there’s no need to worry; we can manage.’ I was amazed because she didn’t sound like her normal self at all, but somebody much calmer and stronger, and not at all afraid.
Mr Dorn had put up bunk beds on one side of the shelter, with little curtains drawn across them for privacy. I heard a voice from behind, ‘Oh, is that Minnie?’ and a woman’s hand pulled the curtain on the lower bunk back and we saw Mrs Dorn there in her dressing-gown, lying on her side with a mackintosh spread out underneath her. Then the curtain on the top bunk twitched, and a sweet little face appeared—Mrs Dorn’s eldest—‘I’m Bella. I’m six.’ She pointed at Mums. ‘Is that your Mummy?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘My mummy’s having a baby.’
I raised my eyebrows at this, but Mums just said, ‘Yes, dear. You pull the curtain now, and leave us in peace.’
‘Only if I can see the baby when it comes, like you promised.’
‘Yes, dear, of course you can.’ Then she turned back to us. ‘I want you to go into the house and get some hot water and towels.’
Mrs Dorn’s head appeared again. ‘I’m very sorry, dear, but all my nice things are upstairs, and you’re not to go and fetch them, it isn’t safe.’
Mums bent down and took her hand. ‘Now don’t you worry, they won’t do anything silly.’
‘Well, I don’t want them putting themselves at risk on my account.’ Then she looked at us and laughed. ‘Nice hats, girls. You’ll start a fashion.’
We went into the house and got the water going. I only managed to find one towel, but there was plenty of newspaper, so I took that instead, and some galoshes for Mums that I found by the kitchen door. The noise outside was as bad as ever, but inside the Anderson it was all calm and rather lovely, somehow, in spite of the muddy floor and the lack of space. Mrs Dorn was very quiet. I’d always thought people screamed when they were having a baby. Mums was calmer than I’ve ever seen her, holding Mrs Dorn’s hand and giving her encouragement. She seemed so kind and wise; a different person, in fact.
I said this to Minnie when we went back to the kitchen. Mrs Dorn’s got a good, big table, like ours, so we pushed it against the wall and settled ourselves underneath to wait for further instructions. I could well have done with a cup of tea, but it seemed a bit rotten to take Mrs Dorn’s ration, so I didn’t suggest it.
Minnie said, ‘She’s extraordinary, but I suppose it’s from having babies herself. She loves all that, you know. She told me once it was the happiest time of her life, when we were small. She wanted more—more than just the two of us, I mean—but Dad said they couldn’t afford it.’
‘Oh.’ I was a bit shocked by that. It made me think how little I really know about Mums. As a mother, she’s the most maddening person in the world, but I don’t have much idea of her as an individual. I suppose I’ve never been close enough, or interested enough, to ask.
‘Just imagine,’ Minnie said, ‘bringing a baby into all this.’
‘It seems crazy, doesn’t it?’
‘But people go on with their lives, don’t they? War or no war.’ She seemed so calm about it, rather like Mums, that I didn’t want to show her how shaken I felt. I suppose it’s this business of people not acting how you expect them to, although in this case, it was just as well! Minnie said, ‘I’ve got a cig in my bag—just the one. Do you want to share it?’ Then, rather sheepishly, ‘I pinched it from Mums. Don’t tell, will you?’
‘’Course I won’t, silly.’
We’d smoked about half when I noticed it was a Players and it suddenly dawned on me that it must be one of Mr Bridges’ cigarettes. That made me feel a bit peculiar, but when I turned to give it back to Minnie, she’d nodded off. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I put the cigarette out, and after a while I dropped off too.
Mums put her head round the back door at quarter past three to tell us that the baby, a boy, had arrived, and we traipsed over to the Anderson to see it. It was wrapped in a blanket, and all we could see was its face, which looked very squashed. Minnie held it up to show Bella, while Mums looked after Mrs Dorn and made her comfortable. There wasn’t really room for me to fit inside, so I stood at the entrance and watched, and there was something so wonderful about it—miraculous, almost, that this new life had come into the world in the middle of so much death and destruction—that I suddenly felt sure I was going to cry. Fortunately, at that point Mums looked up and said, ‘I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea, Lucy, if you’d like to make one.’ I said yes, of course, and fled back to the house before anyone noticed what a fool I was.
Just as I was filling the pot, Dad turned up with the midwife in tow. She was most displeased when I told her she was too late, as if the baby ought to have waited, and bustled straight out to the Anderson to see Mrs Dorn.
Dad said, ‘I’m glad to see you’re still in one piece.’
‘Don’t be angry, Dad. We were worried, and I think Mums was pretty pleased to see us.’
‘I’m sure she was. Is everything all right?’
‘I think so. It’s a boy, and Mums was marvellous. She didn’t panic, just stayed there with Mrs Dorn, all the time, and helped her, and…you know.’
‘Yes, I know. And I’m sure you were a great help, too.’
‘Yes, but we just fetched things. Mums was the one
who was there. She was wonderful.’
‘She does get it right sometimes, you know.’
‘Oh, Dad, I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s all right, Smiler, I know. Now then, let’s see to that tea, shall we?’
Minnie came back then, and started rummaging about in Mrs Dorn’s dresser. I asked her what she was looking for, and she said, ‘Brown paper.’
I said, ‘What on earth for?’
Minnie looked uncomfortable, and whispered, ‘I think it’s for…you know…the afterbirth. To wrap it in.’
I wished I hadn’t asked!
It was much quieter when I took the tray out, and after a while Minnie and Mums came back to the kitchen. Dad said, ‘Here’s the heroine of the hour,’ and Mums went pink and said, ‘Oh, nonsense,’ but I could see she was smiling. Dad held out his arms and said, ‘I can’t give you a medal, but I’ll give you a kiss, anyway,’—and she let him!
I thought, I’ve never seen them embrace before, and suddenly they became not Mums and Dad, but Ethel and Billy, two individuals with a relationship that had nothing to do with Minnie and me, and the thought of their life before we existed and the love that had brought us into being made me oddly sentimental about them, in a way I don’t ever remember being before. I couldn’t have voiced it, and anyway, it wasn’t necessary. As a family we’re not given to displays of feeling, unless you count bad temper on the part of Mums and me, but when they turned back to us, their faces seemed to shine with happiness, and the room was full of love, with all the petty irritations and annoyances forgotten. But it was embarrassing, too, because you could see from the faces that everyone was full of these emotions, but nobody quite knew how to express them.
Mums laughed and said, ‘Well, I don’t know what I’d have done if you two hadn’t turned up. I know I told you not to, but I’m glad you did, and Mrs Dorn says to thank you, too. Oh, Billy, you should have seen them. Go on, show Dad your hats.’
Lover Page 24
