JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  Mena allowed her excitement to permeate only when her back was to the house. She kicked hard at the pedals and began to grin, in part because she knew how well she’d fooled her mother, but mostly because she was about to embark on her first proper date. Her skin began to prickle. She felt so alive and as bold as she’d felt when she wrote her note to Danny, asking to see him again. She pictured his face: his angular features and those piercing blue eyes that had tried to avoid hers out of shyness, she thought, on that day she first saw him. Surely he would forgive her forwardness. There was a war on.

  Mena slowed as she came to the edge of the village. She felt her skin flush beneath her coat and she knew it wouldn’t do to arrive at St Peter’s glowing like a scullery maid; not this time. The streets were busier than she would have liked. At first she felt the need to look away from every face that glanced towards her, but her lie had been so perfect. It didn’t matter if anyone saw her because she had her mother’s permission to be there. After a while she found herself smiling and nodding at people she knew, although there were a good many nowadays that she did not. Every other person she saw wore a military uniform of one kind or another and it was apparent to her that Danny’s pass was no special case tonight.

  She was almost there. She could see the church spire above the rooftops ahead, stabbing into the clouds that were only just visible now in the rapidly darkening sky. She stopped short of the road that led to the church and pulled her bicycle into a side street where there was a terrace of houses with blacked-out windows. She propped her bicycle against a drainpipe and removed her coat and scarf. Beneath it she wore her favourite dress: the same blue polka-dot dress she had worn on Christmas day.

  Mena checked her reflection in one of the windows. She straightened her hair and realised she’d have to be quick or she’d lose the light. She unscrewed her soup flask, which contained no soup tonight. She tipped it up and her lipstick fell into her hand, followed by an eyeliner pencil that she quickly began to use. When she’d finished, she stood back and pouted at her reflection, thinking her effort not bad at all under the circumstances. Not quite Veronica Lake, but it would do.

  She draped her coat over one arm and continued the rest of the way on foot, wondering as she walked where Danny would take her on their first date. Does he know anywhere? she thought. It would never do to turn up at the same dance in Leicester that Joan’s parents were going to. Wherever they went they would have to take the bus out of Oadby; it was one thing to be seen in her coat and scarf pretending to be out fire-watching, but it was another matter altogether to be seen out socialising after dark with a Yank.

  The church was in front of her suddenly, like she’d lost track of time and had no recollection of how she’d arrived there since leaving her bicycle behind. She stood at the roadside opposite and stared past the high wall and the headstones, past the neatly trimmed evergreens and the trees beyond, towards the imposing body of the church then up and along the length of its spire. The tring of a bell forced her eyes away and she saw two GIs wobble down the street on a single bicycle that looked ready to collapse beneath them. Turning back to the church she began to wonder if Danny had been delayed. Or worse still, whether he was coming at all.

  She crossed the road, sure that she had not arrived early. If anything she thought herself a few minutes late. When she reached the steps that led up to the church path, she looked back. The streets were quieter now that night had all but fallen on Oadby. The gas lamps would soon be lit, she thought, although since their windows had been painted blue, their effectiveness was limited. She ran up the steps to get a better look, but of the few people she could see, no one seemed to be heading for the church.

  Disappointment began to smother her. She drew a slow breath and started walking aimlessly back down the steps, thinking she could wait a while, but knowing in her heart that Danny was not coming. In the stillness that accompanied the night she began to hear other people enjoying their lives: their distant laughter and the plink of a merry piano. Then she heard something else that caused her to spin around.

  “Hello,” she called.

  Her heart began to race. She stared through the half-light towards the church and saw a faint red glow, hovering in the shadow of the church doorway. A moment later she saw a puff of white smoke rise out of the arch and dissipate on the breeze. She supposed the sound she’d heard was the snap of a cigarette lighter as it closed.

  “Danny?” she called, smiling again. “Is that you?” She returned to the top of the steps and heard him call her name. She was beginning to like that American accent. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said. She took a few quick steps along the path towards him. “But I’m glad you did,” she added as the glowing tip of his cigarette came out from the doorway to meet her. She could just about make out his uniform now in the low light. She thought she caught the hint of a smile from that perfect mouth.

  “We can go out this way,” he said, taking the path that led around the side of the church.

  Mena lost him then to the deeper shadows that were cast across the churchyard by the trees. She saw another puff of smoke and followed it, curious at his behaviour, concluding that he must be every bit as shy as she thought.

  “We can go into Wigston if you like,” she said. “I don’t know if you’ve been there yet but -”

  She paused, aware that she was probably being too forward. She’d asked him out after all. That was forward enough. Perhaps she should leave the details to him. She caught up and she could discern the outline of his broad back now. His pace slowed, inviting her alongside. She wanted to hold his hand as they walked but there was plenty of time for that.

  “I really don’t mind where we go,” she said, laughing nervously. She thought she heard Danny laugh with her then and as she looked up to catch his eyes he stopped. His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, pulling her towards him.

  “Surprise!”

  The outburst startled Mena. She instinctively tried to pull away, catching only the flash of his impossibly white teeth. She began to struggle.

  “Hold on there, beautiful!”

  Mena’s eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness and although they sounded alike to her, she could see now that this was not Danny - not her Blondie. There was no bright fringe around the edge of this man’s cap. His hair was black as the night.

  “It’s me!” the man said. “It’s your old pal, Vic Montalvo!”

  Mena kept struggling. Montalvo’s grip grew stronger. He began to laugh in a condescending way that reminded her of how Mary would laugh at her when she wanted to let her know what a silly girl she was being.

  “Easy there!” Montalvo insisted.

  Mena began to shake her head as if trying to tell herself that this was not real. Words formed and caught in her dry throat.

  “Danielson’s no good for you,” Montalvo said. “The bum stood you up last minute for some other broad.”

  Mena didn’t believe a word of it.

  Montalvo laughed again. “I felt kinda responsible on account of it was me who gave him your note. I came along in his place so’s you weren’t disappointed.”

  Mena didn’t believe he’d even given her note to Danny. She thought now that he probably never intended to. She pulled away again and Montalvo’s upbeat tone changed.

  “Hey, what’s with all the fuss? We got on just swell across the camp fence, didn’t we?”

  She felt his fingers press into her skin as he pulled and jerked her closer. His arms were suddenly around her like a clamp, holding her to him so tightly that she couldn’t move.

  “I thought you’d like to see old Vic again,” he said. “I even brought you something. Look.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small paper parcel, tied with string. He held it in front of Mena’s face. “There’s nylons in there, lipstick and candy, too.”

  The sour reek of whisky was strong on his breath. Mena struggled again and the package fell to the ground, but Montalvo regained his hold.<
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  “What’s the difference anyways?” he said. “We’re all airborne, right? All American! All the way! That’s why you went to the camp ain’t it? That’s why all you broads go there.”

  Mena couldn’t breathe; the combined effect of Montalvo’s arms squeezing her tighter and tighter and the anxiety that seemed to paralyze her.

  “Come on, honey. Whaddaya say?”

  Mena felt his mouth on her face, fighting to find her lips. She thrashed her head from side to side and in her mind she began to scream but no sound came out.

  Why is it so dark? she thought. Where’s Pop? Where’s Mary?

  She felt a hand fumble through her hair. Then her head snatched back and his lips were suddenly hard on hers, his tongue stabbing and writhing. A hand was suddenly firm around her throat, his coarse thumb scratching up and down, up and down.

  “Take it easy,” Montalvo whispered.

  Mena felt another hand cup around her breast and when he squeezed it she began to shake like a deathly fever had taken her. When his hand moved lower over her dress and his mouth returned to hers, she gave no fight. All she could think about was last Christmas morning and how good it felt when Mary was drawing that comb slowly through her hair. How soothing it was.

  “Now that’s more like it,” Montalvo said, and he was kissing, kissing, kissing - drawing circles down her neck with his tongue.

  Her submission must have relaxed him.

  Mena felt the restraint from his arms and hands gradually lessen as they continued to discover her body. Paralyzing fear turned to rage and she seized her chance. With as much strength as she could muster, she brought her right knee up until it connected with Montalvo. She heard a groan and in that instant she twisted herself free and she ran.

  Chapter Nine

  The taxi Tayte had picked up when he got off the train at Leicester station had brought him out of the city to the east, through suburban villages and beyond to a stretch of open countryside, wide and lifeless in the winter grey. It had stopped at the end of a gravel drive by a low, open gate, and Tayte could clearly see the Lasseter house through the bare trees that would otherwise have screened it.

  It was a crooked old house of red herringbone brick, framed in squares of exposed beams like something from Shakespeare’s time: Anne Hathaway’s cottage on a bigger scale. It had a red, peg-tiled roof that sank in places between a number of small dormer windows with leaded lights and garages had been added in more recent years to accommodate the changing times.

  Tayte paid the driver, wondering whether he should ask him to stick around in case no one was home, but he figured he was expected so he took the chance and the cab left him there, suitcase in one hand, his briefcase in the other. He paused and watched the cab go back along the narrow road it had arrived by, noticing that it was a very quiet area with no other visible houses nearby. He headed down the drive, crunching the gravel that slipped beneath his loafers as he walked. There was a little icy rain in the air and he was glad of his coat. It was nothing like as cold as back home, but it seemed to get to him more, maybe on account of the wind that came at him in daggers across the fields, rattling his cases and ruffling his lapels.

  When he reached the front door, he didn’t have to knock. It opened as he reached out to try and a tall, slim man who looked in his late fifties or early sixties appeared in the frame with a smile, which accentuated his chiselled features. He had tidy salt-and-pepper hair and wore chinos and a blue Oxford weave shirt, open at the neck.

  “Mr Tayte?” the man said.

  “Yes,” Tayte replied, smiling back.

  “I thought it must be you. We don’t get many visitors out here. I’m Jonathan.” He shook Tayte’s hand. “Come on in.”

  Jonathan Lasseter took Tayte’s coat and suitcase from him and led him into the sitting room. There was already a fire lit beneath the beam, which gave the otherwise modern, uncluttered and neutral decor a homely feel.

  “My wife isn’t back from town yet,” Jonathan said, “but she shouldn’t be long. She’s dying to meet you so don’t feel there’s any rush. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”

  He was a well-spoken man who sounded very British, Tayte thought. “Coffee would be great,” he said. “Might help to keep me going after the flight.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “No thanks,” Tayte said, thinking that every little helped and that he had some making up to do after going through that bag of Hershey’s.

  He sat on a brown leather armchair by the fire, briefcase at his feet, and warmed himself as Jonathan made the drinks. A few minutes later Jonathan came back and set a steaming mug in front of Tayte and sat on the sofa opposite him.

  “It’s instant, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said. “We’re a household of tea drinkers really. I only keep a jar in for guests.”

  “Just as long as it contains caffeine,” Tayte said, “I really don’t mind what kind it is.” He took a sip. “Do you have other family living with you? Children?”

  “No,” Jonathan said. “The kids moved away years ago now. Jennifer, our eldest, took a job in Bristol where she now has a family of her own and Caroline went east to Norwich University. She married an accountant and settled in the area.” He sat back with his tea. “But what about you and your client? And this little suitcase that’s turned up out of the blue. You’ve no idea who sent it?”

  Tayte took another sip of coffee and shook his head. “Without the packaging, we’ve no way of knowing where it came from.”

  “No, I suppose not. Still it’s a shame.”

  Tayte agreed, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Maybe someone else can shed some light on that,” he said. “I’m keen to talk to the family and anyone else who knew Philomena. I want to gather any information I can that might help me find her.”

  “I’ll do all I can,” Jonathan said. “And it’s Mena. Dad always called her Mena. I never met her, of course, but he used to talk about her whenever anyone set him off down Memory Lane. It was always the same old story really, about how he went off to war and when he came home again, Mena, was gone.”

  “Was there any explanation?”

  “Vague,” Jonathan said. “Dad always maintained it was because she fell in love with one of those GIs so many girls were falling for at the time. He would have been with the 82nd Airborne, no question about it. The 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment was camped up at Evington for a time in 1944. There’s plenty of local history about them if you know where to look.”

  Tayte took his notebook out from inside his jacket and scribbled the information down. It would help to identify the right man when he had the chance to look.

  “Dad always said how sorry he was that he hadn’t seen Mena again,” Jonathan continued. “He said he’d even thought about looking for her once or twice, but I think life overtook him, as life has a way of doing if you let it. He married just after the war. I was born soon after that and my sister followed. I suppose Mena eventually became little more than a memory to him - a face in a photograph of someone he used to know.”

  “You said on the phone that you’d found a few photographs of Mena,” Tayte said.

  Jonathan sat forward. “Yes, of course. You must be itching to see them. I’ve got them in a box down here.”

  He reached beneath the coffee table and slid out a small mahogany chest that had brass corner caps. He set it on the table, opened it and pulled out a collection of photographs, sliding them across the table like he was fanning out a pack of playing cards.

  Tayte leant in on his elbows to get a better look.

  “This is a good one,” Jonathan said, singling out the largest photograph. It was mounted in a sleeve like it had been taken professionally. “This was just before the war.” He pointed to the figures in the middle. Everyone looked like they were dressed in their Sunday best. “That’s Granddad Pop and my grandmother, Margaret,” he said. “Dad and Aunt Mary are this side. Uncle Michael and Uncle James are on the other.” He pointed to
a small girl, sitting with her legs crossed in the centre of the photograph. “That’s Mena,” he said. “She would only have been ten or eleven then.”

  The girl’s hair was in ringlets tied with a pale blue bow and from her get-me-out-of-here expression, Tayte thought she looked far cuter than she wanted to with her big eyes, dimpled cheeks and a flouncy gown that made her look even younger than she was.

  “Here’s one from the war years,” Jonathan said as he slid another photograph across. “There aren’t many from that time, I’m afraid. Most of these were taken afterwards so you won’t find any more of Mena.”

  Tayte recognised her straight away. She was giggling as she saluted the camera, wearing a military cap and a short army jacket over her dress. “Who’s that with her?” he asked, indicating the dark haired girl giggling along with her as two young men in army uniforms sat and watched in the background.

  Jonathan took the photograph back and studied it. “Her name’s Joan,” he said. “That’s Michael and James laughing in the background. I suppose Dad must have taken the picture.”

  “Joan?” Tayte said. “Another family member?

  “No, Joan was Mena’s friend. Her best friend, so Dad told me.

  “Mind if I hang on to it while I’m here?”

  “Not at all,” Jonathan said. He continued to shuffle through the photographs. “Here’s a better one of Aunt Mary,” he added, handing it to Tayte. “That’s clearly from the war years.”

  Tayte took it. It showed a man and a woman in military uniform, her arm linked through his. A happy couple.